> Short Scraps and Explosions
>  by shortskirtsandexplosions
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I became a brony around late July or early August of 2011, and I immediately kamikaze'd myself into word processor nirvana. The result was... this thing. For two solid weeks of mania, I slammed together a wall of text expressing my deep and unfiltered joy of magical talking equines.

Please understand me. This is not a good fanfic. Rainbow Dash is horribly out of character and I knew it. The pace crawls like a diabetic slug. There are comic book style fight scenes between horses. Grammar, punctuation, and common decency are all butchered. I have no spaces in between paragraphs. Scootaloo is as annoying as a bag full of dying cats.

All of this--in the glory of a technicolor yawn--was forced down the throat of Vimbert, an unimpressive gentlecolt who at the time was gracefully providing his services to random marsupials wanting to be great lemurs of poni poni writing.  I slapped a bunch of documents together and shoved them his way,, and that's how I learned what a "Vindictive Review" is.  Long story longer, the very fact that he still speaks to me these days--much less lends his talents to the improvement of The End of Ponies--is a testament to his integrity, patience, and overall awesomeness.  That still doesn't change the fact that he produced several new rectums in my fleshy ego from the heated lacerations of his righteous fury. 

That said, I look back at this shiet and I can't help but smile. Yes, it's atrocious. Yes, everypony is disastrously out of character. But goddayum did I have fun writing it, even if it turned out completely pointless and a waste of my time. I was so high off of ponies at the time that I wrote this, and I think it shows. If anything, it may be worth perusing for a chuckle or two.

I still think the fic as a whole would have been fantastic. It had a great idea, and I almost wouldn't mind attempting it again someday with some actual focus and commitment. But at the time, it was an utter bomb, and I was this close to hopping out of the MLP fanfiction world altogether, if it weren't for Vimbert's words of encouragement and a pathetic little backup plan I had in my head called "The Last Pony."








I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions
Act 0 – Chapter 1 – Prologue



	(Sixteen years ago...)

Under the cover of blue hazy night, partially obscured by the flanking treetops of the Everfree Forest, a rickety dilapidated stable rested within a sea of overgrown grass, no more than a neglected mile from the outskirts of Ponyville.  The ram-shackled wooden building was an insult to architecture, but it was also a relic of the past; leftovers from a time when pioneering Earth Ponies rushed to settle a colony in the Central Plain of Equestria under the impending threat of a vicious winter.  That, of course, was an uncountable number of decades ago, and the colonizing farmers from Manehattan eventually concentrated their settlement on the river tributary located several trots to the east.  And while some ponies felt that the abandoned hovels of the past necessitated razing, it was the overall decision of the subsequent generations to leave them standing—in spite of their disrepair.  These random and lonely structures would serve as monuments—silent and ghostly monuments of the Earthen resolve to survive—even to this day.
But on that night, this 'monument' was anything but silent.  As a full moon rose high in the purple sky, its blighted Mare-Stare spilling ivory beams over the rotting stable's crooked doors, a shrill scream emanated from within.  It was a cry of pain, of desperation; and it shook the leaves loose from the borders of the Everfree Forest, sending even the darkest creatures of the night scurrying into deeper shadows.  It was the cry of a mother giving birth.
Inside a lone stable in a corner of the wooden building, she laid on her side, twitching and writhing under the amber-red dance coming from a single oil lamp dangling off a crossbeam above her.  The white of her coat turned into a porcelain sheen as her perspiration built into a cascade.  Violet eyes twitched as another labor pain wracked through her, and the young mare's green mane tossed as she let out another cry against the rattling walls of the place.
The mother wasn't alone.  A soft patter of hooves, and a young stallion Pegasus orbited to her frontside.  Having laid down the last straws of a bed of fresh hay—carted in from the main village—the winged gentlecolt turned his snout to a pale of fresh water positioned by the stable.  Soaking a washcloth, he gently dabbed the sweat out of the foaling mare's eyes before laying the cloth on a nearby beam, freeing his mouth to talk.
“That's it, Iris.  H-Hang in there, honey.”  The stammer in his soft voice betrayed his courage, as did the complexion of his frazzled white mane and azure coat.  But nonetheless he narrowed his brown eyes and gazed at her with hardened sincerity.  “I know it hurts.  But we're going to make it through this!  We've got everything we need and--”
“Th-That's not it, Blue!”  She wheezed at him and clenched her eyes as another contraction ripped through her.  Her front hooves curled up and her legs stretched out as a gentle hiss from deep within her bubbled to the surface in the form of an air-hurdling sob.  A gasp, and her moist eyes reopened, reflecting his concerned face doubly.  “It's b-been well beyond fifty m-minutes!  Nnnngh—M-Most foalings only--”  She hyperventilated, writhed, and caught her breath again.  “--only l-last half an hour t-tops!  You know this as well as I do!  Nnnghh—Ugh!”
“I-I'm sure it's j-j-just because it's a m-month overdo!  Uh—Uh....”  Blue trotted back and forth, around her, bumping once or twice into the wooden stable—so that the lamp's penumbra wobbled over them like a sickly crimson spotlight.  “Mmmm-Uh—R-R-R-Remember Mrs. Pie's second d-daughter?  That foal t-t-took the better part of the night to deliver--”
“Blue!  This is different!”  Iris spat, fell back into another contraction—and moaned her head back up to gaze sweatily at him.  As he once again dabbed her forehead, she panted, swallowed, and finally managed to utter:  “I-I can feel it!  Something's wrong!  I...I-I'm scared, Blue.  I don't want us to lose this foal....”
Blue gulped.  His eyes were concave.  “Iris, y-you mustn't lose hope--”
“Ugh!” She collapsed fully on her side once more.  Blue steadied her as she gasped and groaned:  “It w-wasn't hope that got us here!”
“But it's what can get us through this!”  Blue seethed through his teeth, trying in vain to weather the convulsions coming out of his mate.  His eyes narrowed as his gaze melted beyond the halo of amber lamplight.  “Besides, it's all we have now.”  He blinked.  “Unless....”
“B-Blue...?” Iris struggled to look at him.
His jaw clenched tight.  With a deep breath, he said “Let me fly to Ponyville Hospital.  I'll wake Dr. Canterstitch.”
“No--”
“I'll bring him here, Iris.”
“No, Blue--”
“We need all the help we can get!”
She practically snarled at him this time:  “I want our foal coming into this world alive—but it's just as important for it to be free!”
“Iris, we kept this secret long enough.  But for the foal's sake--”
“For the foal's sake, we won't let her live a life of shame!”  Iris shrieked.  After a sharp wave of pain, she fluttered down on a wheezing breath and gazed gently at him.  “Now go and take a close look.  Tell me what you see.”
Blue stared at her, the tips of his mane telegraphing his deeply rooted trembling.  A strong breath, and he bowed his snout briefly before trotting toward the opposite side of the stable.  Iris laid down and took several deep breaths.  She stretched her body out and tightened her jaw against the scratchy bed of hay as her mate examined her.
“This will only take a second.”
Iris hoarsely replied:  “Looks like the months of teaching you a bedside manner paid off.”  She tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.  The seconds ticked away, and she started to grow uneasy.  Even in the absence of an agonizing contraction, she twitched and shivered as if she was being stabbed in the heart.  “Bl-Blue?”  She called out, gulping.  “What do you see?”
“Iris...”  He stood up and brushed aside her tightly-tied tail to gaze at her.  His azure face was pale, like a ghost.  Nevertheless, he bravely fought the creased shadows in his expression away as he said  “I'm seeing its hindquarters.  It's a breech, Iris.  It's a breech foaling.”
She blinked at him once, and then her face melted as she gazed away towards the far end of the stable, a squeal ripping up to the surface of her lips to form a sob:  “Oh no.  Oh goddess no.”
“Hey!”  Blue immediately trotted over to her frontside.  “Hey-Hey—Honey.”
“No no no no—Goddess, no...” She half-wailed.
“Shhh...Darling, look at me...” He kissed and licked her face before pressing his snout against hers so that their eyes met.  “Look at me and listen.”
She gazed back, sniffling.
He smiled in spite of the trembles.  “All is not lost.  Yes, it's a breech foaling—But we're going to get through this.  All three of us.  We're going to have a family—Alright?”
“Blue, do you have any idea how hard it is to--?”
“No.  No I don't.  That's why we're going to work through this together.  You are strong, Iris—Look at me.  You are strong, and I am never leaving your side.  Ever.  I love you, honey, and I'm going to see you through this.”
She gulped and shuddered as another wave of pain started to froth from within.  “O-Okay....”
“Now.”  He took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes.  “Tell me, Iris.  Tell me what I need to do.”
The white mare groaned and gazed back towards the dramatic half of the stable.  “You....nnngh....fuuu....mmm—Y-You need to grasp its hind legs and---Nnngh--P-P-Pull them away from my tail.”
He nodded rapidly and dashed over towards her other end.  “Okay....Okay...”
“G-Gently...” She hissed and rode a rising contraction.  “Nnnngh—I....I—nnngh--w-will try to signal you when it is time to grasp its hooves--”
Suddenly, there was a tremendous pounding noise on the front side of the dilapidated stables.  Three resounding thunders—anything but natural.  Both ponies jolted with a conjoined gasped, their wide eyes twitching across the haze of the lamp that now wobbled above their manes.  For the briefest moment, the dark night's silence permeated the scene, and then the three knocks repeated themselves, this time accompanied by a muffled shout:  “Open these doors in the name of the Ponyville Police!”
“G-Goddess...” Iris murmured.  “Blue, were we followed?”
“Impossible!”  Stammered Blue.  “Nobody lives within a stone's throw of the trail we took through Everfree!  I wouldn't have picked it otherwise!”
“Mmm-nnngh-AHH!” Iris shrieked suddenly as the pain overtook her.  Blue clutched to her, his head caught in a vicious juggling act between glancing at his mate's foaling and staring disbelievingly at the building's doors.  The rusty air rumbled between the mare's screams and the angry shouts from outside.  For the briefest moment, Blue's eyes fell onto a noticeably sharp farming tool resting against a wall within hoof's reach--
But then the doors finally burst open.  The moonlight poured in and bled the silhouettes of at least half a dozen Earth Ponies, plus one Unicorn.  Without delay, they marched determinedly into the center of the antique stables—their angry eyes pouring left and right across the obviously occupied interior.  Blue wasted no moment in charging up on his hooves.  Iris briefly cried out for him, but he was soon stomping up towards the sudden herd, his brown eyes burning in anger.
“What are you doing here, Sheriff Amble?”
The middle-aged stallion in question balked at the azure Pegasus.  “I should be asking the same of you, Mr. Farrier.  No sooner than an hour ago, I get a report of an unwarranted foaling within the limits of my jurisdiction!  It goes beyond saying that to hear of such a thing at this hour of the night makes my blood boil!  I expected more of you, Blue.”
“What's g-going on here is none of your concern, Sheriff!” Blue shouted.
“I should say it is, Mr. Farrier,” uttered a voice from the back of the herd.  The Unicorn silhouette trotted into view.  In the revealing moonlight, Blue was horrified to recognize the elderly face of a certain physician.  “As a matter of fact, it's naturally the concern of all of Equestria!”
“Dr. Canterstitch!”  Blue Farrier recoiled.  “But....B-But how...?”
“You think a physician of my distinguished experience couldn't tell that Dr. Iris was close to foaling?”  The pony in question waved his horn haughtily before Blue's snout.  “I must say, she did a remarkable job hiding it for so long.  In our day and age, that's hardly a crime.  But to think—when Nurse Heart told me of the truly heinous nature of the fair doctor's conception--”  He snorted viciously, his gray mane flaring in the starlight.  “Nnnngh—Words can't describe how much my blood boiled.”
Blue's features visibly sagged.  “Rose Heart....N-No....”  He murmured his thoughts aloud.  “Iris trusted you...”
“Bl-Blue...?” The white mare choked and wheezed from the far stable.  “Wh-What is happening?  What are they here for?”
Dr. Canterstitch resumed his monologue as if he never had the chance to finish it.  “And so, I took it upon myself to do the just thing—And report to Sheriff Amble here the breach of law that has been illicitly hidden from public eye for so long!  If you have any care for Dr. Iris' well being, or for your foal's future, you will step aside.”  The elderly doctor glanced at the Sheriff.  Amble nodded back and motioned with a hoof, signaling two strong-bodied officers to march forward.
“NO!”  Blue was suddenly in front of him, both of his sapphire wings stretched outward so that their vision of the mare was utterly blocked.  “You will not take any trot forward!”
“Blue, son....” Sheriff Amble groaned exasperatingly before summoning forth an authoritarian glare.  “You know the law--”
“And I know that it is an absurd law!”  Blue shouted.  “A vicious, prejudiced, and heartless law!  Please—Don't do this!  There are enough complications with the foaling as it is!  Please—I beg of you!  Have mercy!  Where's your equinanity?”
“Mercy?” Dr. Canterstitch practically guffawed.  “Mr. Farrier, if you and Iris had done the right thing and put this into the hooves of her fellow practicians instead of eloping with her to this Celestia-forsaken den of ill-repute, then any and all complications would have been expertly dealt with—complications which, might I add, are solid proof that the two of you should not have embarked upon this gross molestation of the natural order to begin with!”
Blue Farrier practically snarled:  “If Iris gave birth in a 'normal' hospital, savages like you would have just taken the foal away!”
Canterstitch's eyes were ice cold.  “And who says that is still not going to happen?”
The azure Pegasus gasped sharply at that, his eyes twitching.  In the space of that breath of comprehension, Sheriff Amble once more signaled to his officers.  The two police ponies resumed their brisk march to the rear of the stable.  Somewhere in the middle of that, Blue snapped out of it—only to snap in a different way.  With a high volumed “Get AWAY from her!” he flapped his wings and barreled snout-first into one policepony's flank before swiveling about in mid hover and bucking his hooves violently into the other's backside.  The stables were filled with the thunder of crashing wooden beams and tossed hay as the madness unfolded.
Iris fought the pain and craned her neck to make sense out of the ensuing bedlam.  From her anguished position, she could only make out thrashing shadows of angry equine in the crossover of amber and ivory haze.  The mare's vision blacked out briefly as a sudden coldness rose up from her soul, wafting over her pained body in icy fingers of dread.  The cloud cleared just as briefly as it overcame her, and then her violet eyes twitched to register the stampede of three more officers from the outside.  They converged on her blue Pegasus mate, and still two of them were knocked senselessly towards the walls by the brave thrashing of his wings.
But the fight was half as effective as it was noble, and in under the span of a minute, Blue was subdued.  Sheriff Amble's officers pressed him hard to the ground as he snarled and grunted in a few last ditch efforts to buck them off.  He stared—bruised and teary eyed—as his gaze once again fell on his beloved.  “Nnngh—It's okay, Iris!  Don't panic!  The foal will be--”  His desperate voice was cut short as the officers flung bits and a bridle over his mouth.  “Mmmmff—Mmmmff!”
“Bl-Blue!” Iris shrieked, howled—her front hooves kneading the naked air.  “Oh Goddess, no—Get off him!  Please!”
With taut ropes shackling his snout and binding his wings, Sheriff Amble and four other ponies dragged the Pegasus off, thrashing and bucking—his shouts sounding like somepony's tortured screams from underwater, growing distant as he was yanked out of the stables and into the purple night of cold Equestria beyond.  Dr. Canterstitch stared boredly at the forced exit.  The old Unicorn shook his head and marched slowly over towards Iris' stable,  his gaze suddenly mimicking that of a shamed father.
“Tsk-Tsk-Tsk.  I knew it was strange for a Pegasus like Farrier to be so fixated on working at an Earth Pony hospital.  But in spite of how things have turned out, I am not a pony without decency.”  He knelt down beside her, his horn glowing as several pieces of the foaling equipment hovered magically around the two of them.  “Let's keep our minds on the task at hand, Dr. Iris, for this foal's sake.  You're in capable hooves; I may yet be able to salvage the abomination that you and Mr. Farrier so irresponsibly set forth on.”  But as the 'good' doctor narrowed his gaze, his expression turned grim.  “Oh dear—What have we here, a breech?  My My....Looks like he wasn't exaggerating...”
Iris was barely registering the Unicorn's words.  As soon as Blue had left her sight, all color began leaving as well.  The pain in her womb was starting to subside—and yet she could still feel her hind legs twitching.  Her body was going numb, and this far into the foaling, she didn't need her medical degree to know what was happening.  By the time the lamplight faded into an obsidian obscurity, Iris lost all sense of gravity.  In that cold penumbra between the stars and oblivion, the young maiden mare floated—and every heartbeat was like an enormous thunder, growing ghostly distant with each haunting repetition.
Something that felt like eyes rolled back in her sockets.  The world spun and unraveled her body like yarn.  Iris knew she only had two or three breaths left to her—and in the coldest nights of fear and faith, nights of cuddling under the stars with Blue and giggling over their future, nights of staring at his handsome mane as he slept warmly in her embrace, nights of lonely thoughts that divided all that was hopeful from all that was true—she planned what to use those breaths for, and she planned it well.
“I beseech you...” She murmured into the broadening void as she turned over to slumber.  “....Goddess Gultophine...”





From the hilltop where they forced and yanked Blue Farrier townward, the building was a mere dot against the shadowed edge of the Everfree Forest.  The blue Pegasus snapped his neck back to stare at it—but was forcibly yanked southward by the officers escorting him.  In a final fit of desperation, he angrily reared his hooves and tried to throw their grip off him.  But their teeth held firm to the ropes attached to his bridle, and he was forced into a submissive squat on the ground, where he saw his moon shadow kiss the earth, before a deflated sigh blew a river of sand sadly away.
The police ponies murmured to one another and trotted forward to drag Blue the rest of the way to downtown Ponyville, when all of the sudden--
B O O O O O O M
The night's sky lit up.  In half a blink, all five ponies and their prisoner were thrown to the Earth.  The sound was deafening, and the vibrations that rumbled through the Earth made it impossible to breathe right.  Nevertheless, Blue took the opportunity to jump onto his hooves and toss his bridle off with inequine strength.  The soonest the bits flew free from his mouth, he shouted his mate's name---but couldn't hear anything save for a constant dull ringing in his twitching ears.  With a numb gaze, he looked around him to see all of the officers sprawled on the floor—writhing in pain from the throttling jolt.  Then, out of the starry sky, several shattered bits of lumber fell across the scene in a rain of chaotic proportions.
Naturally, Blue Farrier's eyes darted up—and he was startled to see a prismatic band of colors burning brightly across the night's sky.  Every shade of the spectrum from red to green to violet burned across the cosmos in every direction—from Cloudsdale to Canterlot and beyond—covering the entirety of Equestria in a ceiling of gorgeous catastrophe.
There was no spare second for Blue to cherish the absurd beauty of the moment.  For the first thing that came to his mind was--
“Iris.”  His voice broke through the dull ringing in his ears.  He spun about and looked downhill, towards the epicenter of the cataclysm.  What was once the stables building was now an inexplicably collapsed pile of lumber.  “Iris!”  He immediately bolted into a full gallop.  His body shook and his spine stretched, so that the bindings that the officers hastily put on his wings fell loose.  In a single bound, he took to the air, and glided the west of the way like a sapphire lighting bolt, until he practically crashed through the scant remains of the stables doorway.





“Iris!”  Blue shouted the first moment he was  inside the dilapidated interior.  A steady stream of dust and hay fell from the shattered ceiling like snow in slow motion.  “Iris—Oh, by Celestia's mane—IRIS!”  He shouted, kicking apart piles of lumber with his hooves as he frantically rummaged through the place.  His breaths grew shorter, shorter, shorter—then stopped in a gasp as he saw...
...Dr. Canterstitch, collapsed besides a wooden crossbeam, moaning as he drifted in and out of a fresh concussion.  And then—half a trot away—there lay a small figure, twitching, its body curled up within the perfect halo of starlight beaming in from the exploded ceiling.  Without a second thought, Blue galloped and slid over to the foal, biting his teeth into the rubbery sack that still clung over its neck and snout.  With expert motions, he uncovered the infant pony, and allowed it to breathe fully for the first time.  And it was within the space of those last few seconds of observation that Blue's eyes widened even more.
The foal was a pegasus.  But it was like no other—The moistened coat was a sky blue, brighter than Farrier's—but the feathery soft scrap of its mane and tail was a natural phenomenon: a rainbow coat, every shade of every color ever, in perfect celestial transition.  The gentle thing twitched as its hide rose and fell with its first breaths.  A rainbow pegasus.  A girl.  And very much alive.
Blue exhaled sharply—a happy, half-sob.  “Oh Iris....She's beautiful.  She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  Iris, do you see her?”  Silence.  “.....Iris?”  For once, his eyes stopped fixating on the post-natal filly as the cold of the night sunk in.  His gaze traveled up her umbilical cord, and onto a white mass that laid under the shadow of two crossbeams.  “Iris....?  Honey....?”
Blue got up and slowly trotted over towards the ivory form.  He leaned over.  His snout nudged it once, twice.  He bowed closer, nuzzling its neck, contacting, registering.....nothing.
“Ohhhhhh Celestia, have mercy!  No no no—please--not like this!”  He knelt down, collapsing, beside the body as he rubbed his snout against its.  “Oh Iris, I wanted the three of us....The three of us....Huhhh-hhhhh....”
As his body shuddered, his wailing sobs filling the void of the night, the sounds made their way over the twitching ears of the rainbow-streaked foal.  In a shivering fit, her soft violet eyes opened up, and for some reason—a reason she didn't yet understand—they were brimming with tears.









I Remember Rainbow Dash









(Eight years later, on the other side of Equestria...)

North of the Stampeding Mountains, along the banks of the Azure Sea, there lied the forested Territory of Whinniepeg.  In the center of the miniature kingdom, bordered by serf farms and outlying townships, was a four-story bricklaid castle built upon the watery shores to the north.  The structure was by no means as lush and majestic as the Royal Architecture found at distant Canterlot—but the gray stony features of the keep sang silent songs of its grand age and history and of the several dynasties preserved within.
One night, as the cold blue stars swam their gentle way over the sloping horizon, a lone figure could be seen in the field outside the castle, just beyond the viciously dancing penumbra of the tall structure's flickering torchlight.  Lying on the soft grass beside an abandoned stone hut with a thatched roof was a pale blue unicorn—a filly—barely past the age of self-enchantment.
This petite moonlighting pony paid no heed to the heavy shadows of the waxing night.  Instead, she focused all of her attention to a violet-skinned book propped open in front of her.  A tiny campfire bristled and sputtered to her side, casting a dim glow that barely illuminated the immeasureably old runes etched across the pages of her literature.  And yet, in spite of the scant light, the silver haired unicorn had no trouble whatsoever reading the archaic words spread before her.
“Hmmmm.... .... ...'Ethelithiulim kelliwiczit mesum'mar fala sulthasalum Epon'a selecestriaria'....”  She murmured.  Her purple eyes blinked as she gazed skyward in audible thought.  “'Integrate cosmic breath by the gift of Epona's skydance'.....”  She rubbed her tiny chin with a hoof for a few seconds of contemplation, then glanced up cross-eyed at the looming image of her alicorn protrusion.  A sudden gasp:  “Of course!  The 'wind' is the 'will', by the grace of Epona's 'skydance'--or her spirit!”
The young filly got up on all fours and locked her legs.  With sizable effort, she tilted her head forward, aiming her horn at a pile of rocks located two yards from the twinkling campfire.  A deep squealing noise rose like a reverse waterfall from the inside of her fluttering gut, and the very tip of her horn glowed with a bright silver energy.
“Nnnngh....M-Must....Focus.....” A deep shuddering breath, and she calmed herself in time to chant forth:  “Hr'numma, Trixie, ethelithiulu Terrestria fala Epon'a selecestriaria, hr'nummulu!”  Her legs buckled as her horn emanated a brighter glow at the very end of her incantation.  Sweat ran down the edges of her temples and her porcelain mane flowed in an unnatural wind.
This proceeded for what seemed like an intolerable eon, until the young unicorn opened her eyes and gasped—her violet eyes dilating—to realize that the wobbling pile of stones was levitating magically before her, by the sway of her focused will.
“It's working....It's working!”  She all-but-giggled as her eyes lit up, following the slow ascent of the jagged pieces of earth into the starry sky before her.  “Oh blessed Epona—I had no idea it was so easy--!”  A twinkle of light in the distance caught her attention, forcing her to glance towards the horizon.  Suddenly she gasped wide, her face grimacing in horror.
Th-Th-Thud!  The rocks fell into a messy pile, sending a flurry of dried up grass fluttering about the scene as the filly fell on her rump and balked at the Eastern skyline.  Dawn was approaching, the distant clouds bubbling in an unmistakable blue glow.
“Oh N-No!!”  She panted.  She glanced aside at her satchel of things and noticed that the topside of her hourglass was empty since she had placed it down countless hours ago.  “No no no no no!  I've lost track of time!”  With clattering teeth, she glanced at the horizon, at the castle, at the horizon, then at the castle again.  “I-I gotta get back inside!  Ohhhhh---!”
In a frenzy, she clapped  the dusty tome shut and flung it—along with the hourglass—into her satchel.  She aimed her unicorn at the campfire and chanted a few ancient words; the flames magically put themselves out.  She then dug her snout into her satchel and yanked out a purple cloak embroidered with a dazzling ensemble of stars and comets.  This too she aimed her horn at, only now the murmured incantation was far more melodic and focused—a sign of a magic spell that she had spent every day of her young life practicing in earnest.  As her words dripped out, her horn vibrated with a gentle hum, and a deep darkness gently cascaded over the cloak, so that the shadow that the cloth cast was twice as darkly as everything else's under the advent of dawn.
With a final breath, the unicorn flung the now-enchanted cloak over her flank—covering her pale blue body—and grabbed her satchel in her teeth.  But just as she made to gallop towards the castle, and away from the distant sunrise--
THUD!
“Ummmf!”  The filly fell back from impacting a white coated chest.  Her cloak fell off her shoulders and her satchel spilled out on the grass besides the abandoned hut.  Shaking the dizziness out of her skull, she hopped to her hooves and started:  “Now just who in Equestria would be so rude  to stand in a lady's way--?”  She froze in mid growl, her eyes twitching.  An even huger gasp escaped her lungs.  “P-P-Prince Blueblood!  Y-Your Highness!”  She immediately petered back and fell into a full-bodied bow.  “I am so, soooo s-sorry, my liege!”
“.... ... ....” A young unicorn colt with a sparkling blonde mane stood above her, blue eyes observing the subservient stance with a haughty boredom.  He was only a few winters older than her, but obviously far bigger in stature and in standing—both physically and figuratively.  He took a look down at his fine white coat—slightly fluffed from the sudden impact of her scampering body into his.  He sighed long and hard; and the sigh turned into a drolling mutter:  “Hmmmph—Seems like you do a far more exceptional job at seeing what's in front of you when you're bowing on your knees rather than when you're gallivanting about on all hooves.”
“A thousand pardons, my Prince!  I did not expect to m-meet you in the middle of the field at night--!”  She paused at her own words, eyes blinking confusedly towards the grass.  She tilted her head up and squinted at him.  “Erm....Just wh-wh-why are you out here.....Erm....Y-Your Highness?”  Her coat blushed a darker blue as she realized the audacity of her question.
Then, from her peripheral, startling her:  “Is this the brat you were talking about, cousin?”
“Ugh....For the penultimate time, yes!” Prince Blueblood of Whinniepeg tossed his mane as two more colts—also members of Regal Unicornia—trotted up to flank him on either side.  “Was it not enough that I regailed you on the truly inane nature of her moonlighting sorcery that you had to force me out here in the bitter cold of early morning to bring clarity to your doubting eyes?”  He suddenly smirked down at the filly, eyebrows waggling pridefully:  “Surely you have met my blood relatives from Neighbraska, Baron Hardhoof and the young Duke Wintercolt of Trottingham!”  He then tapped his richly horseshoe'd hoof to his chin.  “Oh wait a second—You haven't!  Because you're just a naïve servant!  Mmm-hah-hah-hahhh!”
The other two likewise chuckled as the three formed a formidable circle around the young unicorn.  She glanced at them nervously and gulped, struggling to maintain her bowed stance of reverence.  “H-How is it that may help you, m-my lieges?”
“Wow.  Listen to her.  She's like a trained parrot!”  One of the royals smirked Blueblood's way.  “Hey, girl—you're a daughter of the Royal Whinniepeg Light Casters, right?”
“Y-Y-Yes, sir...”  She shivered and eyed their leering trots uneasily.  “The R-Royal Light Casters have been in the service of the Bluebloods for several centuries, headlining various festivities and royal events like the Northern Galloping Gala--”
“I didn't ask you for a history lesson, peasant!”  The one royal spat.  “You do realize you're talking to a third-to-the-throne, do you not?”
“Hah!”  The other one pointed with a hoof and giggled.  “She doesn't even have her cutie mark yet!  Someone call the Royal Guard!  We've got a wild horse on the loose who should be stabled!  Ha ha ha--”
She trotted backwards and crossed her hooves, gazing away sheepishly as her eyes started to water—But then the Prince spoke:
“Don't be so hard on her, dear cousins.  After all, she is surely out here on a mission of great study and importance—Are you not, young one?”  He stared down at her, frowning.  “Surely there must be a reason why I shouldn't just report your breach of curfew!  After all, it is only because of the safe keeping that my family has provided you pathetically fragile herd of inbreds over the centuries that you can count herself as safe!  And to insult me by frolicking outside the castle dates under the shade of night!  Bah!  How detestable!”
“Yeah—Just why is it that you Whinniepeg showponies are never seen around in the daytime anyways?”  One of the royals brushed up against her in a half shove, scoffing.  “I was disappointed when nobody performed a dancing light show at my arriving luncheon yesterday!”
“What's your name, showpony?”  The other royal asked the timidly wilting unicorn.
“Erm....mmm—T-Trixie, your h-highness....” She squeaked out.
“Trixie!  Hah!  Oh that's a laugh!”  One royal guffawed.  “The youngest in a family of lightdancing unicorns!  They should have named her 'One-Trixie'!  Do you get it?  'One-Trixie the Pony'!”
“Hahahahaha!”
“Hah hah hah—Well put, cousin...”
Her eyes deflated at that, palpitations rising up from deep within--
“Well well well, what do we have here?”
She spun around and gasped.
Prince Blueblood was practicing a levitation spell with his horn—and floating in front of him, in front of all of them, was the violet-skinned tome that she had been practicing from earlier.  He narrowed his confused eyes and read off the cover of the book.  “Breaths of Epona: A Record of Arcane and Tradition in Cosmic Alchemy.”  He tossed the book offensively to the side, elliciting a gasp from the trembling Trixie.  “Cosmic Alchemy?!  Bah!  On top of moonlighting, she's been performing outdated paganism—And on the land of my royal inheritance!”
“Guess someone knows she's just a 'One-Trixie'!”
“I say!  Hahahahah!”
“Heheheheh!”
Trixie suddenly growled as a shot of boiling anger rocketed up from her heart and barked out of her mouth:  “It's not 'paganism'!  It's a school of magic lost through the ages!  My family used to be a proud herd of the Eponaistic Lineage!  And just because most magic academies these days scoff at ancient history doesn't.... mean... .... ...that.... ....”  She suddenly shrunk back dociley.
All three colts were bearing down at her, frowning.  After an intimidating bout of silence, Blueblood cleared his throat and tossed his blonde mane into the brightening horizon.  “Such insolence.  Tell me, dear cousins, what would be a fitting form of punishment for a mere charlatan who doesn't know when to close her offensive snout?”
“A dozen floggings!”  One royal smirked devilishly.  “That would equal a hundred on that pathetically soft blue coat of hers.”
“A day in the dungeon!”  The other one snickered.  “Maybe she'd learn some new magic down there, like how to frighten rats!”
Trixie trembled as she gazed in uncertainty at these young nobles deciding her 'fate'.  Her frightened eyes fell from one colt, then to another, and then to the third—but in between hovered forlornly on the blossoming sunrise behind them.  Finally, with a desperate gulp, she raised a hoof and subsequently raised her jittery voice:  “Y-You may punish me as you s-see fit, my lords.  But I implore you—Have mercy on your wrongfully petulant servant, and allow her to go indoors.  Please—I beg of you.”
“Hmmm... .... ...” Blueblood scratched his chin.  “Indoors.... ...?” He glanced at both of his cousins.  He smirked.  He motioned with his head behind Trixie's back.  In a chuckling swoop, both royals galloped into her—inducing a shriek from her frightened self.  In a tumbling flight, grass kicking up on either side of her, she found herself flung into the center of a dank hovel.  Stumbling up to her hooves, she gasped to realize that she had just been flung into the hollow of the abandoned hut besides her extinquished campfire.  “Indoors it is, my humble servant!”  Blueblood's smirking form  disappeared as the wooden door to the tiny building was bucked shut from outside with a dramatic SLAM!
“No!  Please!!  Wait--!”  She galloped and sped full force into the door.  With a pathetic thud, she stumbled back.  Squinting—she could see through the cracks in the frame that a large stone had been rolled up and laid against the single entrance of the hut.  “M-My lieges!  Don't do this!”
“Ordering us around now?  Hahah—She deserves this confinement!”
“Prince Blueblood, just how do you put up with such worthless servants?”
“Mmmm—The Light Caster family surely are a bore from time to time.  But unlike most pets, they do talk enough to amuse me.”
“Most assuredly!  Heheh—My stars, I am famished!  When is breakfast?”
“Follow me, cousins.  Our morning entertainment is over for now.”
“Have a good time, 'One-Trixie'!  Hahaha!”
“Nnnnngh--” The young magician in question struggled to shove her shoulders up against the door.  She pushed and strained and ultimately collapsed onto the hard rocky floor of the hay-strewn hut.  After a deflated sigh, she glanced up...up....and practically shrieked, her eyes as wide as saucers.
The thatched roof of the hut had worn away with the ages.  A huge gaping hole showed the last twinkling specks of light as they were washed away by the brightening blue of early dawn.  In honesty, there was no definitive roof to be had, and the interior of the hut was starting to get less and less dim--
“Goddess, no!”  Trixie panted.  Panicking, she scratched and hammered away at the door with desperate hooves.  “Let me out!  Let me out, please!”  She shrieked louder and louder.  “You don't understand, my lieges!  I...I....I-I will die!”  She could barely make out the laughter of the three royal unicorns, fading away into the distance as they trotted apathetically away.
In desperation, she squatted low and peered her purple eyes through the thin crack underneath the hut's door.  Scanning the grassy gnoll outside, she took notice of the boulder in the foreground, the scant remains of the campfire, the arcane tome, her satchel--
“Oh thank heavens!”
She saw her cloak.  The young Trixie glanced up at her horn, then back down at the crack.  She knelt down and took several deep breaths, concentrating, and finally murmuring forth a frightened but focused incantation:  “Hr'numma Tr-Trixie ethelithiulu T-Terrestria f-fala Epon'a s-selecestriaria hr'nummulu!”
Her horn glowed.  The door wobbled slightly.  The grass between her and the cloak fluttered in opposite directions.  But it worked.  The darkened cloak of 'stars' was slowly but surely lifting up from the earth.
“Come on....” Trixie shuddered and sweated with the effort.  “Please....oh please....”
The cloak shifted its flimsy weight under the novice magician's control, but slowly began snaking its way towards the hut.  Its enchanted shadow grew in prominence as it ran a desperate floating race against the waxing wave of dawnlight.
“Come onnnnnn--” But then, Trixie suddenly gasped.  “....!!!”
The cloak had caught on a branch.  Trixie concentrated harder, her horn vibrating with the sheer effort.  The cloak tugged and tugged, but wouldn't budge.  Suddenly the grass around it became three times as green.  The unassuming light from the sunrise made its way towards the crack beneath the hut's door and viciously FLASHED into the violet eyes of the young Whinniepeg Light Caster.
“Uhhhhngh!” Trixie stumbled back into the far wall of the hut.  Seeing stars, she scaled the walls with her burning vision.  The stars were all gone now in the hole of the barely existent 'ceiling'.  Stifling a sob, she leapt and clawed and clamored at the walls of the hut.  Dust and straw fell on her twitching face, mute against the palpitating breaths of the young filly.  “No...oh no—Mmmm--” Trixie shrunk against the door of the wall, clinging to the scant shadows left to the place.  “Nnnngh--” She tilted her snout up high.  “Help!  Please!  Somepony!  Anypony!  Please help me!”
Silence.
The shadows melted away.
Sunlight poured against the opposite wall and swam its way down like molten lava before the snow blue unicorn.  It then boiled its way across the stone floor of the hut, inching menacingly towards the young Trixie as she stood up on her shivering hooves with her back planted against the furthest corner of the place.  She squeaked and whimpered and tried to press herself further away from the bleeding light, and still it came.  As soon as the first edge of the sunbeam inched its way over her white tail, steam hissed into the air.
“Nnnngh!”  Trixie yelped and pressed her entire body flat against the wall.  She gasped as the steam wafted up to her nostrils, and then she gasped even louder as the steam tripled.
North of the Stampeding Mountains, along the banks of the Azure Sea, there lied the forested Territory of Whinniepeg.  And in the center of this miniature kingdom—as the morning Sun rose innocently in the soft blue sky—a tortured scream flew from a lone building several yards from a four-story castle.  The sky rang with the howl, frightening birds out of several trees so that they flew southward....
....and a few shrill seconds later, faintly boiling over the edges of the mountain tops, a gorgeous band of rainbow light from the south shimmered, soared, then dissipated, unseen.









(Ponyville, Today....)

“It all happened during the race at Flight Camp, where I stood alone against all odds to defend Fluttershy's honor.  I'd never flown like that before.  The freedom was unlike anything I'd ever felt.  The speed, the adrenaline, the wind in my mane; I liked it...a lot!  Turns out the only thing I liked more than flying fast, was winning!  Most people thought that the sonic rainboom was just an old mare's tale.  But that day, the day I discovered racing, I proved that the legends were true.  I made the impossible happen!”
A blue wing unfoils ever so briefly to display a permanent image emblazoned across an agile mare's right flank.  A thunderous cloud is launching a daring zig-zag of prismatically charged lightning, a jagged dance of all the primary colors: golden yellow sandwiched between ocean blue and fire red.  In a solitary blink, the wing folds back, and with a flick of a rainbow tail, the sky-colored pegasus smirks down at three mesmerized fillies gathered at the entrance to the Sugarcube Corner.
“And that, little ones...” Rainbow Dash gives a devil-may-care smirk and plants her front hoof down to punctuate the end of her story.  “....is how you earn a cutie mark.”
Barely a second has passed, and the three little ponies articulate their awe in predictable fashion.  “Whoaaaaaaaaaah.”  Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle are grinning cheek to cheek.  Scootaloo, the final piece of the Cutie Mark Crusader Trinity, is practically drooling.
Suddenly:  “Wait a second!”
The three girls do a double take as Fluttershy suddenly trots into frame, gazing emphatically at Rainbow Dash's startled face.
“I heard that explosion,” she says.  “And I saw the rainbow too!  Rainbow Dash, if you hadn't scared the animals, I never would have learned I could communicate with them and gotten my cutie mark!
Before the confuzzled Pegasus can respond, a certain pink Earth Pony bounces ceilingward and loudly announces:  “I heard that Boom!  And right afterwards, there was this amazing rainbow that taught me to smile!”
“When Ah got mah cutie mark, Ah saw a rainbow that pointed meh home!” Apple Jack remarks.  She rubs circles on her chin with a thoughtful hoof before the facts in her blonde head rotate her eyes excitedly towards Rainbow Dash, and with a grin she exclaims:  “I bet it was your sonic rainboom!”
The Crusaders' bright eyes are bouncing back and forth across this developing exchange, just as Rarity steps up, beaming.  “There was an explosion I could never explain when I got my cutie mark!”  The elegant seamstress utters.
“This is uncanny!”  A voice murmurs from the far side of Sugarcube Corner.  Twilight Sparkle is burning a hole through the floor with her purple eyes as she unravels the truth out loud before everyone.  “If that explosion didn't happened when it did, I would have blown my entrance exam!”  She glances up across the room, teetering on the brink of joyfully exploding.  “Rainbow Dash, I think you helped me earn my cutie mark too!”
There is an ice-splitting breath of silence, as the weight of this mesmerizing truth mathematically overcomes the endorphin-bubbling ecstasy of the moment.  Then the quiet is all too prophetically shattered by Pinkie Pie who takes it upon herself to violently pounce her entire fiberglass colored weight on Rainbow Dash in a heroic lunge of joy.
“Whoahhh--!” Rainbow barely has a chance to gasp. (Thud[?]!)
Pinkie Pie grins religiously down at her friend.  “We all owe our cutie marks to you!”
Fluttershy's gentle face leans its way into Rainbow Dash's violet gaze.  “Do you realize what this means?  All of us had a special connection before we even met!”
Rarity's complexion joins the trifold portrait.  “We've been BFFs forever and we didn't even know it!”
The blue pegasus can only manage a sheepish grin as she's overwhelmed by this happy huddle.  Then to add caramel-coated insult to injury, Applejack warmly marches over with Twilight in tow.  “C'mere, y'all...”
What transpires now is the toastiest thing since Princess Celestia ushered in the first sunrise.  All five fillies form a circular embrace, and in the epicenter is Rainbow Dash, an inexplicable victim of fate—as they all are—but neither she, nor they, can stammer forth a complaint.  What comes out of them instead is a conjoined hum, a squeal of happiness—briefly serenaded by a random “I love you guys” coming out of the delightfully frank squeakiness of Pinkie Pie's girlish chirps.
The three Crusaders are drinking in the scene from afar, adding to the warmth.  Rainbow Dash can barely hear them—something about zip-lining—and then everything drowns out as she discovers a deeper niche within the warm arms of her closest companions, her sudden soulmates, her elements of harmony.  And in the darkest clamshell places of her heart, where elation was only ever before a disguise put on by flight or fight, the warmth finds its way, and it reminds her... ...reminds her of those words, words spoken in shadows of another shape, words given to her to repeat at the fall of every cold night ever, and now summoning the moisture to her eyelids once again...
“I beseech you, Goddess Gultophine.”
> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions
Act 1 – Chapter 2 – The Most Awesome Day that Ever Awesomed


Sunrise.
Celestial bands of gold waft over a misty bed of cloudtops.  They swim their glowing trails through the billowing vapor until they cascade over folded blue hooves, a sapphire snout,  twitching eyelids that open flutteringly to grace the first breath of wakefulness.  Violet irises dilate and hide under squinting sockets, and then and only then does Rainbow Dash summon a smile.  The blue pegasus squeaks inwardly as she sits up and stretches from the cloud bed upon which she has slumbered all night.  She rears her front hooves infantly and then flexes her spine, firing several cracks into the air like lead-plated popcorn springing to life.  Finally, her tail shoots out with an undainty CRIKKK—and she flails her multicolored strands of hair, red to orange to yellow to green to blue to violet—just like her mane, which is a tattered and cowlicked mess of rainbow chaos above her yawning, cheek-tonguing face.
The burning horizon of the great bowling world looms before her, lit with platinum fire as the Sun rises over the gray mountains of distant Canterlot, bringing glitter and glow to the dew-speckled emerald plains of Equestria below, sending rivulets of oceanic sparkles from the majestic floating spires of Cloudsdale looming to the North, bouncing gaily off the multicolored rooftops of Ponyville that hazily slumbers far below, waking slowly with the tiny red gasps of Sweet Apple Acres, and even highlighting the purplish mystique of the Everfree Treetops.
Rainbow Dash squats dizzily upon the precarious edge of her cloud bank, gazing bravely into the plethora of color and life rising to greet her—the wind warm and soothing, the air fresh and resurrecting, the light bright but buffering.  A yawn of finality, a hoof driven lazily through her mane, and she blinks with a great sigh, then a rebounding inhalation as she prepares an instinctual sermon for the Start of Everything:
“Awwwwwwwww yeah.”






ACT ONE:  THE MOST AWESOME DAY THAT EVER AWESOMED






Rainbow Dash jumps off the cloud bed, does a backflip, and lands through a morning wisp of fine white mist.  Twirling in free-fall—her mane and tail like twin kaleidoscopic flags—she twirls her body sharply to the side and folds her wings out.  A surge of frictious air, and she's propelled sideways in a sharp turn, banking wide and long so that she's veritably soaring orbits around the separate rays of sunlight peaking over the moutain ridges in the distant East.
After several revolutions, she tilts the back of her wings downward and pulls up in a sharp climb, gaining altitude, until she reaches a patch of golden hue where several sunbeams converge.  Hovering there in the spotlight made by the dawn, the blue pegasus takes a deep, warm breath.  After about five wing-beats of silence, Rainbow's snout suddenly grimaces.  She takes another sharp breath, then a couple of sniffs.  Eyes open in this sudden break from grace; she raises a curious eyebrow,  rubs her hoof through her messy mane, then unashamedly scratches her right armpit.  Another sniff—and she no longer doubts it.  “Ughhh...”  She wreaks.
She looks left, she looks right, then finally looks down.  There—She spots it: a cumulonimbus cloud, dark and foggy against the otherwise golden troposphere.  “Hmmph...”  A smirk.  She curls her front hooves close to her body, rears her legs, and bolts downward in a sharp plunge.  The air shrieks briefly around her, parting ways as the vapors surge past her insane, youthful dive.  The gray cloud looms beneath her, soon encompassing her entire vision.  Rainbow Dash takes a gasp and holds her breath with bulging blue chipmunk cheeks.  In a wet splash, she plows through the top of the cloud and explodes out the bottom end with a shower of raindrops cascading after her fluttering tail.  For the briefest of bulleting moments, she retracts her wings to her flanks and twirls-twirls-twirls in the rainfall that's been summoned alongside her.  Finally, after a few dozen revolutions—now that her blue coat has collected a deep, moist sheen—she unfurls her wings and banks back upwards, tomahawking her wet body back to where the golden rays are.
Bursting through the bottom of a broad cloudbed, she rolls onto her back and hovers backwards, gliding over the white misty cloudtops that are toastily reflecting the glow of the sunrise.  In a spectacle of momentary daintiness, Rainbow Dash dries herself with as much ease as she so speedily became soaked.  She punctuates this with a smile and a swooping twist of her body as her wings pump her even higher heavenward, rotating her into a lasting loopty-loop that shakes the last excess droplets off her extremities.  Hovering slowly once more in the crossbeams of light, she runs a hand back over her slick-straight mane.  A knowing smirk, and she shakes her snout like a rattlesnake's tail; this inevitably summons a ritualistic POOMF(!) of her hair, so that they solidify into jagged sharp bangs of R.O.Y.G.B.I.V., matching her knife-sharp tail.
“Heheh.  There we go.”
That uttered, she now hovers once again in place, watching as the heavenly vista of Cloudsdale glows clearer in the rising sun.  Morning is beginning its sophomore climb.  Soon, all of Equestria will be half as awake as Rainbow Dash is this very second.  There is no time left to waste.
“So much to do today.  Mmmmm....Better get started.”
And with that said, the blue pegasus 'kicks' at the air and falls back on spread wings, so that she flutters lazily like a lopsided feather down, down, down into the soft cloud bed below to engage in a pre-noon nap.  She wraps a loop of white mist back over her blue coat like a blanket, turns over, and nearly has her eyes shut when out from the Zenith--
“Hiya, Rainbow Dash!”
“H-Huh?  What?”  The blue pegasus flutters her slothful eyes open and goes crosseyed as she finds her reclined body lifting magically from the cloudbed with no movement of her wings.  A puttering noise, the sound of twisting gears and fluttering propellors—and Rainbow Dash flails and gasps to find herself rolling comically over the nose of a wheel-powered gyro-glider rising up through the white mist.  “Whooaaaa-aaah—GAHH!”  The speedster of Cloudsdale ragdolls gracelessly off the canvass wing and slams neck-first into the frothy white clouds below, her tail and hooves sticking obscenely upwards.
“Hey!  Rainbow Dash!”  A vibrant peach-coated filly with magenta hair and sporting a violet safety helmet is presently occupying the pilot's seat of the rickety contraption.  With endless twirls of her lower hooves to bicycle pedals, she orchestrates the artful revolution of an elaborate array of propellors propped upon a brass chassis and flanked with lightweight wing apparatuses.  “R-Rainbow Dash?”  She blinks, curiously now, glancing her helmeted head every which way for a sign of the blue pegasus.  “Rainbow Dash, where'd you go?”
“Tuu Hegg in uh Hmmbasgetttt.” A muffled voice grunts from below.
The filly pilot merely brightens from the sound of her stuffy voice.  “Wh-What was that, Rainbow?”
“Nnnnngh---UGH!” (POP!)  Rainbow Dash snaps her skull loose from the clouds, shakes the cobwebs loose, and squints razor sharp violets up at the hovering delinquet.  “Scootaloo, what gives?”
“I came to see you, Rainbow Dash!”
“I can see that you came to see me, pipsqueak!  But—What's with the airborn skeleton of a vending machine?”  One blink.  Two...three:  “And just how'd you know that I'd be up here anyways?”
“Ugh, please, Rainbow Dash!”  Scootaloo giggles between huffs and puffs as she pedals away in mid-air, her tiny wings flapping randomly to give balance and poise to her piloting skills.  “Everyone knows you're the coolest, bravest, freest, most awesomest pegasus in all of Equestria!  You fly where you like, sleep where you like and don't afraid of anything!”
“.... .... ....” Rainbow Dash stares boredly at the young filly.  “Pinkie Pie told you, didn't she?”
“Mmmmmm—Gnnngh--” Scootaloo's face scrunches up briefly as if she is secretly slamming herself with mental hammers from the inside out.  Turning a leaf, she abruptly brightens and motions with one free hoof to her contraption.  “What do you think of my invention?”
“Huh?  Oh, it's....Uh....I think it's--”  Rainbow raises a hoof to finish her sentence, falters, blinks, and raises a nervous eyebrow.  “Just what in the hay is it?”
Scootaloo felicitously chirps:  “It's a S.P.A.F.A.V!”
“Gesundheit.”
“Get it?”  Scootaloo grins wryly.  “Ahem--Single Pony Artificial Flight Assistant Vehicle!  Ain't it cool?”
“Er....Yeah, I-I guess.”  Rainbow Dash slowly hovers around the gyro-thing-a-ma-jigg-a-tron, inspecting it closely—or at least pretending to be doing so.  “It's pretty cool.”
“You think?” Scootaloo's smile carves an ivory crescent from ear to ear.
“Granted, it'd be a lot cooler to something like an Earth Pony or—yanno—a rock.  Whatever; Just about anything without wings.”
The filly pegasus blushes slightly under her helmet.  “Er....y-yeah, well...” She gestures dramatically towards the extremities of the puttering device.  “WORK IN PROGRESSSSSS—That's 'progress' with three hundred percent extra S's.”
“Fancy.”
“Let's just say I'm testing it for the target demographic.”
“And who would that be?”
“Hnnnnghhh....” Scootaloo sighs with slumped shoulders.  “I dunno.  I confess—it's a total crapshoot.  Just like figuring out what my cutie mark should be.”
Rainbow Dash raises an eyebrow.  “Yeesh, Scootaloo.  Who teaches you words like that?”
“What?” Scootaloo blinks up at the floating blue pegasus.  “'Crapshoot'?”
“Well, I was going to say 'demographic', but whatever, I guess.”  The hovering Cloudsdaler shrugs and folds her arms.  “I really don't understand you fillies these days.  Besides...”  She squints down at the excited pilot.  “Since when did you get a thrill from tinkering with stuff?  Isn't that redhead you hang out the one who's gifted with nailing junk together and turning them into works of art?”
“Who, my BFF Apple Bloom?” Scootaloo parks the gyro-whatsit on a cloudbank and hops down in front of Rainbow Dash.  “Nah, she's much better at dancing.  You must be thinking of Sweetie Belle.”
“But--”
“And wait till you hear a sample of my latest singing track!” The pegasus filly joyfully bounces up and down, smiling wide.
Rainbow Dash stealthily rolls her eyes and facehoofs.  “Ohright.  This whole bit.”
“It's really cool!  Not the normal rock I do, but a ballad!”
“Uhhh....” Rainbow blinks over the filly's helmet.  “Scootaloo---”
“Okay, if you wanna know, it's this really sweet cover of Buck to December by Trotter Swiftly.”
“Scootaloo!”
“Er—Y-Yes, Rainbow Dash?”
“Did you put that machine together with parts made in Cloudsdale?”
“Uhhhh-No.”  Scootaloo shakes her snout.  “I made it last week behind Apple Bloom's farm, in Ponvyille.  Why?”
Rainbow boredly points a hoof behind Scootaloo's flank.  The young filly turns, glances past her markless form and gasps.  The aircraft is sinking slowly through the cloud bed, like hot syrup through a thin sheet of ice.  A brief lurching moment of precarious teetering, and the hulking thing plunges swift as a three ton stone towards the distant earth below, shattering bits of white vapor every which way.
“Oh hoarseapples!”  Scootaloo shrieks and swan-dives off the cloudbank, soaring petitely after the huge dumb object as quickly as her tiny wings can allow her.
Left far behind—and above—Rainbow Dash sighs long and hard.  But with an unrestrained smirk, she gives into the moment and dives herself.  A roar of sliced air thunders behind her wide blue wings as she threads her way down through the atmosphere, pursuing the runaway victim of gravity.  A stressed and teeth-gritting Scootaloo manages to register Rainbow Dash's dive at the last second.  With pulsing pink eyes, she marvels as the older pegasus outshoots her in a blink, matching the falling velocity of the gyroclunker and slowing its fall with a double-hoofed grip as well as a mighty flap of her wings.  By the time Scootaloo catches up, Rainbow is already raising the craft back up to its initial point of plunging—howbeit slowly.
“Wowwwww...Rainbow Dash, you're incredible!”  The magenta mane'd filly beams as she makes an effort to lift her end of the aircraft, fluttering her wings with extra bravado as she matches the blue pony's movements.  “Is there anything you can't do?”
“Take a nap, for one.”
“What was that?”
“AHEM--” Rainbow glances over the complex brass chassis of the aircraft as the two hover slowly up to the nearest cloudbank.  “I still can't get over the fact that you're a tinkerer.  You built this all by yourself?”
“Well—Apple Bloom's older sister helped a little--”
“HAH!”  Rainbow Dash cackles.  “AJ would only help if she kicked the propellers of this thing and it spat apples out!”
“Hey!  She did too help out!”
“Yeah?  How?”
“.... .... ...She lent me her toolbox?”
“So what you mean to say is Big Macintosh helped you.”
“Uh uh!”
“Apple Jack wouldn't know a toolbox if it galloped up and bit her.”
“Okay!  Fine!  I did it myself!  Jeez--”
“Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of, Scootaloo.” Rainbow Dash raises the thing up to the cloudbank and waits for Scootaloo to hop back into the pilot seat before letting go.  The filly pedals away at the thing once more as the blue pegasus looks on with hooves folded.  “Heck—For all we know, this could be a one way ticket to getting your cutie mark!”
“What does building stuff have to do with singing?”
“Well, it—uhm...... nnghhh....Yeah....” Rainbow Dash groans and smiles sheepishly.  “You got me there, pipsqueak.”
“This is just a hobby.”
“A hobby?”
“Yeah.  Like me and the scooter.”
“You and a scooter?  Surely you're pulling my tail!”
“Hush!” Scootaloo briefly hisses from the pilot's seat.  “I'm awesome on a scooter!  I bet I'm almost as awesome on a scooter as you are in the air!”
Rainbow Dash smirks slywly, eyebrows waggling.  “Oh really?”
“The first time I got on a scooter—I felt free, yanno?” Scootaloo blushes slightly as her eyes gaze beyond the morning glow against the nearest cloudbed.  “It was—like—the perfect thing to ride on while using my flapping wings to push me places.  So I got to thinking—What else could I make for everypony to help them do normal things easily?  And one project led to another, several welding tools went through a workout, a few chickens were hurt, and—Voila!--Here I am with this....er..... ...th-thing.”
“Well, it's a pretty awesome thing if I do say so myself.”  Rainbow Dash winks, patting part of the exposed chassis.
“N-e-E-e-E!” Scootaloo squeals quietly to herself.  “Thanks, Rainbow Dash.  I'm glad you approve.”
“Hey, anytime, Scoots.  Yanno, a wise sage once said: Only the young can say they're free to fly away.”
“Besides—It was the only way I could get the heck away from that scene of despicable mushiness yesterday.”
“Scene of....er....despicable mushiness...?”
“You knowwwww....” Scootaloo performs a 'wretching' pantomime with extraordinary use of her tongue and cheek muscles.  “That whole thing last afternoon in Sugarcube Corner--”
“Oh, you mean that scene of despicable mushiness.  Yeah—heheh--....” Rainbow Dash gazes heavenward and only halfway makes an effort to hide a deep sigh resonating from deep within her blue being.  “I had to get the heck away from that too,”
“Did you finish your letter to Princess Celestia?”
“I—Der—idja--whoodja--Whuttt?” Rainbow's violet eyes cross as an invisible record player scratches violenty between her ears.  “Huh?”
“Yanno—The thing Twilight Sparkle's got you working on?”
“Uhhhh--”
Scootaloo gasps as if the four corners of the world are being folded up by a giant starry dragon doing the laundry.  “You mean you forgot about the letter?”
“Scoots, the day I commit to writing anything is the day I kiss a mule--”
“Oh Rainbow Dash...!”
“--and like it.”
“... ...you promised Twilight!  Just yesterday!  I saw you do it!”
“Oh did you now?”
“Can't you remember?”
Rainbow Dash takes a deep, frustrating breath.  Tapping her hoof to her chin, she shoots her violet eyes towards the back of her skull and makes a ludicrously visible effort of thinking, thinking, thinking.  A swift gust of morning wind kicks at her mane and the local clouds, so that the entire scene resembles what may be or may not be misconstrued as a watery crossfade.





	“You want me to do WHAT?”  Rainbow Dash flinched exaggeratedly from the violet haired Unicorn as if she were the Plague.
“I do believe you heard my proposal.”  Twilight Sparkle proudly lifted her chin.  The pony's tail flicked energetically with the scant remaining bits of girlish joy still flitting through her from a full afternoon of hugs and revelations.  “I think you should write a letter to the Princess!  I can't think of anyone better suited to fill her in on what we've just learned today!”
“Yeah—Uh—Listen, Twi.  I love ya like a friend and all, so don't take this personally, but:  Not on your nerdy papercutted nelly!”
“Oh come on, Dash!  It'll be perfect!”
“Ughhh--” Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes.  The two ponies stood under the gentle cover of falling night before the yawning, lantern-lit doorway to Twilight's library in the center of Ponyville.  After a long night of girl-talk and converging cutie mark tales of diabetes-inducing nostalgia, the rest of the ponies—Rarity, Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and that blonde one—had all trotted homeward, leaving this lonesome and totally mismatched pair to kerplunk upon the rocky shoals of the most awkward conversation ever.  “--Seriously, Twilight.  Why can't you just write the Princess like—uh--you normally do?”
“Oh, I intend to.”
“Then—Snkkkt--hckk--Wh-What's the—rrrg—What's the point?”
“Because you're so important to...to....-well-to what we've learned, Rainbow Dash!  And I don't mean just what we've learned today, but—Quite frankly—everything I've ever learned up to this point is in some way or another a direct result of your influence!  How could you deny that?”
“I'm not denying anything.  Eheheh......” Rainbow Dash kicked at the earth between them with a lonesome hoof and heaved an embarassed sigh.  “So, one day, years ago, I did the one hundred mile swan dive in a Pegasus Race and it went thermonuclear on the color spectrum, and it so happens that the explosion gave all of us our cutie marks in some sort of ode to all things sappy.  So what?  I call it dumb luck.”
“Awww—Rainbow....” Twilight smiled gently, her eyes sparkling as she leaned forward.  “Have you learned nothing from all we talked about tonight?”
“All the more reason why I shouldn't be pretending to write a letter to Princess Celestia.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Oh do you now?”
“Absolutely.” Twilight Sparkle nodded.  “In one single event, a pegasus pony—defending the honor of her friend and proving herself to the rest of her peers—dared to make the impossible happen.  Those WERE your words, were they not?”
“Derrrrr....”
“And in that single act of tenacity, of guile, of courage—you were determined to make a difference in your young life.  And you did!  Your focus was spot on!  And it manifested in you, not only in finding your cutie mark, but instilling hope in the rest of us—across improbable distances, from Manehattan to Canterlot.  And that hope transformed into the building blocks of what would become the Elements of Harmony, the sole reason I was destined to come to Ponyville to begin with!”
“Is the reason you read so much is so you can talk so much?”
“Rainbow Dash, don't you see?”  Twilight Sparkle sniffled.  “It wasn't 'dumb luck'!  It was fate!”
“Oh gosh...” The blue pegasus groaned.  “You're getting mushy again.”
“Can you blame meeeee?” Twilight all but nuzzled the other's mane.  “I still can't believe it—All of this—everything--It's all because of you--”
“Gah!  The wings!  D-Don't touch the wings!” Rainbow Dash grimaced.  “Jeez, Twilight, I really think you need to take this whole 'Friendship' thing in moderation.”
“Oh?”
“Absolutely.  It's—like—you can barely trot a straight line when you get like this.  Ponies shouldn't let ponies friendship-and-drive.”
“Heeheehee—So, will you write the letterrrrr?”
“Twilight, I'm flattered—really.  And...uh...I-I guess I can see where you're coming from with this whole 'fate', thing.  But, as much as you and the other girls have gushed over this whole 'discovery', quite frankly I just don't get it.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Right, and as a matter of fact I—.....I-I-I'm sorry...” Rainbow Dash shook her mane, sighed, and squinted at Twilight.  “...can we pause for a quick second?  I gotta take care of something.”
“Sure thing.”
Rainbow Dash spun about and howled up at the towering branches of Twilight's hollow abode.  “Scootaloo!  Climb out of that tree!  I can see you spying on Twilight and me!”
“Nuh uh!” A high-pitched voice chirped from the rustling leaves.  “I'm not spying on anyone!”
“Don't make me come up there and bridle you!  It's probably past your bedtime or something!  Now fly on home to your parents!”
“Awwwwwwww—shucks.”  A petite figure moaned and saggedly fluttered off towards the North Horizon.
Rainbow Dash pointed an intimidating hoof in Scootaloo's directin.  “And don't you be planning to make me revisit this very moment in a flashback tomorrow morning!”  She turned back to her companion.  “Ahem, sorry—where were we?”
“You know...” Twilight giggled.  “She worships you.”
“Yeah, yeah.  Who doesn't.  Cut to the chase.”
“The bottom line is—This isn't like just any other lesson on Friendship.  This is the veritable preface to if ever I was to write a 'Friendship Omnibus'.”
“I'm just going to pretend that I understood what you said and resist the urge to dunk your head in a trough.”
“It's not enough that I write about this to the Princess.  You should as well—Because I'm convinced that you're the center of it all.  And it doesn't matter if you don't understand it too well yourself, Rainbow Dash.  After all, that's the point of expressing yourself—It helps you discover yourself.”
“Heh.  And just what is there for me to discover about myself?”
“Mmmmmm—Perhaps how lucky you really are.”
“Pffft—Whatevs.”
“Hehehe—You are GOING to write that letter!”
“Or else what?” Rainbow Dash boredly glanced at Twilight.  But soon that glance turned into a sweatdropping grimace as Twilight Sparkle marched closer, leering.
“Well, for starters, Fluttershy has been constantly asking for a helping hoof in cleaning Angel's litter tray....”
Rainbow Dash almost wretched.  She leaned back from Twilight.  “She wouldn't....!”
“And Rarity and Pinkie Pie have been needing someone special to model that new frilly ensemble for Sapphire Shores....”
Rainbow Dash leaned back even further.  “They wouldn't....!”
“Aaaaaaaand I've been thinking of talking Apple Jack into taking that one extra ticket I have spared for the Annual Wonderbolts Airshow in Canterlot this year!”
“Y-Y-Y-You wouldn't!  ACKIES!”  Rainbow Dash leaned so far back she fell flat on her spine.  Hooves and wings flailing like a big blue cockroach, the frazzled Pegasus flinched, twitched, and eventually deflated with a long groan.  “Twilighttttt......it's out of character for you to be so cruel.  I kinda hate it.”
Twilight giggled.  “Hate it enough to write a simple letter?”
“Buffalo biscuits, YES.” Rainbow Dash kick-vaulted and agiley landed on her hooves.  PLOP.  “Anything to get you off my tail.”  A grumbling beneath her voice:  “I don't know the first thing about letter writing—much less to a Princess.”
“It's easy, really.”  Twilight waved her horned head and smiled.  “You just write from the heart.”
“.... ... ....” Rainbow's eyes were like parallel cinderblocks pointed at the Unicorn.  “.... ...'from the heart', huh?”
“Yup.  Just remember to be polite.”
“Got it.”
“An-And to be formal.”
“Uh huh.  Right.”
“And-And-And to not go on any political tangents about the Ponyville Tariff or the Military Campaign in the Zebrahara, although they are both examples of valid diplomatic discourse, it would be completely out of place and inappropriate for a letter themed on the value of friendship--”
“Yeah.  Okay, Twilight.  I got it--”
“Oh—And be sure not to ask too many questions about Princess Luna, cuz that whole Mare in the Moon thing was a teeeeeensy bit too recent, and even though everything went reasonably well with the reforging of the Elements of Harmony, I can only imagine that Princess Celestia is still a bit sensitive about the reunion and--”
“Twilight—I have an idea.  Why don't you write the letter for the both of us?”
Twilight blinked and blinked at that, then cast Rainbow a blank stare.  “Why in Equestria would I want to do that?”
“Ugh—Forget it.” Rainbow facehoofed for the first of many innumerable times to come over the next few days.  “Nnnnngh—I promise you, Twilight, that I won't write anything pathetic or rash or horrible that might in some unimaginable way hurt or damage your perfect and precious relationship with your Faithful Master in the arts of...uhm.........unicorning.”
“Heeee!” Twilight Sparkle literally jumped in place half a dozen times.  “You're the best friend ever--”  Her eyes suddenly turned to hot burning coals.  “WAIT.”
Rainbow Dash gulped, her pupils dilating.
Twilight Sparkle leered once more, squinting.  “Do the thing that Pinkie does.”
“Oh hoarse raddishes—You've gotta be kidding me!  She infected you with that?”
“Do ittttt--”
“Unnnnngh...” Rainbow rolled her violet eyes, propped herself up on her hindquarters, and performed the necessary gestures with both hooves.  Her voice lurched out in a deep monotone that reflected the cold glare of the blossoming starlight over the two ponies' manes.  “Cross my heart.  Hope to fly.  Stick a cupcake in my eye.”
“Heeee!” Twilight began bouncing again.  “You're the best friend everrrrr!”





Back in the present, Rainbow Dash hovers above the cloudtops, still tapping her hoof to her chin.  “Hrmmmmmmmm-mmmmmm....”  She blinks, blinks again, then shakes her head.  “Nah.  I don't remember anything about a letter.”
“Oh come on!” Scootaloo cackles back from the pilot seat of her contraption.  “You're either lying or crazy!”
“You have the nerve to sit there in that newfangled Rhubarb Coltberg device you call a...der.... ...uhh...... S.P.I.T.F.A.T. and say that I'm crazy?”
“So you're a liar?” Scootaloo glares.
“Ughhh—FINE!”  Rainbow Dash groans, yet, all the while tactfully hiding a smirk from Scootaloo's sight.  “I'll write the stuuuuuuupid letter to Princess Celestia.”
“Really?”  Scootaloo beams.  “For me?”
“For TWILIGHT, apparently.”  Rainbow raspberries in the magenta haired pilot's general direction.  “Wutever—Meh.  My day was boring until you showed up anyways.”
“What day?”  Scootaloo giggles uncontrollably and points a free hoof from where she pedals the aircraft.  “You were just waking up, weren't you?”
“Ha ha—Really clever, Equinestein.  Now why don't you make like your name and scoot to the loo?”
“Your wish is my command, Rainbow Dash!” The filly angles the thing around, kicks it into gear with a lower hoof, and throttles it towards the looming majesty of Cloudsdale in the distance.  “So long—I wanna see that letter when you're done writing it!”
“Yeah wutever, pipsqueak....” Rainbow Dash has her back to the pegasus hoofling.  After a lonely minute or two, and she takes a deep breath.  The warm rays of the rising Sun bring her back to the present, and she smiles—glancing over her shoulder to once more regard the distant speck that is Scootaloo.  She runs a hoof through her hair, sighs at the thick nature of the sudden task at hand, and floats limply towards the spot in the cloudbed where she had spent the previous night's sleep.
Settling in the soft wisps of Cloudsdale runoff, she cracks her forelimbs, flexes her shoulders, and viciously stabs her hooves deep into the misty material, fumbling around through the makeshift storage space that she just recently established on an impulse---a few hours ago (or was it a few days ago?).  She can't recall.
“Now where did I put that stationary and quill?”  Rainbow murmurs.  She yanks a hoof out, producing a scarf.  “Mmmm-No.”  She yanks out a gym whistle with the other hoof.  “No.”  Rummaging, rummaging, a sweatband.  “No.”  A horseshoe.  “No.”  A Genesis controller.  “No.”  Voter's registration.  “No.”  A toothless baby aligator wearing skydiving gear.  “NoooooOOOAAAAUGH!”
Rainbow Dash flails, shakes her hoof in the naked air, and tosses the infernal reptile out into the cold depths of the Equestrian Atmosphere.  She pants heavily, watching with twitching violet eyes as the dumb-eyed creature produces a parachute and floats lackadasically down towards the distant heart of Ponyville far below.
“.... .... ....” The blue pegasus blinks dazedly downwards at the faint image of the pet, then squats back in the recesses of her cloud.  “Well, guess this means I'm officially awake.”  She reaches one last time into the depths of the white mist, and naturally this time she acquires:  “Ah.  Here it is.  Of course, I never told Twilight how much my hoofmanship stinks.”  A deep, regretful sigh—but brave nonetheless, as she reclines upside down on the edge of the cloud bank and taps quill to paper.  “Hrmmm....here goes...”
Rainbow Dash Writes:





'Princess Celestia.  How's it hoofin'.  My name is Rainbow Dash and--'






She stops.  A nervous biting of her lip.  Her violet eyes dart back and forth, tracing the ghostly image of a memory from beyond the rough texture of the brown parchment flutteringly windily in her grasp.  “Ugh...no no no no...That won't do.  Twilight's counting on me to be polite and all that jazz.  Hmmmm.....”  A brief bout of painful-looking thought, and Rainbow Dash's face unscrunches in just enough time to gasp:  “Yes!  That's it!  Of course!”
She returns pen to paper.






'Princess Celstia.  How's it hoofin', ma'am?”






“Heh.  That's much more like it.”  Rainbow Dash shrugs her shoulder and gets more comfortable in her lofty 'writing perch'.  “This isn't so hard after all.  Ahem....let's see here....”
She writes:






'My name is Rainbow Dash.  You don't know about me without you have read a series of letters by Twilight Sparkle by the name of 'Friendship is Magic', but that ain't no matter....'


> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions
Act 1 – Chapter 3 – A Dash in the Life


Cloudsdale hovers angelically in the blue sky, refracting all rays of the rising Sun to form a mosaic of colors—against which Rainbow Dash mightily soars, approaching the thick of the airborn ponytropolis.  She gazes left and right with subtle amusement as she observes the ritualistic hustle and bustle of the City from up high.
Squadrons of Pegasi line up for takeoff from several rows of white marble buildingtops.  Weather flight teams surge westward to confront the brooding cloud currents.  Delivery teams soar southward and split up, delivering innumerable parcels of importance throughout the great enormity of Equestria.  Several engineers gather on the larger cloudbanks to chat and huddle before hustling into the nearby precipitation factories for their morning shifts.
Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath, banks against the Sun, and surges northward over the ivory spires of the place, angling her blue body towards the bright reflective circle that makes up the Downtown Square of Cloudsdale, just bordering the Junior Flight School and Aerial Academy.  There, many fair-winged pegasi Dash's age have already gathered, forming various flocks of excited morning chatter in the glistening penumbra of dawn.





“According to Twilight Sparkle, the Royal Family has always lived in Canterlot.  That's cool and stuff, I guess.  But my only question is—Why?  I mean, I'm sure it's a great town and all, and I've met a lot of nice unicorns who have come from there.  But could you have picked a more boring place to make the Capital of Equestria?  Seriously, Princess—Canterlot is soooo 'MEH'.  If it wasn't for the Grand Galloping Gala and the Annual Wonderbolts Airshow and the regular Rising of the Sun you do and the frickin' huge mountain you've got those skyscrapers carved into....—
“Okay.  Scratch that.  Canterlot is—like—totally cool.  But you know what's cooler?  Cloudsdale.  Why is Cloudsdale cooler?  Well, I live there, for one.  But besides that—You have all the best fliers of Equestria located in one place, and when they're not showing off their totally sweet air maneuvers and living the dream, they're doing what pegasi do best—And that's performing the most important work in all of the land, air, and seas.  This includes performing deliveries to all of the furthest places of the world, engineering blizzards and rainbows, and even deciding what part of Equestria gets a heat wave and when.  And if that all wasn't enough, might I remind you that Cloudsdale is a huge frickin' floating City?  Like—frickin-floating-in-the-sky huge frickin'?  Isn't that totally awesome?  I mean, you know all of this already, right?  I figured that you were Princess of Equestria for more than just having a totally righteous flowing mane, though I wouldn't mind if that was the only reason, but maybe that's just Rarity rubbing off on me.  Yeesh.
“You know, I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to be writing about in this letter.  Twilight was rather vague when she tried telling me what she wanted me to do.  I sure could use an idea, because I'm on the third paragraph and normally I'd be bored enough by now to quit if I didn't know I was writing this to—yanno—the One and True Celestial Matriarch of Everything that Is.  That is you, right?  Just to make sure we got that covered.
“Oh!  I know!  I'll just—like—write about how a typical day in the life of Rainbow Dash goes.  Hey, that almost sounds like a book title!  Not that I would know; I was never too big on books.  Plus, books always struck me as a 'unicorn' thing, what with their magical horns and whatnot.  Pegasus and Earth Ponies kind of have to use their noses to turn pages, so you can imagine the amount of papercuts we get on our nostrils.  Some ponies might say that the current manufacturing of books is racist, but then some ponies really need to get their heads dunked in a trough.  Speaking of troughs, that reminds me of the one time that Rarity's little sister mistook a water fountain outside of the Carousel Boutique for a roofless outhouse.
“Oh Mule Muffins, there I go again.  This is exactly why I never write anything, besides the fact that it's boring and I have much better things to do—Not that this isn't a good thing to do today: writing to you, that is, Princess.  Let me read back up a paragraph or two—Oh right!  A Day in the Life of Rainbow Dash.  Or A Dash in the Life if you wanna get all artsy fartsy about it.
“Things start in Cloudsdale like they start anywhere.  We Pegasi are hard workers—enough to give Earth Ponies a run for their money.  But while the residents of Ponyville function individually—doing whatever the heck it is that they want to do at random—things here in Cloudsdale are pretty strictly organized.  Making the rainbows bright, making the rain wet, making sure the mail gets to where it needs to go—Anything and everything clicks together like a well oiled machine, or better yet; a giant well oiled machine floating in the sky that the rest of Equestria mortally depends on.  So, as the morning routine kicks in, it's important that pegasi get their 'how-do-you-do's' out of the way sooner than later.  That way, we can all keep on the same wavelength and get our jobs done quickly enough to spend the late afternoon doing what we're born to do: flying awesomely around in the sky as if gravity was never invented.
“I like to consider myself a free spirit, but I'm still a Pegasus Pony, and even I know how important it is to maintain a good comero--....camraw--....cohmuhroderee--...a good friendship with those who are my peers.  My dad used to live in other parts of Equestria before I was born.  But when I was foaled into this world, he brought me back here to Cloudsdale.  I'm thinking it's because he too understands how important it is that I maintain a good hoof with fellow pegasi.  And so, everyday, I make sure that I'm always making a good impression and—even more importantly—engaging my fellow young citizens in a friendly exchange of ideas...”





WHAM!
“Ooof!”  Rainbow Dash spits as her face flies sideways from a heavy brown hoof to the snout.  She teeters back slightly and barely raises her right forearm to block the second punch from the advancing colt—who promptly takes advantage of her hasty flinch, headbutting her directly in the forehead.
A concussive noise, and Rainbow promptly ragdolls backwards against a marble pillar in the center of Cloudsdale's Town Square.  A cadence of mixed cheers and boos fill the glistening atmosphere as a dark brown male pony stomps down a ring of spectating pegasi and rears his offending hooves over the pratfalled Dash.  “Think you're so tough now, Rainbow Crash?”  He smirks, a spotty mane of peach-blonde hair partially blocking his devilish eyes.  “You come here insultin' the Wonderbolts while I'm around?  I'm gonna send your face back into the trash bin where it belongs!”
“Nnnngh—All I remember saying, Dumb-Bell...” Rainbow Dash levels back on her legs and hisses across the way at the ruffian in question.  “....is that there's no chance in heck that a pathetic boulder-for-brains oaf like you would ever get to join the Wonderbolts!”  She smirks.  “And in my book, that's the finest compliment I could ever give them!”
“Grrrr...” The pathetically named Dumb-Bell snarls, an artery pulsing along his neck.
In the thick of the howling crowd of bloodthirsty Pegasi, a rather tall orange-brown colt wearing a white hard hat shouts:  “You gonna take that from her, Dumb-Bell?  Let me get a hit in!”
“I've got this, Hoops!”  The brown youth in question looks over his wings to snarl at him.  When he turns back around he's greeted by a hurdling missile in the form of Dash's body screaming directly into his eyesight.  He soars back from the impact and slams into the side of a Princess Celestia fountain, soaking his mane in water as he groans.
“What's the matter, Dumb-Bell?”  Rainbow Dash smirks and strikes a pose with hooves suavely crossed.  “Did I make you wet yourself again?”  A ring of pegasi laughs and snickers enthusiastically behind her.
“Whyyyy you--!”  Hoops charges in, followed swiftly by a smaller stone-blue colt stampeding behind him.  (“I've got your back, brother!”)
Rainbow Dash holds her ground, squinting with a glint of ominously reflected sunlight as the two would-be-stallions converge on her.  The surrounding cheers melt belatedly into a gasp as she rears her hooves high into the air and—with expert timing—slams them both down into the cloudy 'floor' beneath her.  A misty rumbling, and rivulets of disturbed cloudbedding swarm forward and explode underneath the clamoring hooves of the two attackers.
“Whoah!”
“Auugh!”  The younger Pegasus Brother falls snout-first over the disrupted cloud.  Rainbow Dash vaults over him, spreads her wings, soars a dozen feet, catches the body of a marble pillar with her front legs, spins around it three times, and then propels her body back in time to catch Hoops—the elder—as he is dizzily trying to get up.  The resulting collision sends the two of them barreling together—through a scampering group of onlookers—and straight into a cascade of collective rainwater bubbling from the unscaleable heights of Cloudsdale above.  Rainbow, of course, is fast on her hooves and nips up immediately in a splashing stance.  The watching ponies gather closer as Hoops lumbers to—snarling—and bucks his lower hooves twice at Rainbow.  The colorful she-Pegasus merely smirks, dodges each of his kicks with a dancer's flair, twirls away from her opponent's next awkward lunge, and disappears directly behind the waterfall.  A confused Hoops briefly blinks in cross-eyed panic—Just before Rainbow Dash wetly shoots her head straight through the rainwater with a mane-dripping silly face against his snout.
“BOOGIDY BOO!”
“DAH--” Hoops' breath is cut short when Rainbow yanks him forward through the deluge of water, rams him in the chest with the joint of her right leg, and promptly spin-bucks him like a soaked comet straight into the incoming flight of the gasping Dumb-Bell.  The magical sound of colliding bowling pins lights the air, and both muscular upstarts fall gracelessly into a conjoined pile in the center of Town Square.  “Ughhhh....”
“Heh....” Rainbow Dash slicks her wet mane back and sticks a rebellious tongue out.  “Really smoothe, dudes.  Looks like you two are doing all the 'crashing' for the three of us!”  Right then and there, the small stone-blue colt comes up from behind Rainbow Dash and pins her upper arms back with a vice-like grip.  “Eeep!”  She breathlessly gasps.  “Four of us!  I-I forgot there were four of us--” She squeaks and struggles, bug-eyed.
“I-I've got her, brony!  I've got her!”  He shouts.
“Hold her still, Quarterback!” Hoops slips his hard hat back on and gallops up, followed swiftly behind by a mouth-foaming Dumb-Bell.
Restrained, Rainbow Dash braces herself, tries to duck her head—but she receives a savage hoof to the face, followed by a buck to the chest and three more kicks to the side.  “Oof—Nnngh—AACHH!”
The roaring group of roused Pegasi reaches a fever pitch around the melee.  Chants clash and collide, some in Rainbow Dash's favor, others in Dumb-Bell's.  One pony in particular, a light gray filly with a mohawk'd mane shoves her way towards the edge of the crowd and howls between cupped hooves:  “Don't give up, Rainbow Dash!  Kick their tails from here to Doomsday!”  The closest circle of ponies around this particular shouter joins in her enthusiastic cheer.
“Snkkkt--” Rainbow Dash bruisedly winces.  She glares with burning violet eyes into the snouts of her oppressors.  “Th-That all you got, b-bigshots?”  She sputters.
“Hardly.”  Dumb-Bell sneers.  “We ain't finished until we make you crap your own teeth.  Hoops—Care to do the honors?”
“With pleasure....” The tall one raises his brass horseshoe high, past the glistening sight of his hard hat's reflection in the morning Sun--
Rainbow Dash gasps.  With a devilish smirk, she boldly flaps her wings straight forward.  A gust of wind is summoned, and it promptly blows the hard hat directly off the startled Hoops' head.  (“Huh—What?”)  Dash snatches the brim of the hard white bowl in her teeth, stretches her neck back, and proceeds to smack Hoops' face from side to side with the suddenly offensive headpiece.  Dumb-Bell merely watches with...well....dumbfoundedness, giving Dash the opportunity to spit the hard hat directly into the side of dark-brown colt's skull when he's not looking.  While Dumb-Bell and Hoops smack stupidly into each other again, Rainbow Dash retracts her wings—takes a sharp breath—and stretches them back so that they slide under Quarterback's armpit, then stretching--
“Waah---!” The stone-blue colt finds himself inexplicably falling back.
Rainbow Dash lunges with a growl and reverse bucks him in mid-air.  Not a blink later, and she twirls to catch the tail of the airborn youngster, pulling with all of her might and flinging him like a mace into his two older cohorts.  Bodies go flying everywhere—all of them collapsing, all except for Rainbow Dash, that is, who is sliding to a stop with limbs heaving and twitching.
“Nnnghhh....” Rainbow Dash spits into the cloudbed and smiles as a tiny trickle of blood rivers down from her curved lips.  “Grrr....I'm so alive it hurts.”
A resounding swarm of cheers fill the air.  “Yeah—You go, girl!”  The mohawk'd pegasus leans against her friends and pumps a hoof in midair.  “Wooo--!  Rainbow Dash!  Yeah!”
“Ughhhh....” The three colts try vainly limping up from their embarassing pile of limbs.
“You guys ready to talk sensibly?” Rainbow Dash sneers, trotting like a predator around the three bigger, bulkier cretins.  “Cuz my morning's just started!  I'm here to kick butts and take names—But yours are the lamest ones in the book!”
“Nnngh....Why c-can't you just sing songs and pick flowers like any other filly...?” Dumb-Bell wheezed.
“And miss all the fun of turning your stupid mouths inside out?  Come on! Get up!”  Rainbow Dash makes a show of grinding her front hooves in the cloudbed beneath her.  “I was born for this dance!  Let's do this!”
“Grrr....All together, bronies--” Dumb-Bell spits a bloody loogey out and lines up beside Hoops and Quarterback as the three do their best to square off bravely against Dash's offensive stance.  The audience's breath holds briefly as the fight prepares to enter a new round--
“What in heavens' name is going on around here?”  Utters a voice that sounds three times as wrinkled as the face it must belong to.
“H-Huh?”  The mohawk'd pony from the sideline glances up, and her red eyes immediately roll in their sockets.  “Ohhhhhh great.  Here comes Doctor Buzz Kill.”
“Pffft—Just what I need...” Rainbow Dash boredly groans.
An ancient looking mare with gray-streaked fuschia hair flutters down from the front steps of the nearby Cloudsdale Hospital.  The sunlight bounces opaquely off her white medical duds as she comes to a wobbling stop besides the snickering group of youngsters.  “What is the meaning of all this racket?  Don't you know that I have patients trying to get well--?”  She takes one look at Rainbow Dash, gasps—but then sags into a well-rehearsed sigh.  “Ohhhhh, I should have known it was you again.”
“Awwww—So sorry, Nurse Rose Heart.  Did we rattle your dentures again?” Rainbow Dash portrays a mock smile.
“Bah!”  The aged mare's bifocals rattle on her snout as she gives an incredulous gasp.  “That's Doctor Rose Heart to you, young lady—If I can even call you a lady!  This is the third time this month I've had to interrupt your bloodlusting bouts of fisticuffs!”
“W-We're so sorry to have disturbed you, Doctor Heart!”  Dumb-Bell exhales in an emotionlessly sincere monotone.
“Yeah—It won't ever happen again!”  Hoops adds while his younger brother nods emphatically.  “We promise!”
“Hmmph!”  Dr. Heart tilts her nose upward with the faintest hint of a satisfied smirk.  “Well—That's more like it!  It's good to see someponies have a decent amount of politeness and respect around here!”
“H-Hey!”  Rainbow Dash squeakily frowns.  “They started it!”
“Pfft—A likely story.”  Rose Heart glares her graying eyes in the colorful Pegasus' direction.  “Time and time again, you're the instigator of this horrible violence.  Why, if I had my way, I'd never have let you set hoof in Cloudsdale to begin with!”
Rainbow growls and coils the invisible springs in her wings, ready to pounce on somepony—anypony.  Suddenly, in a gust of gentle wind, the mohawk'd pegasus and her circle of companions land on all sides of the blue filly and smirk mischievously in the Doctor's direction.  “Well, that would be a tragedy!  Cuz if you rewrote history, Cloudsdale would be only about eighty percent as cool as it is today!”
“Brrrrrr--” Rose Heart reacts with a cockeyed grimace that forces the young pegasi surrounding the scene to giggle and snicker.  “Naturally a group of delinquets like you would defend this rapscallion!  You're half the reason she ever got to be such a horrible citizen to begin with!”
“You're just jealous cuz you're too old to try being a horrible citizen yourself!” The one with the mohawk balks as they fly away with Rainbow Dash in tow.
“Yeah!”  Rainbow Dash jeers down at the awestruck old doctor.  “Why don't you do yourself a favor and chop off your head so you can count the rings in your neck and remind yourself just how friggin' ancient you are!”  A cadence of giggles flanks her upwards flight.
“Why—I...I....” Dr. Heart skirts the edge of an impending heart attack and growls, her gray coat turning bright red.  “Nnngh—Wait until I inform the Captain of the Weather Control Team about this outright reprehensible behavior!  Why you girls can't be well-mannered like my grandaughter in Ponyville—I will never know!”  She turns with an upright tail and trots back angrily towards the hospital steps, muttering:  “No Pegasus with such ill-manners should be aloud to touch the rainclouds much less the Celestia-blessed soil of the earth!”
“If you like Earth so much, why don't you go back there?” Rainbow's mohawked friend cat-calls.  She glances up, swiftly stretches a hoof, and snatches an envelope out of a randomly passing googly-eyed mailpony.  “Here!  Take a post-card!”  She flings the thing downward like a shuriken.
The envelope bonks ineffectually—but loudly—off the back of Dr. Rose Heart's head.  She gasps the entire globe's worth of atmosphere into her nostrils, spins about, and snarls:  “Why youuuu--”  She proceeds to clump up hoof-fulls of cloud and rear-kicks them up towards the hovering group of jeering pegasi with varying degrees of innaccuracy.  “Take that—And that—And that, you oafish uncouth monstrosities!”
“Hah!”  Rainbow Dash cackles.  “Good aim there, Dr Rose Heartattack!”
“Hmmmph!”  The old mare haughtily sticks her chin up.  “Laugh all you want!  I'll have you know I could buck more than mere clouds in my day!”
“Snkkkkt!  Yeah, I bet you did!” (“Ohhhhhh!”  “Oooooo-Hooo-Hooo!”)
Rose Heart's eyes dilate exaggeratedly.  “Wha---!  Why I—OHHHHH!”  She glares daggers up at the whole lot, but more specifically at Rainbow Dash.  “I would expect nothing less from a worthless half-wing like you!”
At the sound of the last flung insult, something in Rainbow's eyes catch ablaze.  Juices boil under her blue coat as two decades of ire resurface with radioactive intensity.  “Why that stuck up, dried out old has-been--”  She snarls and makes to dive—But her companion holds her back.
“Shhh!  Come on—She crossed the line.  Not us.”  The filly mutters in a betrayingly gentle voice.
“Hah!  Doc Heart's right!  I can't believe I keep forgetting!”  Dumb-Bell snorts from below as he and his best-buds trot away in the opposite direction, adding to the overall dissipation of the fight-thirsty crowd.  “Once a half-wing, always a half-wing!  No wonder she crashes all the time, huh?”
“Hahah—You got that right!”  Hoops chants merrily.  “This ain't finished, Rainbow Dash!  We'll settle this with your half-wing'd mouth another time!  You'll see!”
“Oh yeah?  How about now?  You want more bruises?”  Rainbow once more growls and jolts—Only to be held back.
“Come on.  Let it go.  You already showed them who's boss.”  Her companion confidently smiles at her.
“Nnnnngh—Fine.”  The colorful Pegasus grumpily folds her arms.  The two of them float free from the hovering group.  A minute and a half of drifting, and they settle down quietly on a loan cloud overlooking the downtown haze of Cloudsdale.  It isn't until the last second of cloud-squatting that Rainbow Dash starts to take a closer look at the fresh bruises on her face and chest.  She fluffs her mane back and shakes her snout while testing her eyesight.  “Mmmff—Nothing like a good fight to the death before breakfast.”
“Nobody fights to the death better than you, Rainbow.”  The mohawk'd pony settles beside her, smirking slyly.  “Quite frankly, I'd rather skip breakfast if it means seeing you school those punks a little more.”
“Yeah, well....” Rainbow folds her hooves and glares over her shoulder at her with a brief display of indignation.  “You certainly pulled me away rather quickly for a pony who'd like to see more teeth fly, Wyndi.”
“Heeheehee.”  Wyndi giggles and rolls her ruby eyes.  “Well, it's been a while since we hung out, Dash-Dash.  Like, really hung out.  And—as much as I hate to sound borderline mushy—it would be a shame if you ended up in such a bleeding shape that we'd never get a chance to hang out again.”
“Yeah, yeah.....Hrmmmph.....” The blue pegasus sighs.  After a beat, she smirks faintly at her old acquaintance and murmurs:  “For what it's worth: thanks, Wyndi.  If you ask me, I was keeping my cool all well and fine until Doctor Heart-less showed her wrinkly face.  Gawwwwwwd.”
“Yeah, she's a real buzzkill—Not to mention a trotting rendition of an old musty textbook.”  Wyndi squints down at the distant speck of a hospital, then raises an eyebrow in Dash's direction.  “If you don't mind me asking, what's with all the bad blood between you and that old plowhorse anyways?”
“Ughhhh—It's a long story.  I really don't want to get into it.”  Rainbow murmurs, her violet eyes suddenly and uncharacteristically distant as she gazes into the western horizon, the hazy purple of the Everfree forest looming far below.  “She's just like any other old geezerette with no living friends left to pester.”
“And then for her to call you--”
“I know what she called me!”  Rainbow Dash suddenly snaps with a biting frown.
Wyndi recoils slightly, the front rows of her mohawk sagging slightly.  “Yeesh!  I get it!  Sensitive area—Like that's hard to guess!  But seriously, Dash-Dash.  You're above and beyond that.  Showing a few punks who's boss is one thing, but getting in a tizzy fit over some old bag of oats?”
“You heard the guys when she started mouthing off.  They just wisened up and copied her.”  The blue pony sighs.  “Old insults die hard, and they spread more than parasprites.”
“Para-what, now?”
“Parasprites.  Adorably cute, indescribably dangerous little colored balls with insect wings that eat everything they see?”  Rainbow Dash gestures for her.  “A few months ago they swarmed Ponyville and it took the better part of three weeks to rebuild Main Street.”
“Uhhh.....Eh heh heh...” Wyndi chuckles nervously.  “You lost me at 'adorably'.”
“Heh—Never mind.”  Rainbow Dash tosses her hooves and flops back so that she lies lazily on the cloudbed, skygazing.  “That's yet another 'long story'.”  A few violet blinks, and she smirks Wyndi's way.  “You ever thought of dipping below the clouds once in a while?  There's a whole 'nother world waiting to be discovered, yanno.”
“Heehee—I was gonna ask the same of you.  Err—Reversely.”
“Oh?”
“You're rarely ever around Cloudsdale these days, Rainbow Dash.  At least not for long.”  Wyndi cocks her head to the side, gazing curiously at her.  “Just what's so special about Ponyville that you can no longer hang with the old gang?”
“Ehhh.....It's....Well....It's Ponyville!  And....A-And there's so much stuff to do!  Not just controlling the weather, but you've got all of these....uhm.....These things to do..... ...And....Uhm....” Rainbow rubs her scalp with a thinking-hoof, winces slightly as she scrapes a bruise, and blinks empty-headedly.  “You know, that's a good question.  Just why am I in Ponyville all the time?”
“Is it cuz you've got new friends there?”
“Hmmmmmm....... ....... .......... ..... ..... ...... ..... ..... ....Naaah.”
“Well, there's always plenty of empty skies up here for you.”  Wyndi smiles.  “The gang and I are practicing for the local Aerial Marathon next month.  You should come join us, girl!”
“Heh—You sure you'd want me around?” Dash slyly smirks at her.  “Cuz you know I'd just soak up all the awesome from the atmosphere.”
“You're welcome to try—”  Wyndi glaringly begins, but is suddenly interrupted by a hailstone being thrown against her skull.  “OW!  What gives--”  She rubs her cheek and frowns upward.  “I'm catching up with Dash-Dash here!”
“Well catch up quicker!” A bright lavender pegasus waves from two cloudbeds above the duo.  “The Breakfast Hour is nearly over at the Tornado Express!  The rest of us girls wanna make it there before our stomachs implode!  Are you plannin' on holding us up or what?”
“Keep your horeshoes on!  I'll be there in a jiffy!”  Wyndi cackles.  “Just what's the hurry anyways?”  She jolts, startled, as Rainbow Dash suddenly sits up in front of her, gazing upward with wide violet eyes towards the levitating group in question.  High above are a swarm of pegasi—many of Rainbow Dash's former acquaintances—but above all of them, waiting on the fringes of the group atop her own lonesome cloud, is a brazen figure crowned with brown and white feathers that shimmer in the morning sunlight.  She gazes back down at the distant lone figure of Rainbow, her amber eyes cold and expressionless.  With icy precision, the griffon spreads her eagle wings and takes off towards the east end of Cloudsdale; the other girls follow her merrily, chatting and laughing in between randomly shared 'punches' to the shoulders.
Dash takes a deep breath, her blue coat looking bluer as she gazes dully at the cloudbed bowling listlessly beneath her.  Her voice is sullen, like a pebble hidden at the bottom of a deep well.  “Mmmm-You were saying something about how come we all never hang out together anymore?”
Wyndi gulps, but smiles hopefully.  “Oh, she'll come around.  Gilda's not one to hold a grudge.”
“Yeah.”  Dash mutters.  “She usually tears the gullet out of those whom she doesn't like when she first meets them.  It cuts out the middle-pony.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She showed me.  Yanno—When the two of us used to hang out all the time?”
“I'm sure she's just protecting her pride, Dash-Dash.  You know how Gilda gets when she's miffed--”
“You're making it sound like it was Gilda who ended our friendship, not me.”  Rainbow Dash drones.
Wyndi bites her lip, fidgeting slightly—as if about to fall off the edge of that tiny cloud bed.
“Go.”  Rainbow suddenly utters.  She turns and smiles gently at her old companion.  “It's okay.  You all have your 'thing'.  I'm not about to get in the way of that.”
“You used to be part of our 'thing' too, Dash-Dash.”  Wyndi murmurs sincerely.  “It's what we always admired about you.  You never wanted to be normal and dull like the rest of Cloudsdale.  You were part of the awesome crowd.  What...... ...Wh-What changed?”
“Nothing changed!”  Rainbow folds her hooves and huffs.  “I'm just....just......... .... ...awesome elsewhere.”
Wyndi nods.  She flies off—but stops in mid hover.  A lingering breath, and she leans over to quietly say to her old friend:  “I don't care where you are, or with who, quite frankly.  But....--Never change, Rainbow Dash.  You hear me?  Never change.”  And with a gust of wind, the mohawk'd pegasus surges skyward, joining her companions—both feathered and not—leaving the blue one alone.
A groaning breath, punctuated by an ironic smirk, and Rainbow Dash takes off for the opposite direction in a prismatic bolt.  “I don't intend to.”  SWOOOSH!





“I'm a weather flier, which means that I—along with lesser talented skyponies that so happen to share the same airspace with me—am in charge of moving clouds around, making it rain where it needs to rain, making the wind blow where it needs to blow, getting the snow to collect in just the right bunches when Winter comes around, giving sleet and hail the brush-off, and all of that other boringly predictable stuff that you surely already know about..........ma'am.
“What would Equestria be like if it weren't for Pegasi like me to rely on for our meatyoro--.....meeteeohrawl--.....meteoyo--........ .... ...our weather controlling?  I've often thought about it—And when I write that 'I've often thought about it', I mean to say how much it would stink for all of the unknowing Earth Ponies down below who would otherwise have to deal with cyclones, cold weather fronts, random downdrafts, hailstorms, murderous lightning, mudslides, droughts, zombie tornadoes, angry elephants rising up out of the ground....and....other horrible things.  I don't know; whatever.  I kick clouds.
“You should have seen the look on Twilight Sparkle's face when she first met me as I cleared the sky over Ponyville in ten seconds flat.  That's her estimate, by the way.  I'm pretty sure I did it in something like nine and three quarters seconds flat.  That's like twenty-eight hours in zero gravity time, if you were wondering.  Whatever the case, I at least impressed her magic assistant.  Yanno, the little purple dragon.  What's his name again?  'Spicket'?  'Spittoon'?  I dunno; nobody cares.
“Still, as much as I brag—and rightfully so—about my cloud kicking skills, it still can't compare to something as totally friggin' awesome as raising the Sun.  As if it wasn't enough that so many Earth Ponies take for granted what Pegasi do for the weather over their heads, I think that in the same way we're all kinda guilty for not realizing just how insanely cool it is what you do over our heads, Princess Celestia, and everyday!  So—kudos to you and stuff.  I almost wish I could control the Sun for a day.  On second thought, scratch that.  That's not such a good idea.  Besides, I'd probably shove the Sun down Rarity's chimney.  That would be a laugh.  You see, it's funny cuz Rarity hates the Sun—or at least I think so.  I mean, come on!  She talks like a friggin' vampire.
“Did I mention that I'm the head Pegasus in charge of monitoring Ponyville's weather?  Oh yeah!  (Wait, let me write that in bigger letters.)  AWWWWW YEAH!  It wasn't just a ten-second thing; I regularly play cloud hockey over the rooftops of your good and faithful apprentice's home town.  Everypony there can trust me for a sunny day or an afternoon shower, schedule permitting.  I do all of it by myself, of course.  Cuz—yanno—sharing the spotlight is totally lame.  Thankfully, though, you won't ever see me in Ponyville while being weighted down by the heavy hooves of a bunch of losers.”





“Ugh—Come ONNN!” Rainbow Dash groans over her shoulder at a solid train of one dozen cloud-shoveling Pegasus Ponies presently lingering on her six.  “Do you guys think this is a parade?  Lift your wings, already!”
“Nnnngh—We're f-flying as fast as we c-can, Miss Dash!  But these clouds are soaked to the brim with rainwater and we haven't taken a break since we took off from Cloudsdale!”  The murmuring Pegasus in question is joined by an agreeable moan of collective disagreeableness.
“Breaks?  I'll have you know that I've pushed twice as much as the total haul of all twelve of you combined without breaks and watered an entire valley on my lonesome!  And that was on an empty stomach too!”  Rainbow Dash flies angrily forward.  A beat, and then she turns to sneer back once more:  “And don't call me 'Miss Dash'.”
“Y-Yes, Miss Dash.  Er....oops.”
“Ughhhhhhh--” Rainbow Dash covers her face, stretching her lower eyelids clownishly.  “This trip is gonna take forever--”  BONK!  The blue winged pony's complaining wail is cut abruptly short when her face runs smack-dab into a bright red barn.  Under a cadence of knee-jerk giggles, she hovers backwards and snaps her face to see where they are.  “Ah.  We're here.  Wicked!.”  The broad fruit-speckled vista of Sweet Apple Acres stretches beneath them for as far as the floating squadron of weather fliers can squint.  “Finally!  We can get started!  Hmmm...But it still feels like we're missin' something...”
“There y'all are!  Finally!” A young orange mare trots up from the nearby farmhouse, sporting a wide brimmed brown hat.
“Ahhhh right.  The drawl,” Rainbow smirks and folds her arms from where she hovers above her.  “How I do miss the drawl.”
“Don't be blowin' wind up mah tail!”  Apple Jack frowns up at the swarm of wing'd youngsters as a red-coated workhorse trots up alongside her, chewing on a stalk of hay.  “It ain't enough that Ah sent in the ticket for this rainfall order four dag blame'd weeks ago, but then you and yer school of fancy fliers have the gall to show up late?”
“What do you mean 'late'?  Take a look at the sky, blondie!”  Rainbow points eastward.  “At the latest it's....it's......”  She shrugs.  “.....Sunrise-Thirty!”
“You obviously know very little about when the cock crows on a farm!”
“That's just the thing, AJ.  Some of us aren't born lame!”  The squadron of fliers giggle childishly until she silences them with a threatening fling of her multicolored tail.  “But the fact is—We're here, the rainclouds are here, your apples are here—Let's 'get 'er done'.  Ahem; Sprechen sie southernesie?”
“Take a look at 'em Apple Orchards, Rain'bo!”
“Ughhh—PuhLEEEEASE Apple Jack, I've got a busy schedule, rainbows to dash, tornadoes to piledrive--”
“Look at 'em!”
“Mmmmnnnghh....” Rainbow Dash folds her hooves and boredly swivels about on an invisible barber's stool to behold the hilly fields of crimson-and-emerald-kissed green trees as the blonde farmhorse trots beneath her and gestures dramatically in a visual accompaniment to her soapboxing:
“Over yonder is over five hundred acres of Equestria's finest apple pickin's!  And each day that they suffer through this drought in mother nature's tears means another bushel of fruit goin' plum rotten!  These are the same apples that fill the bowls of yer fancy schmancy restaurants in Cloudsdale, not to mention the very dinner trough of Princess Celestia yourself!  Do you understand, now, how important it is to give these here orchards the royal spa treatment?”
“Snkkkt—Seriously?”  Rainbow Dash struggles to contain herself.  “'Mother nature's tears'?”
Apple Jack stomps her front hooves indignantly.  “So blame meh for tryin' to be all theatrical-like!  But this is important, gosh dern it!  Ain't that right, Big Macintosh?”
The red workhorse opened his jaws to say something--
“Httt!”  Apple Jack raises a hoof in front of her big brother's snout.  “Ah know what yer gonna say!”  She frowns at the hovering group and quotes him: “'Every minute we waste here jabberin' is another minute the crops could be rottenin'!”
“Yeah Yeah--”  Rainbow Dash briefly double-takes at the farmfilly's forced rhyme, shrugs it off, then motions to her group, coordinating them to take their proper cloud kicking positions in the broad morning air above strategic parts of the farm.  “Keep your hat on, AJ.  Celestia knows that's the one thing you're perfectly good at.”
“Scoff all you want, Rain'bo!” The blonde Earth Pony harumphs.  “We each have our own talents, ya braggart.  Why, Ah could out-buck you from here to kingdom come if Ah wanted to!”
“Yeah, uh...”  Rainbow Dash grimaces with a sweatdrop as she continues motioning the various breathless Pegasi into position.  “Never ever say that sentence out loud again, Apple Jack.  'Kay?  Thanks.”
Apple Jack squints at the rainbow Pegasus with a sudden wave of sympathetic curiosity.  “How come yer such a dag blame'd crabapple this morning anyways, Rain'bo—If you do pardon mah pun.”
“I've had a crazy morning.  So sue me!”  Rainbow's Bluer-than-normal face scrunches up, as if fighting a sudden allergy.
The blonde pony notices this, and smirks ever so slightly.  “Ah bet you were.  Tell meh, did you get those bruises accidentally or did a boulder make out with you?”
“Oh, these?”  Rainbow pauses in conducting the weather flier team and rubs her cheek nonchalantly.  “I....uh...walked into a door....er....in the sky.  A door in the sky.  The sky has doors, yanno.”
“Riiiiight.  Sure you did.”
“Yeah, well, who got crowned Sun Goddess and made you the expert of sky doors?”
Macintosh murmurs something, spitting the haystalk out of his red lips with countrified emphasis.  Apple Jack nods back.  “You're right, Macintosh.”  She sighs and frowns once again the Pegasus' way.  “Enough with the squawkin' and on with the cloud wringin'.  Ah gotta pick half of these fields in a week's sneeze and they ain't good to meh dry!”
“Come onnnn, AJ!  My team and I didn't come all this way from Cloudsdale unprepared.”  Rainbow Dash leans against the barn and waves a nonchalant hoof.  “Relaxxxxx!”  She closes her eyes and takes a deep, proud breath.  “We've got enough rain in these clouds to soak your apples three times over—in every sense of the term.  Your BFF Dash-Dash has this all in the bag--”
A sudden burst of gasps and shrieks fill the air.  Rainbow Dash's eyes burst open, twitching.  She follows the breathless expression of Apple Jack and Macintosh, turning to gaze in horror at the now-floundering group of Pegasi behind her.  The winged ponies are struggling in futility to keep ahold of the dark rainclouds as an inexplicable gust of wind mercilessly shoves the greater number of them away.
“Oh noooo!” An overtly girlish pink pegasus clutches her face as her rainclouds are swept away in the surprise gail.  “It's a downdraft!”
“Must be a surprise cold front from over the Western Mountains!”  Another Pegasus grunts, struggling to keep ahold of his cloud.  “It's pushing all the frigid air down into the valley!”
“All the rainclouds are being blown away—Ohhhhhh!”  A wimpy flier sags in mid-hover and groans.  “This is the trots.”
“Oh Miss Dash!  It's horrible!  What'll we do?  At this rate, we'll have to go back North and recollect some rainclouds to try a second time this afternoon!”
Rainbow Dash gasps widely—then growls through clenched teeth.  “Screw that!”  She bolts in a prismatic blur and grabs one of the three last rainclouds still in the squadron's grasp.  “We're doing this now!  I've got lots of things to do today!”
“Yeah?” Apple Jack scowls, irascibly set ablaze by the developing situation.  “Like what?”
“Like not doing this!”  Rainbow shouts and—cloud in tow—bolts so quickly towards the far side of the farm she practically sets the air on fire, sending her Pegasus lackeys flailing with shrieking fear.  The blue wing'd pony zooms westward towards the stables and stops just at the rooftop.  She bucks the weather-vane in mid-air (CLANK!) so that it tilts at a forty-five degree angle.
“Hey!  Watch what yer dentin'' there!” Apple Jack cackles.
“Trust me!  I've done this before!”
“When?”
“Ten seconds from now!”  Rainbow Dash grabs the copper rooster and spins the weather-vane like a buzz saw.  With a furious growl, she snaps her hooves onto either side of the raincloud and slaps it over the spinning wind meter, so that a deluge of water droplets are machine gun'd in every cardinal direction like a gigantic sprinkler:  TCH-TCH-TCH-TCH-TCH!  No sooner is this sight gag orchestrated; Rainbow is dashing back towards the crowd, snatching another raincloud from a shiveringly scared Pegasus' grasp before knocking him off his wings with the sonic concussion of her hurtling proximity.
Big Macintosh buckles to the Earth and Apple Jack struggles with a jittery hoof to keep her hat on.  “Rain'boooooo!” She howls above the deaffening wind.
SWOOO-OOOO-OOOOSH!  But Rainbow Dash is currently rocketing towards the East end of the farm, wielding the raincloud in both front hooves like a tomahawk missile.  Her face ripples from the g-force as she burns a bombing run down the unsuspecting rows of delicious orchards.  “Grrrrr—I'm gonna water the ever-living SNOT out of you!”  A lasting grunt against the bulging pocket of air formed by her donward velocity, and she climaxes her dive by flinging the  raincloud comet-hard straight into the bark of the nearest apple tree trunk.  “Yeughhh!”  The raincloud murderously pinballs against several dozen trees, spreading fountains of precipitation everywhere like liquid shrapnel.  Dash pulls up, forms a comtrail from the sheer force of her vertical bank, barrel-rolls, and rockets back towards the barn—and the final rain cloud.
“Slow down, Rain'bo!  You're.  Going.  Too.  Faaaaast!”  Apple Jack shouts—But her drawling cries are in vain, for no sooner can she gasp that Rainbow Jack is upon the scene, snatching the last cloud, glancing north, glancing south, then taking the logical course of bolting straight up into the blue sky.  “Now just where in tarnation is she going?”
“Nnnnn-nnnn-nnnngh!” Rainbow Dash surges towards the stratosphere, the corners of her eyes frosting as she climbs an invisible altitude meter in her avarian skull.  When the blue of the sky starts to exchange its hue for an otherworldly black—the anthill immensity of Equestria drawing distant and obscure beneath her—the raincloud subsequently solidifies in her grasp until it quite literally becomes a chunk of ice (cloud ice?).  A misty exhale, and Rainbow flips in mid-air, aims the frozen object in her hand like a football, and launches it downward like the meteor she has haphazardly turned it into.  Swiiiiish!  Rainbow Dash doesn't immediately dive after this murderous bullet of her own craftsmanship.  Rather, she waits two seconds, three, four, five—takes a massive breath—and begins the sky whistling hellborne plunge.  FWOOOOSH!
Meanwhile, many miles below, where saner creatures live and die, Apple Jack and Macintosh and the Pegasus squadron wait in the shadow of impending curiosity.  “Just where did she tear off to?  Ah swear; Ah'm gonna wring the colors of that fancy tail of hers right out her nose!”
“Eeeyup.”
A deep, resonating whistle fills the air—making the windows of the nearby farmhouse rattle on their hinges and even start to crack.  Rivulets of water dance in surrounding water troughs, and the rows upon rows of apples start to dangle pendulumously from their branches.
“What in all that is good and holy is that awful racket...?” Apple Jack murmurs allowed.
The Pegasi overhead suddenly jolt, all of them staring wide-eyed heavenward as they see what they're trained to see long before any Earth Pony could possibly conceive spotting.  “Uh oh.”
“'Uh oh' what?” Apple Jack squints.
A nervous 'NeEeEe!' squeaks out from the group, and they all bolt in various frightful directions from ground zero.
“Hey!  Where y'all runnin' off to—Oh land'o'goshen no....” Apple Jack's green eyes dilate in abstract horror as a huge glistening orb of white frost barrels down towards the farm, gathering moisture, tripling in size, throttlingly hot in its unnatural and frictious plunge into the great gasping breast of the Earth.  This already Herculean sight is swiftly and theatrically overwhelmed by a certain dive-bombing blue pony, her tail practically catching fire from the sheer speed of her plummeting—as she zeroes in on the body of the frozen cloud with the precision of a cruise missile.  With a victorious battle roar, Rainbow Dash overtakes the white frosted comet... ...by plowing straight through it.
P-POW!!  The icy sphere explodes into a million-million tiny silver daggers of crystalline water, embedding into every tree, every branch, every square inch of soil, every stretch of wooden finish, and every visible speck of foliage across the north and south ends of the farm.  The air is momentarily punctuated by the pincushion impact noises of every jagged shard puncturing every solid thing ever.  Then, after an absurd length of three or four silent seconds—steam rises—a hissing, a crackling; and then every icy chunk explodes in sloshing vomits of rainwater that soaks every orchard in sight, and then some—to say the very underwhelming least.
“Whew!”  Rainbow Dash flutters, flutters, flutters down in unassuming grace and perches her proud self atop a nearby gazebo while a flurry of rain drizzles down steadily on all sides of her.  “How do you like them apples....watered?”  She smirks, blinks up at her mane—which is frozen solid.  Tonguing the corner of her lips, she flicks her hair with the edge of a hoof and shatters it into the trademark frazzled collection of bangs.  “Heheheh.  Was that worth your ticket, AJ?”  Silence.  She blinks and peers down from the rainsoaked gazebo roof.  “Apple Jack--?”  She freezes, bug-eyed.
Apple Jack and Macintosh are huddled, trembling under the gazebo.  The mare in question's hat now sports over four dozen ice-shaped holes, and her blonde mane beneath is soaked as if it has just swept the ocean floor.  To say that she's glaring right now at Rainbow Dash would be an understatement.
“Errr..... ...Eh heh heh heh...” Rainbow Dash rubs the back of her mane, wings drooping nervously.  “So... ...Wh-What exactly are you thinkin', Apple Jack?”
“.... .... ...” Apple Jack gets up with a sigh and marches off, abandoning the shellshocked, shivering form of Macintosh behind in the gazebo.  “Ah think Ah'm fixin' to order meh some more sky doors.”
“GULP,” Rainbow Dash gulps and darts skyward, opposite to the rain.  “L-Later!”






“Apple Jack is a hoot.  Seriously, she is.  I'm not all that sure why I'm bothering to take this moment to write about her.  Just thinking about her twangy voice makes me go sniffing myself to see if I just rolled in sawdust.  And when I say 'sawdust', what I really mean is—Eh, scratch that.  I don't think Twilight would want me putting that joke in a letter sent to the Princess of the Life Giving Sun and all.
“Okay, before anything else, I just wanna get this out there: You think a pony who lives every Equestria-forsaken moment of her life obsessing over apples would be colored anything but frickin' orange!  I swear, sometimes when she walks up the road and I see her tiny red cutie marks, I feel like stopping in traffic to watch a bunch of schoolfoals board her through a door in her neck.
“But nah—I'm not meaning to sound cruel to Apple Jack.  She's a really swell pony, and an amazing friend—even if I wanna kick her teeth out and grow roses in their place sometimes.  She's the one with the Element of Honesty, yanno?  Or was it 'hayseed'.  Whatever—I'm not all that sure if we ever paid a second mind to our Elements, to be perfectly frank.  I think I've still got mine somewhere—Or perhaps I emptied my sock drawer?  Eh, whatever.  Socks are for wusses.
“Apple Jack is a very dependable pony.  Gosh knows she's had every reason to bury me with her brother's plow ten times over by now.  I kind of like hanging out with her when she's not rambling on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on about the GREAT FAMILY FARM.  Those days before the Fall Season when we did the whole Iron-Pony Competition thing; that was kinda fun.  And, heck, even you remember all the fun we had during the Running of the Leaves.  At least I hope you remember it as 'fun', not that I'm trying to insist that a Princess who's lived for several thousand years is susceptible to senility or anything.  Okay, dang it, am I going to have scrap this whole paragraph?  Let's just see how the rest of this page goes.
“Yes, if there's any one thing I could say about Apple Jack, to summarize all that she means to me as a friend and as a shoulder to lean on, to express every deep feeling of respect that I have for her and continue to dream for in the presence of her, it's that--.... .... ..... .... ... .... .... ... ... ... ... ...”





Rainbow Dash squints.  She lies on a hilltop overlooking the river that wraps around Ponyville and all but plows her pen into the brown parchment, scribbling desperately to make a mark, but ultimately failing to produce anything else after her very last word.
She squints at the pen, taps it on the parchment, squints at it again, all-but-slams it a final time, then finally drops the thing across the half unfurled scroll of paper and blinks at it in momentary frustration.  That frustration gives way to a mock sigh—underneath which is the not-so-subtlest of restrained smirks.  “Huh—It's out of ink.”  She waves a hoof dramatically overhead.  “OH WELL.”  Rainbow Dash's wings flex to pull her upwards, abandoning the pen and paper for the warming embrace of the sky--
“Hiya, Rainbow Dash!” Scootaloo dips down from out of nowhere, almost colliding with her.
“Nnnght---!” Rainbow Dash's mane shoots up like spectral lightning and sags back to her neck as she flutters back down to the hilltop, exhaling long and hard.  “Yeesh—When did it start raining foals?”
“I'm not a foal!” Scootaloo gags visibly and folds her hooves.  “I'm nearly eight!”
“If you wanna live to see nine, pipsqueak, you'd better say what's on your mind.”
“How's your letter to the Princess going?”
“What letter?”
“Grrrrr—Rainbow Dashhhhh--”
“Nnngh—Fine.”  Rainbow Dash backtrots and jerks a pointing hoof towards the quasi-offending parchment.  “Ta-daaaaaaaa.  Don't go drooling over it yet.  It's not finished.”
“It isn't?”  Scootaloo blinks and plops down on the grass so that her snout is practically burying into the papery surface of the last page.  Her wings flutter twitchingly with pre-pubescent excitement.  “But—Wow, Rainbow—You've written so much!”
The Blue Pegasus blinks cross-eyed.  “I h-have?”
“It's like four pages already!  I was almost scared you'd get bored of it in the first penstroke!”  Scootaloo peers up and grins, her pink eyes sparkling girlishly.  “You must be enjoying yourself!”
“I—Snkkkt—Nnngh—Tchhh!  No.”  Rainbow Dash frowns.  “I'm just... ....yanno... ....wingin' it.  Nothing to it, really.”
“Nothing to four pages?”
“Absolutely—Er...” Dash bites her lip nervously.  “Wh-Why?  Is....Is four pages too long?”
“Ever thought of getting yourself an editor?”
“What the hay is that supposed to mean?”
“I dunno...” Scootaloo glances nervously aside.  “It's what Sweetie Belle always says to me when I share her my latest song lyrics.”
“Ah, I see.  And just which one is Sweetie Belle again?  Is she the one--?”
“--that smells.  Yeah.”  Scootaloo shuffles the sheets in her grasp and flips to the fist page.  “This is some really nice paper.”
“Yeah, Twilight Sparkle gave it to me.  Beats me where she gets it from.  Is there a paper mill in Equestria?  If so, I bet that's where Sweaty Blossom's parents work.”
“Shhh—I'm trying to read this!”  Scootaloo excitedly squirms.
“Oh—well(!)—by all means.”  Rainbow Dash frowns and makes a nasty face behind Scootaloo's petite hindquarters.  “Help yourself to my most personal and private spilling of the inner soul to the esteemed Royal Princess of Canterlot!  Ptchh!”  She leans against a tree.  She flicks her wings about.  She rubs a hoof against the wooden bark.  She gazes at the grass.  She blinks.  She gulps, she nervously smiles, and she finally glances forlornly in the direction of Scootaloo's backside.  “So....uh... .... ...Is it g-good stuff?”
“.... .... ..... .... ....”
“Yes?  No?  Maybe?”
“... .... .... .... .... ...”
“Uhhhh.... ...Pipsqueak?”  Rainbow Dash's blue coat pales slightly as she sweatdrops.  “....Scoots?”
Scootaloo turns the paper at a forty-five degree angle, squinting harder.  “Is—er--Is this...?  Did you write this thing in English?”
“No, I expressed myself in Galactic Basic—What do you think?”  Rainbow Dash marches over to the squatting filly, grumbling.  “I swear to Alicornia, what inane dribble is Mrs. Cherilee teaching you hare-brained foals these days—Gimme that!”  She yanks the parchment from the young peach pegasus' grasp and holds it up to the Sun.  “See there?  At the beginning?  It clearly reads: 'Dear Princess Celestia--'”
“Rainbow Dash....”
“Yeah, what?”
Scootaloo leans her chin on a hoof and stares up boredly at the blue Pegasus.  “You've got it upside down.”
Dash blushes.  “Oh.”  She flips it rightside up and nearly vomits.  “Whoah!—Yeeesh.  Eh heh... ...Guess I wrote that part in the shadow of a cloud.”  She flips to the second page.  “And that part.”  The third page.  “And that part.”  Flipping.  “And that--”
Scootaloo hovers up in front of the letter and stares Rainbow Dash point-blanc in the face with puppy dog eyes.  “Rainbowwwww—Aren't you gonna take this seriously?”
“Hey!  I am taking this seriously!”  Rainbow Dash frowns and blows the gasping Scootaloo away with a whip of her wings.  “I only wish I could say the same about my hooves!”  She sighs.
Scootaloo hovers upright and gestures with two emphatic arms.  “Why didn't you just tell me you had bad hoofwriting to begin with?”
“I like to call it 'coltligraphy impairedness'.”
“Well I call it 'silly'!”  Scootaloo folds her arms and frowns.  “Especially if you knew from the get-go that you were writing to a Princess!”
“What are you going on about?  Doesn't the Castle of Canterlot have—like—servants to proofread these things before it reaches Celestia's eyes?”
“Not last time Twilight Sparkle explained it to me and the girls!”
“Well—Celestia should know better!  Goddess forbid the day that Twilight's dragon slave burps a letter to the Immortal Lady of the Sun and it has white powder in it or some crud.”
“Rainbowwwww--”
“What?  Stop looking at me like I just spiked your cupcakes.”
“Why don't you let me solve your penponyship problem?”
“You?”  Rainbow Dash blinks narrowly.  “You—Purveyor of skateboards and ziplines—Help me with my chicken scratches?”
Scootaloo grins glisteningly.  “I'll have you know I'm an expert at perfecting chicken scratches.”
Dash smirks.  “Boy, wouldn't that make a legendary cutie mark...”
“Hush.  Just trust your loyal and speedy assistant, Scootaloo!”
“My loyal and speedy what-now?”
“I've got just the thing, something I've been tinkering on.  It'll give you an added advantage.  Guaranteed!”
“Ooooookay.  See this?  This is me nodding and humoring you.”
“Nod all you want.” Scootaloo makes to take off for the far edge of Ponyville.  “But, by all means—Don't stop writing your most awesome letter on account of me, Rainbow Dash!”
“I....er....I-I kinda have to stop...” Dash shamefully digs the tip of her hoof into the ground.
“Uhhh-H-Huh?” Scootaloo pauses in mid-air to blink back at her.  “What for?”
“I'm out of ink.”
“You're kidding me!   You're out of ink?”
“Do hilltops have echoes?”
“Then get some ink!”
“Fine!  Anything to get your 'loyal and speedy assitance' out of my mane!”  Rainbow angles herself towards the distant center of downtown Ponyville.  “And I know just the place!  Quills and Sofas here I come--”
Scootaloo interrupts the revved up Pegasus in mid-rocketing.  “Don't be silly, Rainbow Dash!  You know as well as I do that that store's always out of quills!”
“Ughhh-Gawwwwd.  Still?”  Rainbow sags in midair.  “You think for all of the Majestic and Nature-defiant Sun-Rising that Princess Celestia does, she'd stop for a brief moment to boost the Recession.”
“For real, Rainbow Dash.”  Scootaloo smiles gently.  “Every Pegasus knows that there is only one place in all of Equestria where one can find endless supplies of ink at any time of the day or month or year!”
“.... .... ...” Rainbow Dash blinks.  She turns and scans the horizon until her violet eyes settle on the distant looming image of hazy Cloudsdale above.  Suddenly, a dull sheen of memories pulls at her sulking blue features, inducing from the cold depths of her hollow being a cold and malnourished sigh.  “Unnnnnnnghhhhhh.....”





The front door to the Central Cloudsdale Post Office opens.  A rattling bell above the swinging hinges sounds forth across the grand front atrium of the public delivery area.  Several trots away, a middle-aged stallion balances precariously on top of a tall ladder as he slides various letters and little cardboard packages into an array of hollow shelves.  A gust of tropospheric wind filters in coldly from the outside world and kicks at his green-and-gray mane hairs.  Blinking brown eyes, the sky blue Pegasus glances over from a pile of parcels balanced precariously in his jittering hooves and focuses on the front door.  He spits a pair of scrolls out from his mouth and—gasping for breath—dutifully recites:
“Good Morning and Welcome to the Cloudsdale Post Office!  My name is Blue Farrier, how can I help you toda-a-a-a-AAAH-WHOAH!”  He teeters back, blue wings flailing for futile balance as gravity slams him hard on his hindquarters, a cornacopia of flung packages spilling all around his dizzied form.  “Nnnngh....”  Wincing, he glances up and brightens rather quickly.  “Oh!  Heh-Heh—Hey th-there, my little Rainbeam!  What a s-surprise!”
“Mmmmmmnngh....” Rainbow Dash determinedly avoids his gaze, choosing instead to boredly glare in the direction of the Post Office's walls, one after another, her tail swishing absent-mindedly in time with her mumbling voice.  “Heya, Dad.”

> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions
Act 1 – Chapter 4 – Of Daughters and Diamonds


“'A pony is going right into a grass region'.  Awwwww yeah.  Please disregard this paragraph, Princess.  I'm just testing to make sure this ink works.
“Princess Celestia, do you have a father?  I mean—is there a 'King Celestia' somewhere in the cosmos whom we barely know about?  If it's none of my business, you don't have to respond to that question.  Then again, it hasn't occurred to me until now that you'd actually be interested in responding to any of this drivel.  I'm only writing this because your apprentice thinks it's important.  Please, don't take that the wrong way and stuff.  Doing the pen-pal thing must be really thrilling for someone like Twilight Sparkle.  But unlike her, I don't get excited at watching paint dry.
“Come to think of it, I haven't written anything important on this page that's worth keeping anyways—I think I'll just trash the whole thi--”





Scrunnch!
Rainbow Dash moodily squashes the sheet of parchment on the counter before her and tosses it against a calendar hanging on the Post Office Wall.  The pathetically immaculate face of Sapphire Shores smiles jubilantly as the paper wad bounces off her printed snout and bounces neatly into a half-filled waistbasket lying strategically beneath it.
“H-Heh!  Nice shot there, kiddo!”  Blue Farrier chuckles jitteringly as he packhorses his way from the counter to a canvass cart with a pile of packages balanced precariously on his flank.  Turning around to half-buck the materials clutteringly into the container-on-wheels, he smirks the young wing'd filly's way.  “Whatcha writin' there, Rainbeam?”
Dash briefly grumbles under her breath before throating to the surface:  “It's nothing, dad.”  She taps the fresh new pen in her hooved grasp.  “Just testing this ink you gave me.”  She shudders with a delayed jolt and frowns over her shoulder across the post office.  “And stop calling me that!”
“Wh-What?  Heheh—'Rainbeam'?”
“Yeah, that!  I'm not a foal anymore, yanno.”
“But y-you'll always be my little foal, d-darling!”  Blue says with a pale smile.  After four or five seconds of dead silence, he gulps, and trots back towards the work counter to gather more things.  “So...uhm... ... ...uh.... .....Y-You're still doing weather f-flying for Ponyville?”
“Yes, Dad.  Been doing it for the last two and a half years.”  Rainbow Dash mutters while re-scrolling her completed and uncompleted sheets and sheathing the pen in with them.  “It's simple, it's routine, and it's boring.  But—whatever—I haven't missed a day of cloud kicking yet.”
“Er... .... ...W-Well that's the spirit!  I-I-I mean...eheheh...” He shakes his mane so that a few sparse gray hairs fall into the obscurity of its emerald rhythm.  “It's g-good to know that all those years of t-teaching you diligence and hard work has paid off!”
“Cloud kicking is lame; I'm just doing it to get by, Dad.”  She boredly glances at him, tucks the scroll-and-pen under her left wing, and begins trotting her way towards the door.  “You of all people should know what that kind of a life is like.  Anyways, thanks for the ink.  I need to get going--”
“Oh, b-b-b-but...er...” He hobbles briefly, pinned by a few parcels that he's accidentally piled too high on his head.  In a serpentine path, he limps towards the cart and nearly body-slams the careening tower of cartons into it, all the while his brown eyes remain nervously pinned on the image of his daughter.  “A-A-Aren't you gonna stay and chat?  I-I mean...eheh....” He gulps and smiles bravely.  “It's like we hardly ever see each other these days, Rainbea—Uhhh—R-Rainbow Dash!.... ....H-Honey!”
“Nnnngh....” Rainbow Dash exhales through thin nostrils.  “Chat about what?  You've got stuff to do.  And I--”
“But I-I'm never too busy for you!  I-I've never been too busy for—Wh-Wh-Whoah!”  Blue Farrier trips over a package, teeters, but steadies himself with two agile wings at the last second.  A deep breath, and he nuzzles the thing up and over the side of the cart with his snout while flashing a gentle smirk at the filly.  “I-I may be a bit clumsy—Eh heh—But busy?  Pfft.  Please...What's on your mind, darling?”
“Nothing's on my mind.  I don't need to talk, dad.  Thank you for the ink.  I just need to--”
“I overheard the fourth customer in a row this week chatting about y-your performance at the Best Young Flier Competition.”  Rainbow Dash moans into a facehoof as Blue Flier hovers before a workstation behind her, rummaging through packaging materials and carrying on:  “It just tickles me pink that my own little filly amazed so many Pegasi at once!  And they're still...nnngh--” He wrestles briefly with some packing tape and finishes wrapping a delivery.  “Snkkkt—whew--Th-They're still t-talking about it!  And to think that you conjured up that fantastic upside down tornado all by the sheer velocity of your wings!”
To this last bit, Rainbow Dash's eyes twitch.  Yet another groan.  “Dad, that wasn't me.  You're thinking about the Summer Sky Run.  It was Spitfire of the Wonderbolts who did the totally wicked Inverse Cyclone Roll before all of Cloudsdale!  I was there—In the stands.”
“Oh....Oh d-dear....” Blue taps a weathered hoof to his chin and gulps Rainbow's way.  “Wh-When was the Best Young Flier Competition?”
Her eyes are like twin violet mudholes.  “..... .... .... ...Four months ago.”
“Ah.... ...Eh heh heh.....Well, uh—I know for a fact th-that you did something spectacular and people were talking about it--”
“The Sonic Rainboom?” Dash raises an eyebrow.
“Is that similar to a—er--'Inverse Cyclops R-Roll'?”
“Ugh—It's nothing at all like—Mmmmmmm....” Rainbow Dash takes a few deep breaths, her wings drooping and almost dropping her scroll.  “Ahem.  Thanks for the 'talk', Dad.  But I really need to be going--”  She turns to the office door just in time to come face to face with a googly-eye'd monstrosity ramming full-force into the other side of the glass.  WHAM!  “AAA-AAACKIES!”
“It says 'pull', not 'push', Ditzy!”  Blue cheerfully sing-songs from where he stacks up another series of boxes.  He glances briefly over his shoulder with a pleasant smirk.  “Just use your memory, sweetie!”
“What was that, Mr. Farrier?”  The invasive body calls out muffledly from beyond the door, repeating the futile motions.  WHAM!  WHAM!  “Someone's 'accusing mammaries'?”
“Ughhh....” Rainbow rolls her eyes and gently pushes the still-vibrating door outward.  “Allow me.”
A gray, blonde-mane'd pegasus with lopside vision half-flies, half-spirals into the post office and hovers before the sapphire haze of Blue Farrier's body with a mail satchel hung upside down to emphatically show its emptiness.  “Second Route's done, Mr. Farrier!  Say—Did you know that something's wrong with your door?”
“Heheheh...” He smirks and is already nuzzling the next clump of deliveries into her bag.  “You remind me of that everyday, Miss Doo.  Let's see here...” He trots up and squints at a chart on the wall.  “Ah!  According to the schedule, you're making good time.  Why not break for fifteen minutes, Ditzy?  Help yourself to those--erm--whatever those little things are that you like to eat so much.”
“Oh boy!”  Ditzy Doo cheers, both hooves clasped together in midair. “Crackers!  Thank you, Mr. Farrier!”  She side-flies towards a breakroom adjacent to the post office.  Along the way, she smiles in Rainbow Dash's direction, neither of her wayward eyes quite specifically looking at her.  “Good morning to you, Mr. Squirrel!”
Rainbow Dash blinks, glances at herself in the reflective surface of a glass jar, flaps her multi-colored tail about for a few seconds, but ultimately just rolls her eyes.  “Yanno... ...Ditzy Doo nearly bungled Winter Wrap Up in Ponyville.”  She glares.  “Three years in a row.”
“Not all Pegasi are as sp-spectacular at flying as you, k-kiddo.”
“Yeah, Dad.  But there's unspectacular—And then there's downright lame.”
“There you go using that word again.  I'm really not all that fond of it.”
“What?  I just--”
“Unless it's used in the literal sense, I'd rather not hear it at all.”  He says in a decidedly solid voice for once, pushing the cart towards the back end of the office.  “I've seen many Earth Ponies in my day lamed by circumstances they couldn't control.  It makes life very tough for them—In ways neither you nor I could imagine.  It pains me to hear people making levity of the word, including my own daughter.”
“But even you gotta admit that there's some....” Rainbow Dash briefly squints towards the off-side workroom, then bows to utter her next few words in a lower voice:  “.. ....there's s-some chance of a royal screwup with letting someone like Ditzy Doo work in the frickin' postal service.”
“I bet you'd be surprised to know she outshines all the others in her work!”  Farrier smirks her way as he trots to another wall and pulls a rolling ladder out.  He awkwardly climbs it to reach a few more packages destined to the cart.  “She may not be so graceful, but she's punctual.  And in this field—eheheh--that's all that matters, really!  I know I've taught you many things when you were young, Rainbow.  But if there's anything I've hoped you'd latch onto—It's that everyone d-deserves a second chance to prove themselves.  Especially when th-they're surrounded by those who don't—well—who don't understand.”
“Have you ever thought of... ....Yanno....” Rainbow Dash clears her throat and bears a uniquely emphatic expression as she murmurs up to him:  “...--thought of taking a look at her 'condition', dad?”
“How d-d-do you mean, darling?”
“You know exactly what I mean.  You can... ....”  A deep breath.  “You could fix her.”
“Wh-What's to be fixed?  I t-told you that sh-she's good at what she does, didn't I?  Let's j-just leave things the way th-they're m-meant to be....”
“Yeah.  The way they're meant to be.... .... ...” Rainbow Dash mutters.  In a dull melancholy, her violet eyes fall down to the image on his weathered blue flank.  A 'horseshoe' entertwines with a 'medical cross', forming a very real but obviously faded cutie mark.  “Yanno, dad.  You could be so much more.”
“Mmmmm--”  He pulls his snout from a shelf and spits a few envelopes ungracefully into the cart beneath him.  “What was that?”
“You know as well as I do that you're not cut out for this.”
“F-For what, Rainbeam?”
“For this.”  She immediately frowns, pointing towards the walls of the post office with a stiff hoof.  “All of this!  Don't you ever get tired of this?  And don't pretend I'm not the only one who sees it!  I walk in and the first thing I see is you tripping over yourself!”
“I'll have y-y-you know that I'm excellent at th-this job!”  He says with a sheepish smile, all the while rattlingly dismounting from the ladder and trying to make up for it by trotting majestically towards the cart with the next stack of packages atop his teetering head.  “And m-maybe if—eheheh—if you v-v-visited me more often, you'd see that--”
“Ughhh—Don't turn the issue around, dad.  You can fool yourself, but you can't fool me.”
“Now Rainbow Dash, precious....” He sighs and marches over, nuzzling her as she frowns away from him.  “Life's a f-funny thing.  And, well—Maybe you'll figure this out when you're older, but... ...S-Sometimes when you need to do what's best for yourself, and for your family—or just when you need to put all of your letters into one basket, heh heh—You gotta put things into perspective, and settle for a normal life.”
“Pffft--!”  She immediately recoils from him.  “Dad, everyone knows what you settled for!  And--”  She once again jerks to look over her shoulder and leans in to add in a harsh whisper:  “--you think I managed any better knowing that when I was younger?  You think the other ponies treated me any better when they knew what I was, and that you just--?!”
“Whatever they may have thought or said about you, Rainbow Dash, they were wrong--”
“And a fat lot of good you did to show them, Dad!  It was up to me to be the tough one!”  She hisses back and folds her arms, glaring aside as her breaths rise and fall through her disturbed blue coat.  “It's always been up to me....”
Blue Farrier gazes at her, his mouth agape in the desperate attempt to find a retaliation.  As the seconds slither by, he becomes aware of the silence, and his eyes droop over the back of her neck aimed at him, the coldness in her shoulder, and the residual hint of fresh morning bruises on her cheek.  He gulps, gazes towards the floor and digs a hoof into the tile as he then summons a courageous smile from the depths of his weathered being, murmuring:
“Yanno....I... ....erhm.....I-I was going through th-the house the other day.  And...Uhm—I do hope you can forgive me, but—I made your bed again....”
“... ... ....” Rainbow Dash hangs her head with a muted sigh.  The shadows beneath her go through the same motions as they have for the past few years, or so her thin eyes tell her.
“N-Not that it wasn't m-made poorly the first time.  Just... ... ...Well, I r-realized that it's been a very, very long time since your room was redecorated.  And....eh-heh.... ...I-I have no problem doing it all by m-my lonesome.  But.....Yanno... ... ...It is your room, Rainbeam.  And I figure now's a g-good time to ask for your input.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Shouldn't it matter?  I-I mean, it's your b-bed, darling.  Heheh...”  Blue gulps and smiles nervously.  He doesn't make too great of an effort to hide the shakiness in his voice:  “Y-You're bound to use it again sometime.”
“Maybe if I feel like it.”  Rainbow mutters.
“Just.... .... ...It's b-been so long since the....” He gazes away from her.  “....s-since the last time you did--”
She squints at him.  “Is there a point to this guilt trip, dad?”
“Oh!  No no no no—No guilt trip—As a matter of f-fact....Uh...I.... ...Er....”  He grins lopsidedly.  “I-I'm glad that you're always out and about, honey!  It sh-shows how much you've... ...er...g-grown!  Yes, that's it....”
“I'm a Pegasus, dad.  Pegasi tend to sleep on clouds.  What good are clouds if they aren't for sleeping on?”
“So that's what you do?” He squints suddenly.  “You wander the skies, night after night?  Sleeping on random clouds?”
“Nnnnnnngh—Dad, please--”
“Cuz I was kind of beginning to imagine things!  H-H-Hoping for the b-best, that is.”
“The best?”
“Oh—Yanno—I dunno--” Blue shrugs.  “That you've started a new life, or maybe got that—uh—Wonderbolts invitation that you've always sought for.  Or—heheh—maybe you've met a handsome young colt who treats you r-right!”
“Ughh...” Rainbow Dash tosses her hooves and trots straight for the door.  “Seriously, dad, have you paid attention to anything ever?”
“B-B-B-But maybe if....if y-you were willing to chat more--”
“What, like this?”  Rainbow Dash frowns in the open doorway and motions with a wayward hoof.  “With you a nervous wreck and me about to explode?—Snkkt—Look, just forget it.  I got what I came for, and you—well—you already have all you need here, right?  Nnnngh—Good bye, dad.”  She takes one step out of the post office and immediately soars skyward with unfurling sapphire wings.
Blue Farrier stands in the center of the work area.  And as the rattling bell slows to a stop, he rides a current of gentle sighs, and stumbles back to the next task at hand.





“Sorry about the sudden break in the writing, Princess Celestia.  I briefly suffered a 'bout of Inkus interuptus.  But I've refilled my pen three times over now, and—for what it's worth—it looks like I'm going to complete this catastrophe that Twilight Sparkle has elected me to do.  Just what was I writing about last?  Let me check the last page—Oh right, my feelings on Apple Jack.
“Apple Jack smells like hay.  There you have it.
“Princess Celestia, I gotta ask; do you ever get sick of Canterlot?  I mean, it's a pretty nifty place—I've been over all that already.  But still, it is only just one place.  Being the ruler of Equestria kind of means that you've got very few choices in vacation spots, huh?  I know you probably have some really wise thing to say that would prove me wrong here—but it's really gotta stink to be stuck in one spot your entire life.  And I know you've lived a very long time; Twilight's told me.  Just old are you again?  Sixty-two?
“I could never live in one place.  It would be far too boring, far too average, far too predictable.  I thank my lucky stars everyday that I'm not an Earth Pony.  I know that sounds really horrible—probably because it is—but what I mean to say is:  to not be able to fly must be the trots, literally.  Still, I've met many an Earth Pony since I became head weather flier of Ponyville, and they all seem to be pretty dang happy with the jobs that they do and with the roofs that they have over their heads and whatnot.  That's all well and good for them—but I'm willing to bet most if not all of them have never flown before.  And once an Earth Pony has tasted flight, or a Unicorn for that matter—and the places that wings can take them—there's no way one would willingly go back to being anchored to the ground.  I kind of know this first hoof, cuz it happened to Rarity when she briefly got wings for an afternoon.  But that's a long story and I've long since forgiven the silly sap over all the kerflufficon that happened between us that one day, even if she is a vampire.
“I know I keep going on tangents, Princess, but Twilight told me to 'write from the heart', so please frickin' bear with me on this:  I like to say the word 'lame' a lot.  And I know that, in some circles, ponies are known to get a bit offended by the word.  I usually don't think much of it.  But now that I put my mind to it—I don't know what I would do if suddenly one of my wings refused to work.  There are a few Pegasi I know whom have had that happen to them.  It's very lam—er....'sad', to say the least.  I've always felt bad for them, but I haven't really thought about what it if could actually happen to me too.  It's kind of scary; makes life look like a different color.
“Come to think of it, you don't have to have a broken leg or a bad wing for you to be 'lame'.  I kind of think that some ponies' lives are 'lame', so to speak.  Sometimes they're lame and they don't even know it.  Some are even born that way.  Perhaps I'm thinking too hard on it, but it really makes me HEYRAINBOWDASH WHATAREYOUDOING HUHHUHHUHHUH--?”






A flurry of wispy white.  Rainbow Dash blinks up from her parchment of paper.  She glances around the cloud that she is lying on over the western outskirts of Ponyville.  A blue sky hangs overhead, warmed majestically by the noonday Sun.  She taps her pen against the paper and squints at the subtle mist acting as a bedding beneath her folded hooves.  Everything is silent; everything is still.
“Okay... ... ...Where the heck did that come from--?”
Pinkie Pie's head resurfaces once more from beneath the cloud bank:
“Aren'tyougonnaanswerme?  HuhHuhHuh?  Whatchadoing?”
“Whoa—AAAAAH-Aaack!” Rainbow Dash nearly pratfalls off the cloud.  Her chest rises and falls in palpitations as she watches with pixelated eyes, observing the careening image of Pinkie Pie's head plowing through the top surface of the cloud like a shark's dorsal fin.  “Pinkie Pie—What... ...It.... ...Where.... ...How... ....” She frowns.  “No.”
“Heeheeheehee—Hiyaaaaa Rainbow Dash!  How are you doing, bestest most besteriffickest friend in the whole wide of Equestriaaaaa-aaaaA-Ee-Ee-eE-eE”  She suddenly teeters to the right, then teeters to the left, bugeyed.  “Uuuh—uuh—uuh--uuh!”  Then finally uprights herself so her shoulders and chin are leveled above the clouds.  “Whew.....”  A bounce, blue eyes bulging brightly.  “So how's the most awesomest friend ever?”
“Pinkie Pie.....”
“You know why you're the most awesomest friend?  Well, I'll tell you why you're the most awesomesterifical friend!”  She bobs back and forth as if levitating magically beneath the cloud.  “Cuz you did this really super crazy fantastical sonic rainboom when you were only eight and it got me my cutie mark and all our friends too which gave us a magical connection and also amazes me cuz if you did that at age eight then that must make you older than me even though I always thought I was older than you but I don't mean anything bad by that—I would love to be your young baby sister and go shopping and cheer for you at the Best Flier Competitions and--*GASSSSP*--do you think they sell hoofgliders in Canterlot?--cuz I could so use one to watch you the next time you soar high and perform the most amazing awesome friend-making Sonic Rainboom AGAIN—and as much as I loved the spell that Twilight once put on the whole bunch of us including Rarity—though she gave Rarity wings that were very icky insect wings but still kind of pretty—I'd much rather not be sitting in one place as I watch you do your amazing super crazy spectacular stunts in mid air: Zoom!  Zooooom!  Zweeeeee!  Hee hee hee ha ha ha!”
“Pinke Pie... ... ....”
“Say Rainbow Dash, do you do other awesome spectacular pony-bonding threads of fate stuff OTHER than the Sonic Rainboom?  How about a Sonic Caramel Cloud Burst that brings long lost twins together across impossible distances so that we can have double birthday parties or—SQUE-E-E-E--double surprise birthday parties?--cuz I always felt that surprise birthday parties were one hundred times more superdeliciously fantastic than regular birthday parties except for that one time that you and the rest of the girls were so tremendously nice to have thrown me a surprise birthday party but I was all 'RAAAUGH' and you were all 'LOOK AND SEE' and I was all 'NO UUUUU' and then I realized that I was being a Grumpy McGrumpy Side Saddle for no reason and you all forgave me and we did the pony train trot and Gummy swallowed a balloon and I had to take him with Fluttershy to the vet the next day and they asked me why all his teeth were missing and I told the doctor 'because he's a baby, silly billy' and the doctor said 'he's fifty-two in alligator years, where's his dang teeth' and I giggled and said 'silly doctors, alligators don't keep calendars' and then the vet got angry and threw us both out and Fluttershy cried and I felt bad so I threw her a SURPRISE TRIPLE BIRTHDAY PARTY even if it was two hundred and twenty-five days in advance or six hundred and seventy-five days if you triple it....”
“Pinkie Pie!”
“Aaaannnnnd--”  The fuschia haired Earth Pony's skull pauses in mid teeter.  She snaps her jaw shut, inhales, and grins wide.  “Yes, Rainbow Dash?”
“One word.”  She blinks down at her from the cloud.  “How.”
“How now brown cow?  Heeheehee--”
“No.  Just how.”  Rainbow glares squinting daggers.
“Wellllllllllll---”  Pinkie Pash teeters, teeters, teeters back and leans out from the edge of the cloud.  “Stilts is how!  Ta-daaaa!”  Rainbow Dash's eyes bulge to observe two pairs of red colored wooden poles of indescribably tall height fastened to each of Pinkie's four horseshoes.  “I made these last summer when I was thinking of walking across the Ocean but then I remembered that I was afraid of jellyfish—Hey!”  Pinkie randomly grins even wider.  “Do you think that sea sponges can talk?”
“Goddess, I hope not.”  Rainbow Dash squints down at the sheer altitude climb of the precarious footwear.  She scratches her scalp and glances Pinkie's way.  “Just how did you put them on?”
“Well, I was gonna stick them standing up in the center of Ponyville and ask you to give me a lift on top of them but you were nowhere to be found so I figured you were busy and instead I went to Sugarcube corner and had myself a really talllllll glass of orange sherbert!   Mmmm-mmmm!”
“But...”  Rainbow blinks.  “How did eating orange sherbert help you get the stilts on?”
“Heeheehee—Silly Rainbow.”  Pinkie Pie taps a disgruntled Pegasus on the noggin.  “Sherbert can't wear stilts!”
“.... ... ... ...Right.”  Rainbow clears her throat.  “Must be hard to get out of.”
“Get out of--”  Pinkie Pie blinks.  “Oh.  I didn't really think about that part.”
“Well, when you have to go to the bathroom, do you shout 'Geronimo' on a bullhorn?” Rainbow covers her mouth with a hoof.  “Snkkkkt—heheheh.”
“Heheheheheheheheheh--”  Pinkie Pie blinks.  “I don't get it.”
“Ahem.  So.... ...Uh... ...Y-You sure that's safe and stuff?”
“No problemo!”  Pinkie Pie turns her snout up proudly and trots forward bobblingly.  “Your Auntie Pinkie is resourceful!  I've got this completely under control—OHCELESTIA HELPME I'MFALLING I'MGONNADIE—Oh, there we go!  See?  Balanced like a foal's crib!”
Rainbow Dash sweatdrops.  “Uhhhh huh....”  She finally relents to folding her scroll of parchment up and muttering:  “So, here's another question—Why?”
Pinkie daredevilishly bucks her rear quarters up, two of the stilts mercilessly knifing the tops of several leafy trees.  “See this saddlebag I'm carrying around?”
“I do now.  Honestly, I was kinda distracted for a moment there.”
“Well I'm making a super speedy delivery for the Sugarcube corner!  A very special super speedy delivery!”  Thud!  The earth shakes as Pinkie's rear hooves touch back down.  “It's a bag of cinnamon sticks destined for Zecora's place?”
Dash does a double take.  “Zecora ordered cinnamon sticks from the Sugarcube Corner?”
“Inorite?”  Pinkie Pie giggles and bounce-bounce-bounces on the stilts around Rainbow's cloud. Thud!  Thud!  Thud!  “And as many times as I've been deep inside the Everfree Forest, I always seem to get lost in there!  So I thought to myself 'well, if I could see all of the forest from REALLY HIGH then I would be able to find my way in and back out'!  So I had some orange sherbert and here I am!  Heeheehee!”  She bounced to a peetering stance.  Th-Thud!  “Neat, huh?”
“Nice to know you think with your head as much as with your tongue these days.”
“But I gotta make time!”  Pinkie tilts towards Rainbow Dash with blue eyes sparkling.  “Cuz not only do I have to be timely with this delivery for Zecora's sake but I also have to be back in Ponyville in time for a SUPER DUPER SECRET meeting that we are having tonight and when I say 'we' I mean me, Gummy, and the stilts!”  With each prolonged clause in her running dialogue, she leans and leans and leans and leans more forward.  “And if I don't make it back in time for the SUPER DUPER SECRET meeting, then I'll be SUPER DUPER not so SECRETLY ashamed of myself—though I think I would do a decent job of hiding it so long as I sing a song though I think my voice is gonna get hoarse from all this high altitude breathing--”
Rainbow Dash cooly plants a hoof on Pinkie's skull and slowly tilts her back into balance.  “Well, how about this—Pinkie Pie...?”  She smiles calmly at her friend.  “Ditch the stilts, and let someone with real altitude advantage help you in and out of Everfree to make the delivery to Zecora.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh—Rainbow Dash, that is so incredibly sweet.”  A deep breath.  “ButIhatetobeimposing andyouseemawfullybusywith whateveritisthatyou'rewriting andIhatetobea rudeyrudeynogoodygoody!”
The blue Pegasus blinked.  “What?”
“You WILL go with me to Everfree?  Yaaay!--WhoahWhoahWhoah--”  Pinkie Pie teeters back.
Rainbow Dash easily catches her, wings flapping.  “Easy there, ace.  No need for Equestria's legendary Pinkie Pie to go Splat.”
“I would never do that in public!”  Pinkie suddenly frowns, hooves crossed.  “I was raised a proper filly!”
Rainbow rolls her eyes as she kicks the stilts out from under the bubbly pony and lowers herself and Pinkie down to the ground beside the edge of the Everfree forest.  “Pinkie Pie, I like to think that Mother Nature secretly foaled you as a Pegasus, only she hid the wings in your mouth.”
“Ooooooh!  Does that mean my tongue can join the Wonderbolts?”
“If it has a snowflake's chance in heck of beating mine—Then sure!”  Rainbow Dash smiles, then grimaces as the stilts finish their twenty second plummet and crash across the plains of Equestria behind her.  (THUDDD!  CRASSSSH!  CRKKKK!  “Meowwww!”)  “......eh heh heh.”






“Dear Princess Celestia, have you ever wanted to kill somepony?
“Okay, let me put that into context.  Have you ever met somepony who was so annoying, so in-your-face-excitable, so bubbly and jumpy, so non-stop talkative and sugar-coatedly enthusiastic about everything; that to silence the pulsing blood in your brain arteries you kind of just want to shove that pony down the deepest well imaginable?  And yet you don't do that because you realize that the very same most annoying thing in the world is at the same time the most joyful thing in the world and you're both blessed and cursed but altogether alive to be within the presence of it.... ...or in this case her.... ... ...or in this very special case, Pinkie Pie.
“I met Pinkie Pie before any other Earth Pony in Ponyville.  She's always been rather hard to avoid.  She's got a built-in twitching radar and a friendly spirit so neighborly that she could hit your skull with a greeting card from six dozen yards.  If so much as a flea hops across the boundary of Ponyville city limits, Pinkie Pie will be there with balloons and party favors, singing it the Welcome Song.  And she rewrites the song every year.  Last year it was in Acapella.  It was the first time I ever truly considered drowning myself.
“But I do hope I'm not painting too terribly bad of a picture of Pinkie Pie.  I guess you could say that she's the heart of the kind of a letter Twilight wants me to be writing, cuz it's only by the 'cosmic power of friendship' or whatever that I've gotten used to her at all.  What I mean is, at first I couldn't stand Pinkie.  I even tried to fly away from her—at top flight speed, mind you.  And still she always managed to be a hop, skip, and jump ahead of me at every blink, smiling and wanting to hang out.  But yeah, I've since come to like being around her.  And it's not just cuz the other girls 'liked her first' or something, cuz then that'd be pathetic....like Neightzschean herd instinct or something.  Gawwwwd, Twilight's infecting me.
“As it turns out, when you actually try and get to know someone, even if you don't want to at first, you'll likely find out that you wouldn't want to be anywhere else but with that certain someone.  Taking such a bold step like that takes—well—it takes guts, or at least a different kind of guts than I'm typically proud of.  Years ago, I would never have bothered so much as looking twice at someone like Pinkie Pie and seeing her as a friend.  But lately—I dunno—it's gotten easier to float down to the Earth and shake a hoof and make new friends.  I'm not entirely sure why that is the case in my life these days.  Maybe that's what Twilight is hoping I could find out for you.  Who knows; maybe after I've written about all of these crazy ponies I've fallen into the laps of, I'll be able to explain it to myself as well as to you.
“Or maybe I'll get writer's cramp in the hoof.  Yeah.  Definitely that.  Ugh.”






“Rainbow Dash?”
“Yes, Pinkie?”
“How do porcupines make babies?”
“I—dghht—Hctt—Huh??” Rainbow Dash shakes her head and gives her friend a crooked glance.  “Pinkie, are you even trying anymore?”
“Trying to deliver cinammon sticks to Zecora?  Of course!”  Pinkie Pie winks, wriggling her flank to show the saddle bag slung over her.  “That's why you're along to begin with, silly-filly!  To help me find my way!  Hee hee hee!”
“No—I was talking about---Ughhhh....” Rainbow rolls her eyes and smirks helplessly.  “I'm pretty sure you can walk the Everfree Forest alone just fine, Pinkie Pie.  The first monster that hops out and eats you would burst its sweet tooth and burp you back out.”
“Speaking of—Ohhhhh....!” Pinkie pouts, glancing around at the dense and cobweb'd green foliage hanging around them on either side of the meager 'path'.  “I'm lost already!  I feel like a needle in a haystack!”  She pauses momentarily to scratch her chin in thought.  “Just why are needles always finding their way into haystacks anyways?”
“Because the haystacks struggle with a busy road schedule?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing—Lemme climb again and get another look!”  Rainbow Dash takes off.
“Okie dokie lokie!”  Pinkie Pie trots gaily with a smile.
The blue Pegasus hovers high over the tree canopy and slowly spins around, scanning the local horizon with her thin violet eyes.  “What I wouldn't kill to have my old goggles right about now.....”
“What was that, Dashie?”
“Hey, paint me stupid—But just what does Zecora's house look like again?”
“She lives in a tree!”
Rainbow Dash blinks blankly at the endless leafy rooftop surrounding her.  “..... ....Yeah.”
“A big scary tree!”
“Right, Pinkie, thanks--”
“A big scary tree with SCARY LEAVES on it--!”
“THANK YOU, Pinkie Pie!” Rainbow sighs and hovers high above her fuchsia friend as she continues her high altitude scan.  “Zecora's a funky kind of a gal.  Maybe if I clapped my hooves, her home would light up—Hello!”  The Pegasus' vision narrows in on a twisted, gnarled thing at least two clicks to the north.  “Uhhh—Hey Pinkie?”
“Hey Dashie!”
“She's got a mask on her front door, right?”
“Why, is the front door ugly?”
“Tchh—Just answer the question!”
“Yes!  I do believe I remember a mask and a door!... ... ....and a walrus!”
“Uh huh—Whatever...”  Rainbow cries down:  “Hang a right and then follow the cleft in the forest as it bends to the left!”
“Roger Wilbur!”
The blue Pegasus shakes her head with a smirk.  She makes to dive down when her eyes spot something.  She blinks steadily, and a cold breath slowly escapes from her nostrils in the form of a deep and hollow sigh.  Half a kilometer to the south—beyond normal pony eyesight, but exactly where she and only she can spot it—is a hilltop, and beneath it a clearing, and in that clearing rests the dilapidated remains of wooden stables, smashed apart as if from the inside out.  Rainbow Dash's violet eyes dim slightly, but the edges of her lip form into an undaunted frown, ushering in a barely noticeable but very real growl rising up from the inner depths of her being.
“Dashiiiiie?  You gonna come with?”
Rainbow Dash snaps out of it.  “Er—Y-Yeah, Pinkie!”  She clears a frog in her throat and zooms downward with majestic wings so that she rejoins the Earth Pony's side in a graceful touch down.  “Hope you didn't grow old while I was gone.”
“Heeheehee.....” Pinkie suddenly and uninvitingly nuzzles the side of Dash's mane.  “Mmmmmm.”
Rainbow Dash blinks crookedly and looks at her with a sideways smirk.  “Now what's gotten into you?”
“I just can't stop thinking about how super awesome a friend you are!”
“Oh puhleeeease, Pinkie...” Dash rolls her eyes and smiles forward as they trot along.  “You know how much ponies with blue coats hate being forced to blush.”
“I mean it!  Everything we learned about yesterday!  About you with the sonic rainboom and how it gave me my cutie mark!  Oh, and then it gave Fluttershy her cutie mark!  OH!  Th-Then it gave Twilight her cutie mark!  Oh, and there was Rarity and Apple Jack—And you can never guess what!”
“They got their cutie marks....?”  Rainbow drones.
Pinkie Pie goes cross-eyed briefly.  “Actually, I was gonna say 'a rock and a bunch of apples'--”  She brightens, hopping.  “But yes!  They got their cutie mark!  And it's all thanks to you!”
“Pfft.  Ain't no big deal.”  Rainbow Dash mutters—but then widens her eyes as Pinkie Pie is suddenly in her face, bouncing backwards.
“Ain't no big deal?  Didn't you hear what Rarity said yesterday in the Sugarcube Corner when it all hit us?  We've been BFFs forever and we didn't even know it!  And it was all the doing of your Sonic Rainboom--”  She twists her nose towards the shadowy heights of the forest canopy.  “No, wait--”  She gasps brightly.  “Sonic Friendboom!  Cuz you totally reached out to all of us and made us go 'BOOM'!  With Friendship!”
“So it was a fortunate side effect of me being awesome!”  Rainbow Dash shrugs.  “Nothing to write a song about--”
“Ohhhh-weeee-ohhhh—I look just like Rainbow Dashiiiiie!”  Pinkie cartwheels around her friend.
“Ughhhh—Gawd.”
“Uhhhh-Ohhhh—And you're Mare-y Tyler BOOM!” Pie's carthweeling is frozen in place by a blue hoof'd speed spike.
“I wasn't reaching out to anyone!”  Rainbow Dash wags an eyebrow for emphasis.  “I was just doing my thing!  But suddenly you and Twilight all the other girls think that some cosmic event folded us together like a big pink ribbon—”  She goes cross-eyed at her own words and makes a vomity grimace.  “Bleahhh—You see, this is why I'm never poetic.”
Pinkie Pie back flips off Dash's hoof and skips alongside her.  “You mean to say you think what happened cuz of your Sonic Rainboom isn't special?”
“NO!  I—tchh.....nnngh...” Rainbow Dash briefly bows her head before taking a deep breath and smiling exasperatingly at her friend.  “Look—It's an awesome thing that happened.  But just because it happened doesn't mean it's any more special than the fact that the finding of the Elements of Harmony happened—Or that of you adopting Gummy happened—Or that of....uh...uhh ... ...Big Macintosh being caught cross-hoofing happened--”
Pinkie Pie does a double-take.  “Wh-What?”
“Er, sorry,” Rainbow blushes.  “Last 'scenario' was random on my part.  What do you think?”
Pinkamena Eyes:  “You stink at random.”
“Th-thanks for the honesty.” The Pegasus sweatdrops.
“No big dealio, girlio!” Pinkie hops around her.  “But I really think you should take a second look at things, Dashie!  See it all from the bright side and realize that we're all connected by a fancy fantastic phantasmagorical bondity-boo!”
“And I think you should stop hopping around or else those cinnamon sticks are gonna become cinnamon crunch.”
“But just what if it was all meant to happen the way it did?  I don't know if I ever told you—But before I saw what I now know is the Sonic Rainboom, I was a completely different filly altogether!”  Her eyes sparkled in brief melancholic earnest.  “A sad filly!”
“Really....?”  Rainbow Dash smirks and rolls her eyes.  “I had no idea.”
“No really!  We weren't allowed to laugh or to sing or to dance or to make miniature airplanes with our food or to even paint--” (GASSSSP)  “Why, before your Sonic Rainboom came into my life, the most color I'd ever seen was in the family outhouse!”
“Jee....” Dash grimaces.  “You're...uh....welcome?”
“Seriously!  It was like an entirely different world!  Gray dirt and black skies as far as one could see!  Can you even imagine that, Rainbow?  NothatI'mtryingtomakeyoupitymeorsomethingcuzthatwouldbedownrightcruel—But just imagine!”
“A wise sage once said:  'Shadows fall after the hurt is gone.  Through it all we love and we lose'.”
“Wow.  I didn't realize you were so deep, Dash!”
“I'd rather be deep than wide,” Rainbow says, then squints Pinkie's way.  “So—Was it true that you actually lived on a rock farm?”
“Uh huh!”
“And just what did you make with the rocks?”
“Ermmmmm---B-Bigger rocks?”  Pinkie smiled wide.
“Hmmph....” Rainbow shrugs.  “Guess I fell right into that one.”
“Heeheehee!  Saaaaaaaay—After helping me make this delivery to Zecora, what did you plan to do tonight, Dashie?  Huh?  Huh?”
“The same thing we do every night, Pinkie---”  Rainbow Dash pauses in mid speech, glances at us, then shakes her head.  “Ahem—Maybe hang at the Sugarcube corner, show Fluttershy my latest air stunt moves, sleep on a cloud—Preferrably the last one.  I haven't done that since this morning and I like to fill my quota.”
“Well, I would love it ever so much if I could hang with you buttttttttttttt--”  She twirls in mid trot and winks Dash's way.  “--I'm gonna be busy as a two tailed beaver with the SUPER DUPER SECRET meeting I'm in charge of arranging and I won't have time to fling my hooves in any more than sixteen directions—Wait....”  She searches the edges of her skull with fishbowling eyes.  “Four hooves by four hooves—Yup!  Sixteenaroonie!”
“Well....d'ummm....” Rainbow Dash runs a hoof through her mane.  “Did you—like, I dunno—need help setting up this meetin--?”
“NOOOO!”  Pinkie's head dhalsims around and stares down Rainbow's skull.  “For it is SUPER DUPER SECRET and only those allowed into the SUPER DUPER SECRET TRUTH CIRCLE must know its SUPER DUPER nature FOREVERRR---..... .... ....Super Duperly.”  She blinks skyward as Rainbow Dash nervously sweatdrops, and suddenly smiles again:  “But perhaps Auntie Pinkie Pie could help you with that letter you're writing?”
“No, I—Snkkkkt--” Dash frowns at her.  “And just how do you know about the letter?”
“What letter?”  Pinkie blinks.
“.... ... ... ....” The blue pegasus boredly looks ahead.  She drones:  “Oh look.  We're here.”
“Ah!  The mask!”  Pinkie Pie bounces into place before the gnarled tree that is Zecora's residence.  Indeed, there is a scary tribal mask hanging over the top of the door, just above a hollow window pane.  “And see?  There's the walrus!”  Pinkie points to the right.  An invisible camera pans to the right to reveal a fat wicker 'figure' with a pair of tusks protruding from its cranium.
“Wow....”  Dash boredly trots up in front of it.  “So.......lifelike...”
A beat.  Thud!  The wicker effigy spontaneously falls over.
“Must be a drunk walrus!” Pinkie beams.
“Ughh...let's just knock on the door,” Dash marches up and does the honors.
Not too long after the rhythm of the pegasus' hoof to the wood, and a thickly accented voice throats from deep within the residence:  “Come, ponies, come in swiftly.  And allow me to inspect your delivery.”
“You know, just a simple 'come in' would do!”  Rainbow balks as she opens the door to reveal Zecora standing over a bubbling cauldron.
The earpierced, mohawked Zebra merely smiles as they enter:  “But what better way to smile and greet you!”
“UGH!”  Dash nearly pratfalls, clasping a hoof over her heart.  “She totally got me!”
“Oh, she's gooooood!” Pinkie Pie giggles.
“Not good.”  Dash folds her hooves and closes the door behind them with a rear hoof.  “Just predictable....”
“Hmmm-Hmmm-Hmmm...” Zecora tosses a few herbs into her indiscernible quaff and stirs briefly before opening her mouth to speak:  “Rainbow Dash, ever so sardonic; What a surprise to you see assist with my tonic!”
“With your what-now?” Dash raises an eyebrow.
Pinkie hops over to her.  “Ooooh!  I get it!  The cinammon sticks—You need it for this stuff you're stirring, huh?!”
“If you refer to my brew, then you'd be correct.  But allow a customer her chance to collect.”
“Collect?”  Pinkie Pie blinks.  “Collect what?”
Rainbow Dash points boredly at her saddle.  “The bag.”
“Ohh!  I'm such a silly billy filly!”  Pinkie yanks her snout back, opens the satchel, and holds the bundle of flavored sticks towards Zecora's eyes with her teeth.  “Ferrff arf tehff Thinamonnff fthitckf ouf ohduffed!”
Zecora leans in and squints at the 'product'.  She grins wide and mutters something happily in her native language before winking in Rainbow's direction.  “At last, I can see before my eyes!  My people's key to dead weeds and blue skies!”
Dash looks confused.  “Okay, Zecora—Now you're, like, totally throwing us for a loop.”
“Miffe mouff eff begiffen doof waduff!”
“Yeah, that too.”
“Surely you two remember the poison joke of great terror!”
“Pffft—And how.  One whiff of that blue stuff and I thought I was about to fly straight into the Sun.  Which would be pretty cool, mind you, but I'm sure Princess Celestia would object.”
“Well in my home land of Zebrahara, there is a plant of a similar aura.  For countless winters it has brought strife to every Zebra who only wanted to live his or her life!”  Zecora trots around to the far end of the tree hollow laden with masks and ritualistic artefacts.  Grabbing a book from a shelf, she lays it out on a podium before Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie, displaying a series of blue vines spilling out from a majestic, trapezoidal pyramid structure erected in the middle of a sandy desert.  “Behold, the most sacred building of my kin:  The Temple of Shadows, where all shades begin.  In years of late it has met a wicked fate.  For a poison joke of a different vein has driven several worshipping tribes insane.”
“And.... ....uh.... ...” Rainbow Dash blinks from the book to Zecora and back to the book.  “... ...you've found a way to kill off the poison desert vines with---er--cinammon sticks?”
“Enddff enff fbeakunff eghff thinamouff thiffgff, Eff gouff ouffh thogg thelfft!”
“It's the very reason to Ponyville I came.”  Zecora slaps the book shut and carries it back to its original place.  “To experiment on weeds of a different name!”
“H-Hey!”  Rainbow momentarily brightens, wings fluttering.  “So—I-I guess the other ponies and I sort of helped you in a way!  Er...”  She blushes a bit and scratches her left hoof with her right, shamefully.  “In that we were totally your guinea pigs for a day or two, r-right?”
“Hmm-Hmm-Hmmm....” Zecora makes a chuckling noise and nods.  “Though the joke was ever so briefly on you, it has greatly helped me come up with this stew.”  She blinks, takes a fateful look at the cinammon-teething Pinkie Pie, smiles nervously, and removes the sticks from her mouth.
Pinkie Pie gasps dramatically, then glances down at her bespeckled tongue.  “Mmmm—Hey!  My mouth is happy!”
“Yeah, who would have imagined--”  Rainbow Dash begins but suddenly jumps as her companions jolts uncontrollably.
“Nnngh—Oooh!  Twitcha-Twitch!”
“Great galloping sand clout!” Zecora nervously rears her hooves.  “What is she going on about?”
“'Pinkie Pie Sense'....” Rainbow drones as she points a hoof at her vibrating friend.  “Let's see you make a brew for that.”  Meanwhile, Pinkie Pie gasps, sputters, and exhales sharply as her body shudders through her ears, then through bulging eyes, then a shaking pair of front hooves.  “Huhhh...” Rainbow scratches her chin.  “Just which one was that again--?”
THUD!  The door to the hut suddenly reopens, taking Rainbow with it on a one-way-ticket into a nearby wall.  A darkly robed figure clops in and yanks his hood loose.  “Zecora!  Hail from the Shadows, girl!”
“Tetramun!”  Zecora brightens and gallops towards this sudden stranger.  The two brace their hooves together and nuzzle each other's manes before exchanging a chatterific diatribe of foreign tongue.  The front door rolls back on its hinges, and a twitching and slightly squished Rainbow Dash limps back into the main breadth of the room.
“Dashie—You okay?”  Pinkie licks the last of the cinammon dust from her lips and frolics over.  “That looked like a doozie!”
“I'm suddenly regretting the 'sky doors' joke.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, wrong chapter...” Rainbow Dash shakes the googly eyes out of her skull, blinks, and jumps.  “Whoah!  Zecora!  There're two of you!”
Two zebras stare in her direction.  One, a not so familiar male.  The other, a slightly more familiar female who trots up:  “Eh!  Double, you think you see!  But I assure you; only family!”
“Yeah, no kidding?”
“Oooh!  Oooh!  Omigosh!”  Pinkie bounds and bounces in place.  “Lemme guess—Your husband?  Mr. Zecora??”
The male Zebra squints curiously at Zecora.  She leans in and whispers into his twitching ears.  After hearing her translation, he raises his snout to the roof and laughs merrily.  Catching his breath, he strolls up and bows slightly.  “I am....ehhh—as you say 'humored', but also humbled.  My name is Tetramun.  And if you must—ehh—know, I am Zecora's 'cousin'.  Yes, cousin.”
Pinkie Pie blinks steadily.  “Zecora's married to her cousin--?”  Plop!  Rainbow Dash's hoof finds its way into Pinkie's mouth.
“Eh heh heh—I'm Rainbow Dash, the coolest Pegasus in all of Ponyville and Cloudsdale and Equestria blah blah blah—And THIS talkative ball of fuzz is my good but giddy friend, Pinkie Pie.”
“Deffh tathhf geoff wike duh thennamonf!”
Tetramun nods his head and smiles.  “Pleased to meet you....uhh....two fine squirrels.”
Zecora hisses and leans her head into his.  “Non!  Non!  Ponieeeees!”
Tetramun's stripes buckle under a deep red blush.  “Oh.  Ehh—M-My sincere apologies.  You are both fine and---err--d-distinguished 'ponies'.  Please do forgive me; I am not from around here.”
POP!  “You're from the Zebrahara, aren't you?”  Pinkie Pie grins wide.
Dash wipes the pony drool off her hoof and smirks.  “We could tell from how you use the left lane when you walk around the room.”
“Heheheh—Such strange yet pleasant fillies!”  Tetramun turns to face his fairer cousin and smiles.  “And I would very gladly like to know more about all of your—ehh—acquaintances here in the Ville of Ponies, dearest cousin.  But I came with great haste from quite a distance because of your letter.  By the Shadows—Tell me!”  He leans forward with blazing eyes of earnest.  “Is it true that you've made the brew?”
Zecora claps her hooves with a briefly uncharacteristic enthusiasm.  “Oh, I bring you good tidings, Tetramun!”  She eagerly grabs and displays the stalks in question.  “The cure to the Blue Joke is cinnamon!”
“Ohhhh ho ho ho ho....” Rainbow Dash eyes the walls, ceiling, walls, and floor in that order.  “Shoulda seen that from a mile away.”  She smirks.
“Cinnamon...” The he-Zebra stares at the item in Zecora's grasp.  “So this is the answer we've all sought......”
“And to think that all our fears were for naught!”
“Zechy!”  He hisses at her, sighing embarrassingly.
Rainbow Dash trots up.  “That kinda brings up a good point.”  She squints suspiciously at the newcomer.  “How come you don't speak in rhyme like Zechy—Er—Zecora here?”
Tetramun smiles as his cousin proceeds to add some of the Sugarcube delivery into the cauldron.  “Zecora is a---how do you say it(?)--'most learned scholar' from our lands.  She is most gifted in incantations.  She has to be!  She is heir to the throne of Head Shamanista in our tribe!”
“H-Hey....” Rainbow smirks.  “Way to go Zechy!”
“Unnngh...” Zecora briefly rolls her eyes but blushes slightly as she continues administering to the brew.
Tetramun continues:  “To prepare for the one day that she does her shamanistic duties among my people, Zecora speaks in a dancing tongue to help her....ehhh.....concentrate better.  You see, where we come from, it is a sin to waste words when aiding the health of the tribe!”
“You don't say....?”  Rainbow Dash smirks the female Zebra's way.  “Hey!  Zecora, Mistress of Rhymes, finish this phrase for me!”  She clears her throat:  “'There once was was a dashing blue pegasus, who pulled up her saddle and flashed her--”
“Alas!  I forgot I had one last thing in store!”  Zecora gasps and gallops across the interior and rummages through a table of miscellaneous ingredients.  “A symbol of my gratitude and more!”
“I'm.... ...A little confused....” Rainbow blinks.  Pinkie Pie bumps into her.  She turns and frowns at the fuchsia pony.  “Hey!  Pssst!  Pinkie!”  She whispers hoarsely.  “Put those down!”
The curly-haired filly is teetering left and right on her hind quarters, balancing a scary mask on the tip of her nose.  “I-I cannot help it!  It fell on me and I'm scared that if it touches the floor, zombies will sprout up!”
“You're gonna break something--” Rainbow Dash turns back and blinks to see Zecora's snout in her face, and balanced between her eyes is a huge sparkling diamond.  “Whoah!  Hello there!”
“As it was your unicorn friend from the Carousel Boutique that so purchased the cinnamon that I seek, I felt it best to pay her back with a fortune she might lack!” She flips the diamond the blue Pegasus' way.
“Wow...” Rainbow Dash catches it on a balancing wing.  “So it was Rarity who paid for the Surgarcube corner delivery?  That's pretty nifty.  Though—heheh....” Rainbow smirks at Zecora as she bounces the diamond from wing to wing.  “...I can't say that diamonds are as valuable to us here in Ponyville as cinnamon is to the Shadow Temple Bingo Night back in Zebrahara.  I mean, you can't swing a dead cat around here without running into a ruby or an emerald.  Otherwise, Twilight's pet lizard would starve to death.”
“Rainbow Dasssssshhh--” Pinkie Pie whimpers from where she teeters, suddenly balancing half a dozen masks spinning on top of her nose and left and right hooves.  “--Just be a niiiice ponyyyy and t-take the diamond for Rarityyyy—whoahwhoahwhoah--”
“Pinkie!  I told you about the masks, girl!”
“It keeps happening!”  She goes bug-eyed, trips, plunges, and falls in a heap of clattering masks in the corner of the building.  “Whoahhh!”  Th-Thud!  “Don't hurt me, zombies!  No brains!  No brains!”
Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and wing-bounces the diamond one last time before catching it securely in her multi-colored tail.  “Thanks for being so nice and all, Zecora.  I'm sure Rarity will love the diamond.  She'll 'ooh' and 'aah' all over it before stitching together a handkerchief that could cut glass or something.  Still, I'm sure she'd send you twenty whole forklifts of cinnamon if she knew how much it meant to your tribe.  She's a generous sap like that; just don't let her suck your blood.”
Tetramun blinks frightfully at the Pegasus before giving Zecora a confused glance.  The would-be-shamanista merely smirks, rolls her eyes, and chuckles Dash's way.  “Then would you be so kind to deliver this unto Rarity so that she may be handsomely rewarded for her charity?”
“I may be a weather flier sometimes!  But a dependable go-to-girl for friends?”  Rainbow Dash winks.  “Anytime!  Consider this precious token of appreciation delivered!”







SWOOSH!
Rainbow Dash hovers to a stop above a pale unicorn hard at work and drops the diamond beside her on the sewing table.  Thunk!  “Hey Rarity, here's your rock.  See ya.”  The blue Pegasus yawns and zooms away.
“Yes, thank you, Rainbow Dash, that is very nice of you---Waa-haa-Haa-HAA?!?!”  Rarity's blue eyes bulge as her spectacles fall thunderously from her snout.  She gapes at the glittering diamond rolling to a stop in front of her, all the while ignoring the seams being sewn jaggedly into her experimental sheet of blue silk.  “Good heavenssss!”  Her voice hisses into an animalistic growl.  “A Zebraharan Heart Diamond!  Rainbow Dash, cease and desist your flight this instance!”
The magical screeching of invisible tires alights the air as Rainbow Dash stops barely half a yard from flying out the door to the Carousel Boutique.  She slumps in mid-hover, groaning, but puts on a brave smiling face as she flutters back over by Rarity's side.  “Ahem.  Is there something wrong, Rare?”
“Wrong?  How could anything possibly be more right?”  Rarity beams, her eyes sapphirically mirroring the glittering gemstone in her hoof'd possession.  “Why, with this—I could make a sparkling tiara befitting Princess Celestia herself!  Or a scepter for the visiting dignitaries from Whinniepeg!  Or...or....”
“A handkerchief that could cut glass.....?” Rainbow boredly drolls.
“Why, y-yes!  Even—Wait...Huh?”  Rarity snaps her eyes off of the treasured jewel and blushes Dash's way.  “Rainbow Dash, just where ever did you get this priceless drop in the great well of supernatural beauty?”
“Sugarcube Corner.  Pinkie Pie.  Cinnamon sticks.  Everfree Forest.  Zecora?”
Rarity's eyes bounce across the ceiling as she connects the dots in her well-groomed skull.  An aristocratic laugh, and she dramatically plants a hoof over her breast.  “Ho ho ho—Oh but of course!  The delivery that Zecora needed; something very poetically nobile about 'curing some evil plant harassing her—Mmmm—Temple of Shadows' or some other hocus pocus.  It was simply a passing thought on my behalf that the dreadfully plebeian spice might help alleviate the problem of her tribe's dreaded weed problem.  Two months ago I mailed the infamous Flash Focus some cinnamon to add flare to her coffee sessions.  The upstart photographer had horrible indigestion for a week!  Hah—If the bothersome spice could throw the untouchable Flash Focus' stomach for a loop, 'imagine what it could do to the blue vegetable nemesis of the Zebrahara', I thought.  Heheheh--”  Rarity's eyes briefly turn into burning coals.  “May she boil in her own stomach juices---!!”  She blinks, her eyes shrinking back to normal as they once again register the existence of the sparkling diamond in her hooves.  “Hmmm-hmm—heeheeheeheeeeee---Erm...”  She blinks over her shoulder.  “Do be a good girl and remind me exactly what we were talking about?”
“Something about weeds, sticks, and photographer diarrhea.”  Rainbow Dash points a hoof over her shoulder.  “Can I go now?”
“Go?  Heavens no!”  Rarity plants the diamond atop a 'throne' of thimbles on her desk and trots over to the hovering wing'd filly.  “This is the first time I've been blessed to see you after yesterday's dramatic unfolding and I would simply hate myself for not spending some quality time with the most important pony in my life!--Not to mention my friends' lives!”
“Ughhh---” Rainbow Dash runs a hoof over her face.  “Not you too.”
“Oh don't be a spoil sport!”  Rarity makes a sad face.  “You of all ponies!--to not give yourself enough credit, Rainbow Dash!  Why, if it weren't for the timely explosion that your noble aerial antics caused so many years ago, I would have been deprived of discovering the talent that my magical horn was so earnestly wishing to teach me about my passion and skill in fashioning gemstones into the very fabric of my best work!”
“Yeah yeah--” Rainbow Dash sighs, eyes rolling from where she hovers.  “Sonic Rainboom leads to exploding rock leads to important self discovery leads to pastel picture on your rump.  I got it.  But seriously, Rarity—get over it!  It was just a crazy-lucky circumstance!  Nothing else!  Okay--?”  She glances down, then squints.  “Wait....are you--??”
Rarity's eyes are watering as she smiles numbly up at her friend.  “To think....This Boutique, this strategic juncture between Cloudsdale and Canterlot, this delectable gold piercing upon the lush navel of the Fashion World—I owe it all to you!”
“You're—You're not going to cry, are you?”  Rainbow Dash grimaces.  “Oh cow cookies, don't you—Don't you cry!  I mean it!  Don't you—”
Rarity sniffles and half-giggles, cupping a hoof to the side of her cheek.  “Oh dear friend, fateful benefactor extraordinaire, will you do me the grace of spending some time with m-me just for just a little while longer?”  She sniffles melodramatically.
“Nnnnnn-unnnnnnnngh—FINE!  Anything to put a cork in that fountain behind your eyes, dang!”
Rarity gasps happily.  “How about some tea?”
Rainbow blinks.  “Yeah, I'm outta here.” She turns around toward the door.
“Rainbow Dasssssssh!”
“OKAY!  Okay.” Rainbow Dash folds her arm—Yank!  “WHOAH!”  She grimaces as she's squished into a nuzzling hug by the porcelain filly with a blue mane.
“Oh what divine BFFs we arrrrre!” Rarity coos with her eyes wide shut.
“Mmnnughhhhhwutever...”
“What would you like with your tea?”
“How about some garlic?”







“I always thought that the one special thing about Rarity is that she's the one pony in my circle friends whose name isn't a combination of two proper nouns.  Now that I've gotten to know her better, modeled for her, shopped with her, watched her make a dress for me, saved her from certain plunging death with my second Sonic Rainboom, I realize that I was absolutely right the first time.  Just who names their kid 'Rarity' anyways?  I wonder if her parents saw her one day in the crib and went: 'Wow, a foal!  I've never seen something like that before!  Let's feed it oats and see if fruit blossoms off that little horn of hers!'
“At least I can understand Pinkie Pie.  She's such an individual—doing her own thing to make people laugh or enjoy themselves.  Pinkie Pie employs a creativity—howbeit an insane creativity—and even though it may rub ponies the wrong way from time to time, it still works in the end.
“But Rarity?  As long as I have ever known her—or pretended to know her—she's made it her goal to be part of the herd, not so much because she enjoys conforming so much, but she's all bent out of shape about impressing others.  Everything has to be perfect with Rarity, and I do mean everything.  From tying a bow on a dress sleeve to handling tea sugarcubes with dainty forceps to walking with some prissy gait befitting high society—she's a big velvet bag of 'LOVE ME PLEASE'.
“I guess that kinda sorta makes sense with all that she has to put up with in her line of work, though.  Trying to impress someone with a frilly vest is a heck of a lot stupider than doing a triple barreled cloud busting corkscrew over ponies' gasping heads—at least in my book.  So I should give her some credit for just how effing crazy the industry is within which she gallops, but she makes it her day-by-day obsession, so that I do not know exactly where 'Rarity the clothes designer' ends and 'Rarity the friends-hanger-outer' begins.  Come to think of it, Rarity with fashion is like Twilight with books.  Just what is it with unicorns being obsessed with things?  I think some of their brains gets mushed out of their skull and into their horns, so that they're always aiming themselves forward with a one track mind.  It's scary.
“But there's another side to Rarity, and—as much as I conk myself on the mane to admit it—it's what makes me tolerate her in spite of all the signs that would otherwise paint her as a mere showhorse.  The unicorn does a very nifty job of living up to her Element of Harmony.  In case Twilight didn't diligently describe it to you, Rarity is the element of Generosity.  I sometimes think she's the Element of Potpourri, but only Apple Jack would get that joke.  Anyways, the best example I can think of is a few months ago when there was this silly fashion show in Ponyville that meant a lot to her.  Me and the other girls were gonna be the models for her as she showed off her best works of—of--....uhm....clothing stuff.  Only—we were too self-absorbed to appreciate the dresses she had made for us.  But instead of hammering our narrow minds into shape, she went on and altered the outfits to our liking—and in so doing made herself the laughing stock of local fashion for a few bitter weeks.  I don't pretend to understand it too well.  I mean, I thought my outfit was pretty cool, but whatever; the fashion show was supposed to be all about floating Rarity's boat, not ours.
“It all ended okay in the end, of course.  I mean, Rarity isn't exactly hanging from the nearest tree (and even if she did, I'm sure she'd make a french braid out of the noose; sorry, I thought it was funny).  Turns out we all got the bright idea to model another fashion show for her, only this time wearing the dresses she meant for us in the first place—and it saved her hide from burning into flames in the world of fashion.  I'm not sure how; Whatever.  She inspired us... ....She inspired us to be as generous to her as she was to us.  Cuz when you look back at the way things are, you gotta admit to yourself that Rarity could have it so much better than what she's got now.  I mean, she's got the taste and the class to hang out with much more popular and far wealthier ponies.  And yet here she is in Ponyville, treating us like five queens of our own.  It's kinda nice to be treated 'special' by someone who's gifted in the art of being so.  As long as she doesn't drench us in affection, which she only does—like--every other flippin' week.  Yeesh.  Wutever, it's manageable, I guess.
“She's a high class pony with humility and grace. And in the ever harsh artistic world of Equestria, that's a rarity... ... .... ...Horseapples, did I actually just write that?  Ugh...”





Rainbow Dash scribbles and chicken scratches on her sixth sheet of parchment while on the other side of the table—across a sea of teacups, saucers, doilies, and one particularly large sparkling diamond—the owner of the Carousel Boutique reclines daintily in her seat and preaches verbosely over a gently steaming cup of herbal quaff.
“And so Hoity Toity wrote me a letter saying that he was in desperate need for a ruby studded jacket for the main singer performing at the local fair up in Neigh York—Something about a 'hometown gathering of musical tastes and rural ponycana'.  Oh, I know it sounds positively dreadful, and I do feel oh so sorry for the elegant stallion of style.  You should have read his snarky sarcasm when he described to me the plebeian excuse for an executive designer crew that he's scheduled to work with for this underwhelming 'gala'—it positively bled through the envelope as I opened it.  He's a charming fashion aficionado, that Hoity—but he does need to work on his sense of humor.  It's all in the timing, even if it's just ink on parchment.  Heh heh ho ho ho!”
“Uh huh....” Rainbow Dash drones, writing.
“And of course I rose to the challenge.  He attached the design of this jacket to me in the letter and I nearly fainted from the rush of blood to my bitter taste buds!  The tassels—dear stars and garters—The tassels!  I had sincerely hoped that leather had died in the fashion industry ever since... ...ever since... .... ....well, ever since the beginning of time, if I may be so boldly hyperbolic!  But, that's the life of a seamstress—Sometimes you have to just grin and bear it, especially if it's a specific commission!  Besides, I feel oh so terribly bad for Hoity Toity, and I figure that if I join him on this potentially comical expenditure when it's all for Neigh York charity and there's no chance in legitimate public scorn, then the both of us can have a mutually beneficial laugh as we watch the locals prance and frolic around this—pffft—delightfully trite 'rock and roll' festival that the two of us worked mutually across the vast distances of Equestria to help dress!”
“Uh huh.”
“Besides, any chance I have to placate the trivial frustrations of Mr. Toity is a potentially beneficial page in my grand chronicles of fashionable ascension!  Ooooh—To think that the two of us in the span of a few ecstatic months are inexplicably becoming fast ponies-in-arms across the great battlefield of chic and style!  Why—What if he becomes so enamored that he actually deigns to take me under his professional wing and make me his very own apprentice as he prepares new outfits for Sapphire Shores, Whinnie Houston, and maybe even—Mmmmmmm!--Drew Barrymare!  Ohhhh—I'm so overwhelmed with enthusiasm I could positively die!”
“Uh huh...”
“I—Er....Hmmm?”  Rarity leans forward and blinks at the distant Pegasus.  A rising eyebrow.  “You would w-want me to perish from excitement, Rainbow Dash?”
“Yes—NO.”  Rainbow glances up, her pen clattering to the parchment.  “I dunno.  Maybe?”  She blinks.  “What was the question again?”
Rarity squints.  “You haven't heard a single word I've said, have you?”
“Oh!  Uhhhhm...t-t-totally!  You and Hoity!.............. 'chic happens'!”
“Ohhhhhh Rainbow Dash, ever in a world of your own...” Rarity exhaustedly plops her teacup down onto the tabletop and leans over it, stirring absentmindedly.  There is nevertheless a wry smirk on her lips as she tilts her horn in the wing'd pony's direction and says “Only this time, it appears you're suspended in a rather different world of another's contrivance.  Could that, perhaps, be the letter that Twilight has asked you to write?”
“Okay.”  Rainbow slaps her hooves onto the table and glares through the walls of the Boutique.  “Who else knows about this letter and who do I have to pay to decapitate them?”
“Heeheehee—Darling, there's nothing to be ashamed of.  You are obviously very much engrossed in the task that Twilight has set before you.  I find it rather charming---Erm...” Rarity winces slightly with an awkward smile.  “N-N-Not that I find it unbecoming of your intellectual tenacity to so diligently cling to such an undertaking, but I think it betrays the otherwise obscured sincerity you feel for those closest to you.”
“I'd bend your horn down into your eye if I could understand a single word you said.”
“You of all my closest companions are the most reticent to share her deepest feelings, and your objections to my natural inclination to gush over yesterday afternoon's revelations is a very prime example of such.”  Rarity scoots back as a white persian cat suddenly leaps atop the table; the white unicorn proceeds to gently pet and stroke the bored looking feline as she murmurs on:  “But seeing you so ardently pursuing the letter to Princess Celestia is like a shining beacon of hope.”
“Meaning... ....”
“You really care for us, girlfriendddddddd—Heheheheheeee....”  A deep gasp and she leans forward, blindly pushing her weight atop the eye-bulging pet.  “Tell me!”  Wide crescent moon of teeth, glimmering.  “Did you write anything about meeeeeee yet?  Hmmmm?”  Sparkling eyes.  (“Mrowwww.......”)
“Uhhhhhhhhh....” Rainbow Dash glances down at her parchment.  Below her last paragraph is a crudely drawn sketch of four Wonderbolts fending off thunderclouds with ghost-powered flame throwers.  She looks up, grinning.  “You bet!”
“Mmmmm—I knew it!  I knew it!  I knew it!  You do care!”  Rainbow Dash flings her hooves up, clapping them as an unlucky cat flies behind her head and flies into something. (Thud!)  “Oh, maybe this will get Princess Celestia to come visit us again!  I imagine all of Twilight Sparkle's dutiful letters shine in a whole new light after one has taken yours into account!”
“Ugh—Really, Rarity?” Rainbow's mane pops a few loose hairs of frazzled disbelief.  “You're gonna compare my writings to Twilight's?”
“Well, if perhaps you would let me readdddd some of ittttttt-Hmmmmmmm?” Rarity's eyes mimic a glistening pair of moonwells.
“Uhhhh—Eheheh--” Dash sweatdrops.  “I-I-I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”
Rarity immediately turns her chin up.  “You're exactly right!  They are meant for the Princess' sacred eyes!  Nobody else's!”
The blue pegasus glances once more down at her parchment.  One of the ghosts bursting out of a flame thrower is wearing a fedora.  “Oh yeah.  Princess Celestia.  She'll totally dig this.”
“OOH!”  Rarity jumps suddenly in her seat, rattling the local saucerware.  “I-I just remembered!  Rainbow Dash, I terribly hate to make a dire request this late into the afternoon—not to mention interrupt our most darling tea party--”
“TellMeWhatYouNeedMeToDo!”  Rainbow Dash breathlessly wheezes over the table.
“But you remember my mentioning that Hoity Toity needs me to make him a ruby jacket for a Neigh York folk singer?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, I want to send him the rubies in advance before I work on the design.  It's very important that he sees all of them, so that he'll get a proper idea of the exact quantity of gems that I'll be bestowing him for his upcoming presentation!”
“Hey, any excuse to fly is good for m-me!”  Rainbow Dash smiled nervously.  “Er—Not that tea partying isn't a....mmmm....s-super radical thrill all on its own..............f'naaa.”
“Oh, you are such a darling friend!  Give me a second to acquire the saddle bag!  I promise that it won't be too heavy!”  Rarity exits from the room, sighing happily to herself:  “With your exceptional speed and punctuality, I can't even begin to imagine the surprise on Hoity Toity's face when you drop these off at his gated palace!”
Alone at the table, Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath and rolls the parchment halfway.  “Whew....I swear, sometimes Friendship is Moronic.”
“HIYA, Rainbow Dash!”  A grinning Scootaloo spontaneously rises up from beneath the table with a teapot on her head.
“DAH!”  Dash falls back, chair and all.  THUD!  She sits up and shakes her head, frowning.  “Jeez—Why doesn't everypony just call you 'Stalkaloo'?”
“I told you I had just the thing for your horrible penponyship—Er, sorry—Your 'coltligraphy impairedness'...”
“Er...yeah...” Rainbow gets up on all fours.  “About th-that....”  She nervously smiles--
“--so I went back to my little workplace behind Apple Jack's farm and I put the finishing touches on this!”  She reaches into a bag on the floor and flings a cylindrical metal brace onto the table.  Clank!  “Ta daaaa!”
“... .... ...Okay...” Rainbow steps up, blinking.  A raised eyebrow, and she squints curiously at Scootaloo.  “So what end does my mouth bite and what end makes music?”
“Noooo, silly!  Here—stay still.”
“Scootaloo, I—Whoah!” Rainbow gasps as the young pink-haired filly yanks her to the table, grabs the cylinder in her snout, and all but slaps the thing around Rainbow Dash's left hoof.
“Okay—Now slip the pen into this little sheathe here!”
The blue Pegasus stares at the mark-less minipony warily, but ultimately humors her.  With her teeth, she snaps the pen into place and holds it in front of her like a switchblade.  The metal wireframe of the cylinder wraps around Dash's hoof like a coiled brass ring and presents the pen at just the right angle to--
“Well?  What are you waiting for?” Scootaloo bounces excitedly in place, stars twinkling in her purple eyes as she grins up at Rainbow Dash.  “Try it out!”
“......hrmmm....” Dash dubiously approaches the table, stretches taut a flank of white table-cloth, and scribbles across it:  'A pony is going right into a grass region'.  She blinks her eyes wide at the fairly immaculate words produced before her.  “Saaaaay—Whaddya know?  Feels slightly less like flinging horseshoes with an octopus camping on the end of my arm!”
“Do you like it?”
“I'm pretty sure it'll make this gosh dang letter easier.  It definitely beats writing it with...with.... ...” Rainbow stares point blanc at her hoof and briefly goes cross-eyed.  “Just how was I writing all this time?”
“Beats me.  I hardly ever write.  All I know is that my name has three U's.”
“Well, thankfully you ain't half bad at tinkering.  Hey--”  Rainbow looks at the little filly.  “How'd you know I was left hoof'd?”
“Because only the cool Pegasi are left hoof'd.  Everpony knows that.”
“Heyyyy, yanno what, Pipsqueak?  You're absolutely right.  Heh heh heh...”
“Heeee....I-I'm glad you like it, Rainbow Dash.”  Scootaloo exhales happily, then switches to a fairly deadpan expression in a blink.  “I....uhm....I-I had to go to Cloudsdale for some of the materials I needed to finish that thing...”
“Yeah... ...And?”
“Aaaaand.... ...erm....” Scootaloo fidgets slightly.  “I-I heard ponies talking....”
“Who doesn't, kiddo?  Sometimes Pinkie Pie hears them in her sleep.”
“Were you... ... ...Were you in a f-fight this morning?”
“Hmmm....Oh....Oh THAT.”  Rainbow Dash sheepishly smirks and taps the now-braced pen against her other hoof.  “Mmmm—No.”
“No?”
“I wasn't fighting.”
“Ah....”
“............I was taking out the trash!”  Rainbow Dash winks.
“Haha!  I knew it!”  Scootaloo's wings flutter and she glares wickedly.  “Who was it?  Dumb-Bell and his punk friends?  I bet you whooped their butts, didn't you!”
“Heheheheh, awwwwww yeah—Er—Uhhhmm-No--NO!”  Rainbow Dash suddenly coughs and frowns down at her.  “Fighting is bad!  It's....uhm....Y-You shouldn't do it!  Especially at your impressionable age and....er....stuff.”
“Awwww—But they're so mean and stupid-headed!”  Scootaloo frowns.  “They only care about how they feel and make fun of everyone younger than them!”
“I'm not younger than them.”
“Yeah—But they're afraid of you!  Cuz you're awesome and they're not!  So—Like—They say bad things about you!  Like cowards!  But you—You go right for the gold, don't ya Dash?”  Scootaloo proceeds to jump, kick, and perform various violent motions with her limbs in mid-air.  “Haah!  Raaugh!  Yaaaugh—Whoahhhh--” Her wings flail as she teeters back--
--into Rainbow's side.  Dash steadies her and binds her in place with a stretched wing.  “Now now, pipsqueak, the only reason I fight is cuz I know I can come out of it without getting too hurt!”
“I thought you fought because you like to defend what you believe in?”
“Er.....well, that too--”
“And you want to show Cloudsdalians that nopony should stand for bullies and jerks!”
“Euhhhhhuhhhh--”
“And they're big lame meanie heads!”
“Hey!  They ain't lame!” Rainbow Dash suddenly barks—Then blinks widely at hearing herself.  Before she can say anything else, she spots the look of hurt confusion on Scootaloo's face, and swiftly leans down to whisper into her ear:  “Cuz I had to kick those rude Duncebags in the kneecaps before they could be!”
“Heeheehee—'Duncebags', I love that!  Rainbow Dash, you're so awesome.”
“Yeahhh-Yeah, I know.  But promise me you won't be getting into any fights.”
“Until I'm old enough—Like you, right?”
“Mmmmm—Until you're left handed.  How about that?”
“Deal!”
Rarity marches back into frame with a bulging saddlebag in tow.  “What's this about a fight?”
“Oh—Derhmmm--” Rainbow Dash suddenly jolts at the blemished sight of the table-cloth.  She rushes over, smudges the lettering off, and leans over it with a cool blue elbow.  “Fightiiiiing—f-f-f-for our right to party!  Y-Yeah!  I was....erm....re-regailing Scootaloo here on all the gowns you made us for the Grand Galloping Gala!”
“Oh, that is going to be the best night ever!  I certainly can't wait!”
“Ughhh—Who would want to go to such a boring prissy sissy mush-fest like that?” Scootaloo makes a wretching face.
Rainbow Dash flashes her a glance:  “Thewonderboltsaregonnabethere.”
“OOOH!  Ooooh—Make me a dress too!”
“Oh, Rainbow Dash, the things you fill these young fillies heads w—Uhhhh!” Rarity suddenly recoils at the offensively jagged image of the brace-and-pen over the end of the Pegasus' left limb.  “Darling, just what is that garrish rusting atrocity of geometryyyyyyy--”  Her eyes dart between Rainbow's hissing expression and Scootaloo's blinking face  “--yyyyy that is so gorgeously complimenting your hoof with its delicate neatness and inventiveness!”  She beams, eyes fluttering.
“I made it!”  Scootaloo hops.  “You want one too?”
Rarity wincingly stares at the utensil up close.  “Oh....Absolutely!  It's so...eloquent and......erm....”  Her blue eyes thin into placid ovals.  “What exactly is it?”
“Something that's mightier than the sword, Rarity-dear.”  Rainbow Dash pantomimes tea-sipping, and—when the unicorn isn't looking—vomitous gagging.  Scootaloo giggles breathily.
“Oh, it's for writing!”  Rarity leans back from the close inspection.  “Remarkable, if I must say so myself.  I never quite thought that much about it; Unicorns employ the gift of close ranged magic that makes writing about as easy as breathing.  Oh my, I would be ever so lost without the basic talents I learned since I was a little foal!”
“Well, maybe someponies aren't as lucky, Duncebag!”  Scootaloo rears her hooves in a fighting stance aimed at Rarity.  “URP!--” She goes crosseyed as a shrilly whispering Rainbow Dash sticks the pen in the filly's mouth.
“I'm sorry; what was that?”
“Errrr....Uh....” Rainbow Dash sweatdrops, gulps, and smiles—her violet eyes dancing towards the bag in Rarity's grasp.  “Are those the rubies you want me to deliver?”
“Mmmhmmm.  It's quite imperative that you bring these to Hoity Toity's mansion in Upper Clydesdallington before sundown!  He would be terribly offended if anyone rang his gate after the stars are out!  Even stallions need their beauty sleep, darling.”
“Clydesdallington?”  Rainbow Dash thinks aloud, making a face.  “Isn't that well beyond Cloven Canyon?”
“A three day trip by hoof—But undoubtedly a blink under the swish of your wings, dearest.”  Rarity strolls over to her side with the saddlebag.  “I know that a carefree lover of flight like you wouldn't mind.”
“Heh, you got that right.  Load 'er up—EEEESH!”  Rainbow Dash's eyes cross as her belly suddenly sags to the floor.  PLOMPP! 
Rarity finishes nonchalantly fastening the saddlebag to Rainbow's backside.  “There—That isn't too terribly heavy, is it, darling?”
“Nnnnghttkk.... ...N-No.....N-Not at all....” Rainbow trembles, smirking crookedly through sweat-stained eyesight.  “Feels like a feather.”
“Ohhh my, I don't think I put it on right.”
“Oh, it's okay--”
“Here, Rainbow!  I'll tighten it!”  Scootaloo hops atop the bag.
“It's okay It's okay It's OKA—SNKKKT---grkkk!”  Rainbow Dash wheezes against the floor as Scootaloo mounts her, yanking the saddlebag's straps through their buckles with two swift jerks of her teeth.  “Huhhhh—Mmmm.....j-j-just like a glove...”
“You're welcome!”  Scootaloo bounces back to the floor.  “Jee, I wish I could go with you, Rainbow Dash!”
“What.....to the ch-chiropractor?” Rainbow Dash's breaths slowly pant to a normal pace as she wobbles up into a standing position.  “I almost think I could use a wingpony.”
“Perish the thought!” Rarity gasps.  “Cloven Canyon is no place for a young filly to be flying!  Why, the wind sheer alone is enough to suck any young Pegasus to her doom!”
“And just what do you know about the air, Miss Rarity?”
“It's cuz her head's high up in it all the time--”  Rainbow Dash suddenly pauses, her nose scrunching as she tilts her snout offensively ceilingward.  “... ...Say, do you guys smell something?”
Just then, the bell to the Carousel Boutique rings.
“Sweetie Bell!”  Rarity beams.  “You're back from school!  And... .... ....Apple Bloom, how quaint.”
“Heya, Sis—Oh hi Rainbow Dash—Oh hi, Scootaloo!” The pastel colored young unicorn gasps happily.  “I didn't know Cloudsdale Elementary had today off!”
“Oh....uh.... ... ...Y-Yeah!  Totally!”  Scootaloo smiles, sweats at all the pairs of eyes on her, and nudges Rainbow Dash in the leg.
The Blue Pegasus nearly collapses from the tiniest tap to her weighted body.  “What?”  She blinks.  “Oh.  Uhm.”  She blinks dilatedly at the rest of the Boutique crowd.  “Today is... ... ... ... Bellerophon day!”
“Yeah!  It's when all of us Pegasi stay at home and toot our Bellerophons!”
“Snkkt—Scoots!”
“What?”
“That's—NNngh--Never mind.”
“Well, it's heapin' happy surprise to see you here in Ponyville so soon, Scootaloo!”  Apple Bloom nods her pink-bow'd cranium and hops ecstatically in place.  “Sweetie Bell and Ah have this new idea we drummed up when Miss Cherilee was ramblin' on and on about some borin' old war between the Lunar Republic and--”
“Yeah Yeah—Does it involve us getting our cutie marks?”
“We should try our hooves at archeology!”  Sweetie Bell exclaims gleefully.
“Ark of Ollie Gee?” Scootaloo's expression deflates.
“It's not as boring as it sounds!”  Apple Bloom adds.  “We dig up old belongin's, make them look sparklin' brand new again, then put 'em up somewhere for everypony to take a gander at and remember how important yesterday was!”
“In that case, you can just dig up my old fireworks from last Neigh Year's.”  Scootaloo groans.
“Awwww! Come onnn, Scootaloo!”  Apple Bloom leans in and nuzzles her close friend.  “Where's yer spirit?  This is for our cutie marks!”
“Mmmm—Oh alright....”  The pink-haired Pegasus smiles bashfully.  “Maybe I can tinker us up some shovels.”
“Yeah, whatever, Scootaloo--”  Sweetie Bell takes up position.  “Ready for it?”
“Ah was born ready!”  Apple Bloom takes up hers--
“Oh no...” Rainbow Dash snaps and points a hoof.  “Don't you—D-D-D-Don't you do th--”
“We are the Cutie Mark Crusaders on the quest to find out who we arrrrre--!”
“Nnnngghhh—Celestia gag me!”
“And we will never stop the journey; not until we have our cutie marrrrrks!”
Rainbow Dash clamps two hooves over her ears and squints across the Boutique.  “Rarity, where's that little furball of yours?  I want to choke on something.”
“Hmmm?” Rarity blinks back, sporting earmuffs.  “Did you say something?”
“Heh.  Cute.”
The three young fillies remain frozen in their stance.  “So, are we headin' to your sister's place?” Scootaloo asks Apple Bloom.
“Nuh uh.  AJ says that Sweet Apple Acres is off limits until she gets 'A Royal Monsoon of unwanted rainwater squeegee'd out from her soil'!”
“Okay!  Time for me to go!”  Rainbow Dash sing-songs and trots for the door.
“Leaving so soon, Rainbow Dash?”  Rarity telekinetically removes the earmuffs and sulks after her.  “We still have yet to chat about the Grand Galloping Gala coming up!”
“Heeeey—Delivery of rubies to Hot Topic, remember?”
“Hoity Toity.”
“Him too.”  The blue Pegasus turns to the door, only for it to slam into her face—THUD!--punctuatedly flaccidly by the belated ringing of the bell.
“Oh....Oh g-good heavens!”  A yellow pony with silk pink hair deflates immediately and taps a gentle hoof to Dash's pulsing skull.  “I am so, so terribly sorry, Rainbow Dash.  I didn't mean to bump into you—Er—actually, I did mean to bump into you...b-but just not like that....”
“Mmmmf—It's okay, Fl-Fluttershy...” Rainbow Dash blinks through the stars brimming in front of her and shakes out of it with a dazed smile.  “You could hit me with an anvil and somehow it'd be okay.”
“Wh-Why would I do that?!”  She gasps.
“Fluttershy!  What a pleasant surprise!”  Rarity trots over and gasps girlishly at the sight of the basket saddled on either side of the graceful Pegasus.  “Ohhh—What darling flowers!  Lilies from the Eastern fields, yes?”
“Mmmhmmm....” The fair pony nods with a gentle smile.  “I picked them myself.  They're for a special occasion.”  She turns to look at her colorful mane'd friend.  “Isn't that right, R-Rainbow Dash?”
“Hmm?  Huh?  What?”  Rainbow Dash gazes boredly at Fluttershy, but at the sight of the flowers—and at the gentle smile on her longtime companion's face—her expression changes to something akin to melting shock.  “Oh...Oh....It's th-that day, isn't it?”
Fluttershy sweetly nods.  “Yes.”  It comes out as a reverse sigh.
“Oh jeez—Oh jeez, Fluttershy, I-I-I'm sorry!  I was just—Yesterday and this letter—I'm writing a letter by the way, though you probably already know—And then Dumb-Bell and Hoops were all idiots and—NNNNNGHHHH!”  Rainbow Dash covers her face with a grinding hoof.  “Stupid stupid stupid!  I can't believe I forgot!”
“Oh, it's okay, Rainbow Dash...” Fluttershy daintily waves a hoof.  “Y-You're a busy Pegasus, and you can't be expected to remember e-everything...”
“But I would hate to forget to see her.”  Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath.  She twirls and looks with imploring eyes at Rarity.  “Rarity—I hate to ask this after already agreeing to do the delivery for you, and I can so totally still do it super speedy quick even if I do take a detour—but Fluttershy and I kind of had plans to....erm... ...t-to go and visit--”
“It's quite fine, Rainbow Dash.”  Rarity softly smiles, speaking in a gentle, knowing voice.  “You and Fluttershy go on ahead.  It'd be a terrible waste of flowers if you didn't.  You can make the delivery afterwards.”
“Th-Thanks, Rarity...” Rainbow Dash blushes slightly as she does a half-practiced curtsey and trots backwards through the front door with a silent Fluttershy in tow.  “I-I won't let you down, I promise!”
“Hehe—Go, darlings.  She's waiting....”
“Who's waiting....?”  Sweetie Bell makes a strange face.
“Come, girls!  Let me treat you to Sugarcube Corner before you go on your next Crusade!  It's the least I can do for my favorite divas in the whole wide world!”
“Yaaaay!”
“Sugarcube Corner?  Golly, I'm starved!”
As the others wander off, Scootaloo is left lingering behind, gazing at the front entrance of the Carousel Boutique where Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy last took off.  For a reason she doesn't quite understand, there's a lump in her throat.  She slowly turns around with drooping wings and paces after the others into the waning afternoon.









“Dear Princess Celestia, Regarding Fluttershy... ... ... ... ... ... ...I'm gonna have to get back to you on this one, Your Highness.”
> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 5
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions
Act 1 – Chapter 5 – The Creation of Something


Halfway between Sweet Apple Acres and the Eastern Edge of the Everfree Forest, there rests a rolling green pasture of low swaying trees and soft emerald shrubbery.  In the center of this plain, under a late Afternoon golden glow, several marked slabs of stone shine brilliantly in quietly arranged rows.  One stone in particular, carved out of a Ponyvillean marble, bears the emblem of olive branches bordering a singular name carved boldly:
'Doctor Iris Farrier – Caretaker, Peacekeeper, Mother'.
“It's in such good condition, even better than last time...” Rainbow Dash's voice murmurs as two shadows saunter up to the lonely grave.  “Tell me, Fluttershy—Do you look after the grounds yourself?”
The yellow mare smiles gently at her Pegasus companion as they stand before the resting place of the latter's mother.  “Mmmm-Sometimes.  The groundskeeper Silver Shoe is a very graceful and talented pony, but also quite feeble in his old age.  I sometimes volunteer to assist him in keeping the place tidy.  Of c-course I never skip over this spot.”
“I wouldn't think any less of you...” Rainbow Murmurs.  She's silent for a blank space in thought.  The shadows of clouds waft over the two briefly as a cool evening wind kicks at their manes.  A blinking spell, and Rainbow Dash tilts her head sideways.  “Uhhhhhhh......-Oh.  S-Sorry.  I don't mean to just keep you standing there--”
“There's no rush.”  Fluttershy quietly nods.  “I'm in no hurry to go anyplace.”
The blue Pegasus smiles nervously.  She glances at Fluttershy's backside—at the twin baskets of lilies paralleling her flanks.  “Urmm.....M-May I...?”
“By all means, do the honor, Rainbow Dash...”
Fluttershy trots a step or two sideways towards her companion.  Rainbow Dash reaches into the baskets with her snouts and clasps onto the stalks of the flowers.  With an awkward but emphatic grace, the ice-still speedster slowly plants the bouquets of lilies down before the stone, propped up just beneath Iris' name.  A sweet fragrance wafts up towards the two of them, causing Dash to shudder briefly as she loses control of her breath.  She trots a few apologetic steps back and stares evenly down at the stone, a part of her slightly bewildered by a rainbow colored reflection caught in the Sun's sheen off the marble.
“I have always found this to be such a lovely place.”  Fluttershy murmurs into the air, her face melted into a gentle smile as the wind licks at her pink threads with a softness that mimics her voice:  “Days after I first fell down to Earth from Cloudsdale, I came here and instantly fell in love with the trees and the wide green grass—the birds nesting just within earshot of their serenading music.  It took me a few years to grow up from a young filly and understand the significance of these grounds; but it hasn't changed my opinion whatsoever.”  She looks over her friend's shoulder.  “Rainbow Dash, I couldn't think of a better place for her to be at peace.”
“I'm glad you think so, Fluttershy...” Rainbow Dash quietly nods.  “You've always been the best expert on.......on beautiful things.”
“Not half the expert your mother was.”  Fluttershy trots forward a bit and gazes peacefully at the grave.  “After all, it was her that brought you into this world.”
Rainbow Dash blinks at Fluttershy.  A long sigh, followed by a sweet smile; she clears a sore throat and squints harder at the stone.  “It always secretly wyrded me out that she was allowed dad's name on the stone.  I mean—well you know...”
“Isn't it enough that the lovers' hearts decide who is married and who isn't?”
“Still, so close to Ponyville!  It's very... ... ....” Rainbow Dash sighs, briefly rubbing a hoof over her face.  “Sorry.  Sorry—I promise myself everytime I won't go into that.”
“It's okay, Rainbow Dash.”
The colorful pony inhales long and hard, lowering the hoof from her face.  She gulps and glances aside at her friend with an awkward smile.  “Hey, uhm.... ...Fl-Fluttershy, do you mind if I... ...er....if w-we--”
“You don't need to ask, Rainbow Dash.”  Fluttershy bows out and gently trots away.  “I'll let you two be alone for a while.”
“Th-Thanks....” Rainbow glances briefly back at her.
The wind grows triply mute as the cold breathlessness of the moment suddenly weighs on her.  She turns back and gazes, alone, at the stone.  The emotionless marble stares back, the engraved olive branches darkening and brightening as another cloud or two swims past the golden rays of the Sun above.  The petals of the lilies flutter slightly against the green blades of grass, providing the only scant whispering hint of noise against the dead somberness of the familial reunion.
“Uhm.....eheh....H-Hey, Mom...” Rainbow Dash cheekishly smirks.  Her violet eyes dash towards the sky, the bordering treetops, and then back to the carved name.  “It's....It's me, Rainbow Dash.  Sorry it's been a while.  Life has been....uh—well--busier than normal.”  A gulp, a slightly easier breath.  “But it's also been a bit more fun as well.”  She pads forward in the soft grass and finally squats down, face to granite face.  “You see---Uhh--Remember those new friends I told you about last time?  The ones with whom I went on this totally cool adventure and got myself some really sweet bling to hang around my neck called the 'Element of Loyalty'?  Well, turns out they're all pretty kewl ponies; kewl enough that I don't feel like wringing their necks all the time, at least not as much as some of my older friends.  But they were all punks anyways—R-Right?  Eheheheh...heh...but no, these friends are—well--they're here to stay.  Yeah, I--uh--I really think so this time.
“We've had some crazy adventures together, and yet we're still tighter than steel.  We've shoo'd away a big scary dragon from the top of mountain, we've battle these annoying little winged turds called parasprites, we've journeyed into the scary depths of the Everfree Forest far too many times than I can even count; we've even worked out a way to do Winter Wrap Up on time this year!  On top of all that, one our friends, Twilight Sparkle—she's the really boring one with a book fetish—got us all free tickets to this year's Grand Galloping Gala!  It's gonna be the best night ever!
“And then this one time—and you're not gonna believe this, Mom—I finally finally got to meet the Wonderbolts.  Yup!  My idols: Spitfire, Soarin, Swiftcloud, Shattersky; I got to sit down and chew the fat with each and every one of them for a day.  And you wanna know how I did it, Mom?  Only by performing the most awesome and death-defying feat of all Pegasusdom in front of the whole population of Cloudsdale at the Young Flier Competition: the Sonic Rainboom!  Everyone on this side of Equestria had to have seen it.  I mean, it wasn't nearly as big as when I first did the legendary move, but boy was it spectacular!  It only goes to show that I still got it!  The sky's not even the limit from here on out—My name is on the map for future Wonderbolts tryouts, for sure!”
Rainbow Dash is smiling wide at this point, but the smile fades slowly—melting into a cold neutrality that matches the wayward breath of the afternoon breeze against her face.  She glances off to the side and spots from a distance the frail image of Fluttershy, strolling past a cluster of colorful gardens and nuzzling a few passing wing'd insects.
“And then I found out something about me and my new friends—Just yesterday, as a matter of fact.  And the whole thing with the Sonic Rainboom kind of leads to this.  But—It turns out that when I first did the impossible at age eight, it wasn't just a bunch of young Pegasi that I impressed with the aerial explosion, but the huge burst had an impact on ponies of all walks of life—As far as Manehattan.  And—would you know it?  At the same time the explosion happened, all five of my friends—including Fluttershy—got their cutie marks, all on the same day and at the precise same time.  If they hadn't figured out so early on just what they were meant to do with their lives, they would never have made the decisions they did that ultimately led them here to Ponyville, where we would all meet—where we would all become such close friends to begin with.
“But---pfft---The girls are all gushing over me, and quite frankly it's sickening.  They insist that it was fate or something that arranged for the six of us to get together.  And while I guess that's a charming thought—in some fluffy, poetic sense—it just seems far too good to be true.  You were a doctor before you had me, right, Mom?  Then you'd probably agree with someone like Twilight Sparkle and say that things need to be proven scientifically before they can be taken seriously—Ugh; But Twilight is one of the biggest believers in this whole thing being 'fate' and now she's got me writing this BORING letter to Princess Celestia—OH!--UHM--Yeah, eheheh.  I'm writing to Princess Celestia for the first time.  Ahem.  Guess you might want to know that.”
Rainbow Dash sighs heavily and hangs her head, her mane fluttering above the white lilies resting against the grave.  After a gentle silence, she reopens her eyes and glances forlornly at the stone.
“But a part of me wonders---Just slightly wonders—What if there's truth in all that mush?  What if I really am the reason that all of us got together in the first place—or found out the purpose in ourselves so that we got our cutie marks?  I don't know if I could really deal with that sort of a reality.  I've always thought that life is too boring to waste so much time trying to make one thing or another happen; it's so much better to live in the moment and not be so stiff and anxious about the meanings of things.  So, you can probably see, I've n-never planned to be tasked with.....with the creation of something.  And now that I know what I know about my friends, I look back on all the things that have ever gone wrong or r-right in my life.. ... ...especially in th-those really tough times I had—you remember--when I was younger; and I wonder, Mom, if you had thought hard about being the creation of something when... ....yanno...wh-when you h-had me.”
The multicolored shade reflects back from the shiny granite, only to be blanketed over by a final looming shadow, a large cloud that brings back the opaqueness of the stone, and the odd letters scratched unnaturally thereupon.
Rainbow Dash's eyes turn slightly concave.  A hint of moisture in their extremities, and:  “Ahem.”  She looks skyward, clearing her throat.  “But I-I....uhm....”  A nervous smile cast once more to the rock.  “I-I don't need to burden you with all of that....th-that thinking.  I'm happy, Mom.  I really am.  I have amazing friends, I have amazing things to do, and I'm still the most kickbuttingest Pegasus in all of Cloudsdale.  When the title goes for all of Equestria...”  She smirks and stands up quickly on all four hooves.  “I'll let you know.”  A wink, a drying of the lids, and she swiftly—almost too swiftly—trots away from the stone, the grave, the flowers, and the quiet.







“You didn't need to walk me home, Rainbow Dash.”  Fluttershy nonetheless smiles sweetly as she trots up to the front steps of her petite, leaf-laden cottage on the edge of Ponyville.  “There's no point in making you delay that delivery you're making for Rarity.”
“Pfft—You mean this bag of stones?” The blue pony wiggles the bulging saddlebag attached to her spine.  “You know me, Fluttershy!  I can have this thing dropped off beyond Cloven Canyon in ten seconds fla---Wait....”  Her eyes roll back in her head as she pauses in mid-trot and mutters aloud:  “Ten seconds times one twentieth of a mile at maximum acceleration times twenty times eighty miles plus friction and sheer wind resistance... ... ... ...”  She goes cross-eyed, shakes her head, and smirks:  “--in just a handful of minutes, flat!”
Fluttershy giggles.  She sidesteps toward a tiny crop of carrots sprouting up out of the soil in her front yard.  “Well, I can never turn down your company...”  She snaps a carrot loose and tosses it into the empty flower baskets on her back.  “Especially if you've got everything so calpably in hoof.”
“When do I not?  This is Rainbow Dash you're talking to!  The one who came to your rescue a few years back when you needed to be carried to Ponyville Hospital for that nasty cut on your nose!”
The pink-mane'd pony blushes furiously under her yellow coat.  “Y-You promised never to mention that again.”  She whisperingly protests.
“But you learned your lesson, didn't you?”  Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes with a smirk.  “Silly girl, not all furry animals can be mouth fed.”
Fluttershy sighs wiltingly at the door.  “I've never talked to a badger since....”
“Maybe you should practice on Gummy some--”
“Rainbow...”
“Just saying!”
“Hmm-hmm-hmm.” The yellow pony chuckles sweetly, marches up to her house, and opens the door with a sing-songy:  “Hello, all my pretties!”  On cue, a cavalcade of several dozens of cuddly creatures stop whatever it is they're doing and eagerly rush down a lattice of various intricate stepladders and inclined planks built into the dainty interior architecture of the cottage.  They frolic around the pink-hair'd Pegasus as she takes turns nuzzling and petting each of them.  “Ohhhh—Have you all been lonely?  Don't worry.  Nana Fluttershy was doing important errands—And spending time with her good friend Rainbow Dash.  You all remember Rainbow Dash, don't you?  Be nice and say hello to our guest, hmmm?”
A rising chorus of chirps, squawks, quacks, and ribbits float through the air.
“Hey Hey Hey—Back at ya, fuzzballs!”
They all scurry away in a heartbeat.
“Rainbow Dash....” Fluttershy briefly frowns.
“What???” Rainbow Dash shrinks slightly with a nervous chuckle.  “Fluttershy, you know that I'm the last pony on Earth to bother trying.  Like—You remember me and the manticore that one time, right?”
“Yes.”  Fluttershy upturns her chin at her friend.  “But the manticore is at least twenty percent less cute than my most special friends here!”
“Ooooh—Oooooh!”  Rainbow hobbles back on two hooves and mocks a heart attack with an arm over her chest.  “You know exactly where to wound me, girl!”
“C-Careful, Rainbow.  Rarity's rubies--”
“Nnngh!”  Rainbow Dash lands awkwardly on all fours, blinks, and smiles nervously: (“Squ-E-e-E-e”)  “Don't fret, Fluttershy.  I ain't no duncebag.”
“A what-bag?”
“Never mind.”  Rainbow grunts breathily and pries the bulging saddlebag off her back.  “Do you mind if I--?”
“Not at all.  Put it right over there.” Fluttershy points while removing the flower baskets off herself.  While Rainbow Dash temporarily sits the rubies down, the other Pegasus marches gaily across the cottage, flanked by critters as she hums a merry tune and reaches over several shelves for jars and containers full of animal feed.  As she allows each creature to nibble one by one, she breaks her tune to glance over her shoulder at Rainbow.  “Would you care for anything to snack on?  You'll need to be energized for your delivery.”
“Seriously, I'm fine--”  Rainbow Dash waves a hoof and trots a circle around the place.  “Yanno, Fluttershy—and I hope you don't take this the wrong way—but this place smells amazingly good for being filled to the brim with so many varmints.  I just realized.”
“Erm....uh....th-thank you...”
“How do you do it?”
“The key is to teach them the meaning of space and territory, and to swiftly divide up proper functions and etiquette amongst the locations.  Ermm....”  She bites her lip.  “D-Does that make any sense?”
“If anything, it explains how the Foggy Bottom Bog came into being.”
“Hmmm?”
“N-Never mind...” Rainbow Dash eases down into a chair—FWUMP!--but only ends up at an awkward angle.  Eyes bulging, she struggles and strains and fights to get comfortable, only to fail.  “Nnnngh—Gawwwd, how does Lyra do it?”  Finally giving up, she plops down on the carpet in the center of the place, exhales comfortably, and folds her legs up underneath her.  “So, did you hear about Zecora's cousin coming to visit?”
“Zecora has a cousin?”  Fluttershy glances over a squirrel devouring a peanut on the end of her hoof.  As it bounces and climbs up over her mane to get to the rafters, she turns to fetch the carrot from out of her basket.  “I had no earthly idea.”
“Turns out he was checking up on Zecora's progress with some stew to fix a Poison Joke outbreak in their homeland—Or something ridiculous like that.  Whatever the case, turns out the secret ingredient to killing Poison Joke for good is cinnamon.  Who'd a thunk it?”
“I usually use cinammon to sprinkle onto Angel's food and make it more appealing for her.”  She waltzes up to the bunny in question, curled up on a pet pillow.  She nudges the carrot towards it.  The furry little ball of white opens one sleepy eye, frowns, and KNOCKS the carrot back into Fluttershy's face with one raptor-swift hind leg.  Fluttershy briefly winces, then blushes.  “It....h-hasn't worked all too well.”
“Ever thought of just feeding the rabbit to the cinnamon instead?” Rainbow makes a face.  “I bet you'd get better results.”  She turns to look over at the bunny.  Upon eye contact, the rabbit wakes once more, frowns, and lifts its front hand offensively.  “Yanno, long-ears, that would work better if your paw had five pads instead of four.”
“Don't mind her, she's going through a phase.”
“How old is she again?”
“Two and a half.”
“So, a two and a half year phase?”
“Ohhhh—Don't tease her....” Fluttershy frowns as Angel yawns, grumbles beneath her whiskers, and hops randomly away.  “It doesn't help.  One day, she'll come around.”
“Yanno, Fluttershy, sometimes I think you're a little too loving and caring with your loving and caring of the wildlife.”
“Hehe—The same could be said for the extreme degrees to which you like to perform stunts in midair.” Fluttershy smiles and settles down next to Rainbow Dash on the rug.
“Touche.”  Rainbow Dash smirks.  “But still, Fluttershy—You spend all the time with these scampering little things.  Don't you—Yanno--ever get lonely?”
“L-Lonely....?”  Fluttershy blinks, not expecting that.  “Why... ...I-I hang out with you and the girls often, do I not?”
“Pfft—Of course you do!  But seriously—You live in a cottage out in the middle of flippin' nowhere, surrounded by five and a half square miles of pasture.  It takes you at least an hour and a half to gallop into town—and both you and I know very well that you only gallop.  You never fly.”
“I....erm....” Fluttershy deflates bashfully.  “Wh-Where are you going with this, Dashie...?”
The blue Pegasus jolts:  “Oh!  N-Not trying to poke fun or anything!  It's just.... ...Erm... ...H-How do I say this...?”  She digs a tiny circle in the carpet with her hoof, scrunches her face, brightens, then smiles Fluttershy's way.  “It almost seems like you're afraid of other ponies in general.”
“Me?  Afraid of p-ponies?”
“You're afraid of shadows, aren't you?”
“Isn't every baby Pegasus afraid of shadows before they're introduced to the Earth?”
“That's not the point—Fluttershy, I sometimes think that maybe if you tried a little less to be with nature and a little more to be with your fellow hoofed kind, then perhaps you wouldn't live life like a fraidy cat so much and you'd instantly be more assertive!”
“Hmmm—Those are some valid points, though a bit oddly worded.”
“You do know who you're talking to, right?”
“Hehehe—And in truth, Rainbow Dash, I have thought of all that before.  If you want to know what I think; I believe that when I found my cutie mark, it was a sign that Ponyville needed someone with my expertise to be there for the animals when nopony else would.  We all are much like the creatures of the forest; we all have our own niches to fill.  Some, like you, Rainbow, have many niches to fill—some that you're overqualified for, some that you're underqualified for—and yet you still rise to the challenge in any higher or lesser degree.  But some of us do even better at the simple things.  It's all a matter of Harmony, really.  Just like what Twilight Sparkle revealed to us, and to me especially.  I like to think that 'Kindness' is the simplest Element of Harmony, for it is so integral to life—The Golden Rule and such.  Erm....Ehem...”  The yellow pony brushes a strand of pink hair aside, blushing.  “D-D-Does that answer do the trick, or did I-I carry on far t-too extravagantly?”
Rainbow Dash blinks stupidly.  “I kind of forgot the question, to be honest—But everything I just heard sounded swell.”
“Oh.  G-Good, then.” Fluttershy's wings unfold and re-fold as she chuckles breathily with relief.  She smiles sweetly in the colorful pony's direction.  “Still, I'm a bit pleased.  That was rather sentimental of you just now.”
“Pffft—I thought I was being Socratic, but whatever.”
“Oh, but I mean it.”  Fluttershy leans her head cutely to the side.  “I think what we all found out yesterday is rubbing off on you!”
“Nnnngh—Ughhh.”  Rainbow Dash's face divebombs exasperatingly into the carpet.  Thud!
Fluttershy gasps.  “What's the matter?”
“Mmmmff—Nothing...” Dash mutters into the floor.  “Carry on.  Everypony else has—Except for maybe Apple Jack, but she smells like hay anyways.”
“To be honest, I always suspected that you were the cause of me getting my cutie mark.”
Rainbow raises an eyebrow.  She lifts her head back up.  “R-Really...?”
“Oh yes.  The fact that it happened at the same time as the Pegasus Race—that the burst came from just below Cloudsdale—that Dumb-Bell and Hoops afterwards didn't talk about having lost for nearly a year afterwards...”
“Pfft—And they still don't!”  Rainbow proudly lifts her chin.
“But most of all—I knew that if anyone performed the Sonic Rainboom that day, it had to have been you and no one else.”
Dash blinks at that.  “How'd you know that?  You were so far away from when it happened!”
“I'm sorry.  I-I-I guess I'm not using the right word.  It's not so much that I 'knew' it was you—Or, yes, I did know it.  But I suppose in context it's better said that I believed it was you.”
“Oh really....?”
“Mmmhmmm—You came so quickly to my defense when those bullies were picking on me; I couldn't imagine another Pegasus with any greater courage or sincerity... ... ...or any more capable of making the impossible happen, especially f-for someone as awkward and unassuming as m-me...”  Her eyes are briefly cast aside.
“Fluttershy.... ....” Rainbow Dash chuckles.  “You're right that the race started because I was defending your honor.  But you heard me talking to Scootaloo, Apple Bloom, and that smelly one at Sugarcube Corner yesterday!  When I made the Sonic Rainboom happened, all I was really caring about wasssssssss--”  She lingers on the last tonguelash of a word.
Fluttershy is gazing vulnerably at her, pearl blue eyes sparkling.
“-sssssssssss-Was all about you, girl!”  Rainbow Dash nervously smiles.  “Eh heh heh—Yepperoony!  They don't call me the 'most epicest Pegasus' cuz I let my friends down!”
“Who calls you the 'most epicest Pegasus'?”
“Just wait for it.”
“....... ......... ........ ........ .............. ........... .........” Fluttershy twiddles her hooves.
“Wait for it longer.”
“Oh.  O-Okay....”  Fluttershy blushes.  “I will say this: last night is the dreamiest night I've had in ages.”
“Uhh.....Er....Okay.”  Rainbow Dash's face squints.  “What does that have to do with--?”
“Everything we and the rest of the girls learned about yesterday—It just filled me with so much joyous, toasty goodness—Could you imagine how differently things would be if we all knew about our connection all along?”
“Yeah.”  Rainbow Dash boredly props her chin onto her hoof.  “You'd all be saving me the sugar-coated cavities I'm suffering today.”  She turns and looks suddenly nose-to-nose with a glaring white bunny.  “.... ... ....you wanna start?  Cuz we can go right now!”  Angel hisses, wiggles its cotton tail in Rainbow's nose, and bounds away.  “Uh—Uh—ACHOO!”  Rainbow exhales, her colorful mane flopping over her eyes.
“Goddess bless you.”
“You ever thought of putting an electrical shock retainer on that thing's bucked teeth?”  Rainbow Dash tosses her mane back and sits comfortably again.  “It'll make the carrots go down easier, at least... ... ... ...among other things.”
“The fact that we all found out yesterday about the Sonic Rainboom is almost as amazing as the legacy of the Rainboom itself.”  Fluttershy smiles.  “Isn't it funny how so many ponies can be around each other all the time and yet not know the reality of one, simple, life-changing fact?”
“Yanno, while we're all analyzing this whole fiasco into the ground—Maybe I can hop on board the train and take advantage of our 'new-found knowledge'.”  Rainbow Dash smirks devilishly.  “I could finally talk Rarity into sewing me a Wonderbolts cosplay outfit.  There's that free double-fudge sundae that Pinkie Pie owes me at Sugarcube Corner.  I'm still trying to talk Apple Jack into going cow tipping at least once.  Heck, I could even get Twilight Sparkle to pay back all of my late library fees for me!”
Fluttershy makes a strange face.  “What, pray tell, did you of all ponies check out from the library?”
“Eh—I don't remember...” Rainbow Dash waves a hoof.  “I just needed a few really thick encyclopedias so I could sit tall and see over the Pegasi heads at the last Wonderbolts Show.”
“Those ideas are all interesting, but don't you be doing anything to ruin the mood, Rainbow...”
“Fine—FINE!  You and your dang conscience.”  Rainbow rolls her eyes.  “Meh—If nothing else, I'll get Apple Jack and Rarity to cut me some slack for all the practical jokes Pinkie and I did on them last month.”
“Heeheehee....”  Fluttershy giggles.
“What's so amusing?”
“You wanna know something?”  Fluttershy smiles blushingly, and leans in as if confessing a sin:  “I k-kinda always liked it when you and Pinkie pulled those pranks.”
“Oh....Oh really?” Rainbow Dash grins wide.  “Why, you secretive little devil in Fluttershy's clothing!”
“I only l-liked it a little.”  Fluttershy deflates slightly.  “Ohhh—Don't tell anyone.  I only meant it to be in good fun.”
“And all this time—Pinkie thought you were too sensitive to get the joke!  Hah!”  Rainbow looks to the far right.  “No wonder they call you angel!”  WHAP!  A carrot is thrown against her nose.  “OW!  Sonuva--”
“Uh uh uh--”
“My bad—Daughteruva--”
“Ahem.”
“Meh.  Wutever.  Frickin' fur golem.”
“I especially liked that one time that you painted Apple Jack's apples all of those ridiculous colors.  I-I mean, they came off in a simple rinse and it was a g-good thing because if you and Pinkie Pie actually had sabotaged Sweet Apple Acres, that would have been horrible--”
“But it was funny, wasn't it?”  Rainbow Dash smiles brightly, pointing a hoof.
“Just the fact that you went through so much effort—You painted every apple.  It must have taken several nights to accomplish for just a split-second reveal....”
“I credit Pinkie Pie with that.  She's the insomniac, not me.”
“I could never do any of that sort of stuff, of course, but—It's all so funny in hindsight...” Fluttershy's wings twitch with her words.  “But then again, everything in our pasts looks rosy now with all that we've just learned...”
“Yeah, well...” Rainbow Dash's eyes scan the ceiling with sudden boredom.  “I try not to get all mushy about the past.  We only live for the future, yanno?”
“Mmm-Y-Yes.”  Fluttershy nods bashfully.  “I s-suppose.”
“Take...uhm....” Rainbow Dash almost thinks twice about the next part, but impulsively spurts it out anyways:  “My mom's grave, for example.  She coulda been—yanno—laid in Pegasus Sanction, the Cloudsdale Mausoleum.  Cuz that's where Dad is all these days.  In Cloudsdale... ....”  Her violet eyes linger onto some unseen space in the distance of the cottage interior.  Her mouth stumbles briefly to find the words:  “He... ....He hasn't been to her grave for as long as I remember.”  A gulp, and her eyes narrow into something best accompanying a frown.  “He hasn't come down to Earth for as long as I remember.”
A cloud of silence falls over the room—at least until it is shattered by a series of offensively noisy chewing sounds.  The two Pegasi look over to see Angel finally nibbling crunchily into her carrot.  She pauses momentarily to glare back at them, and continues with her tooth-scraping consumption.
“I...I-I think he just needs time, Rainbow Dash.  Who are we at our age to guess what it means for an older stallion to--?”
Rainbow Dash suddenly gets up.  “Ehhhh... ...Just cuz older people hold so much faith in giving time to things only goes to show just how much time they've actually wasted.  That's why it's important for ponies like you and me to lead a braver example for younger Pegasi and all that jazz—By living in the now.”  She bravely winks in a jagged attempt to break the iciness of the conversation.  “And on that note, I'd better get Rarity's rubies to—Uh—That guy she's constantly clopping on about.”
“Hoity Toity?”
“Gawd—You ever wonder if that poor schmuck will have a kid?  'Hi, my name is Francine Toity!  I have a Question Mark on my flank because your guess is as good as mine'!”
“Oh Rainbow Dash....” Fluttershy giggles.  “Don't you ever change.”
“If I had a bottle of wine, I'd take a hit.”  Rainbow says, saddling up the bag of rubies once more.
“Why is that?”
“Cuz that's the second time I've heard that today!”  Rainbow opens the door and steps out to mount the air.  “See ya--!”
“Er—W-Wait.  Rainbow, just one second...” Fluttershy trots up and glances up at her.  “You are.... ....erm....r-returning to Ponyville....uhm...t-tonight, after your delivery, are you not?”
“Uhhhhhhh.......Maaaaaaaaaybe.....” Rainbow squints down at her from mid-hover.  “Why do you ask?”
“Oh....no reason....”
“Is something happening?”
“Nope.  Nothing happening.”
“Something's happening, isn't there?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Pfft....Fine, Fluttershy.”  Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and smiles down at her.  “But remember—You're no good at keeping secrets.”
The yellow pony smiles sweetly back, the sunlight through the door cascading off her silk pink mane.  “Is anypony?”
“.... .... .....” Rainbow coughs briefly, turning to face the Sun so that its warming sensation matches that of her skin, suddenly.  “Right—Well—Off, off, and away!”  She bolts for the great wide Blue.  “Stay frosty!”
Fluttershy waves a hoof from her lonely cottage entrance.  “Safe travels....”







“Dear Princess Celestia, how's it hoofin'?  Thanks for waiting—Though I guess you really didn't have to wait for anything.  All you had to do is flip to the next page while it was I who had to wait to write this next part to you.  By the way, don't you hate it when you get papercuts on your hooves?  It wouldn't be half so bad except you have to walk on the dang limbs to boot.  Well, I'm sure you never get papercuts—Being a graceful Princess and all.  Cuz if you did, considering all of the mounds of frickin' scrolls you wade through, I bet there'd be a ton of offensive paper banished to the moon.  Wouldn't they freeze up there?  Twilight Sparkle says that space exists in a vacuum where temperatures reach this really bone-chilling low called absolute zero that can turn things into brittle frozen fascimiles of themselves and I wonder if that would make the paper shatter like glassdfjakldjfalkfjalkjfakljfklajflkj jdlkaflkjafkajkldafja fdfja;kfjlkafjklafjdkl;f--
“Dear Princess Celelstia, how's it hoofin'?  Pay no attention to the paragraph I just scratched out above this one.  I swear, I've never written so much in my life—at least since the time I signed my flier's license.  Even to this day, when I get pulled over by the Ponyville Police, they actually believe my real name is 'Mia Ballzakes'.  That one used to make Gilda laugh all the time.  But I'm not here to write about Gilda; I'm writing about Fluttershy.
“There's a reason why friendship is magic, yanno.  Sometimes it's because you need that very special someone to listen to you as you ramble on angrily about what some stupid duncebag has done to you in the morning.  Sometimes it's to have someone to laugh with and make fun of the absurd things in life.  Sometimes it's just to share a moment of thought with, so that you know you're not the only one going crazy at any given point of the day.  But more often than nought—the thing that makes friendship magical is knowing that there is always a certain someone who, from any way you look at her, is guaranteed to always be there, to always be dependable, to always be the same pleasant smiling face that you remember since you first ever ran into her.
“Fluttershy is very much that kind of a friend, and there is everything magical to be had about her.  Yes, she can be a frickin' scaredy cat at times—okay, make that all of the time.  And, yes, she could stand to be more outgoing and outspoken and out..... out... ........outhoused?  Whatever—The 'shy' in her name is there for a reason, and screw the universe for scoffing at it.
“A lot of the other girls think that I'm always giving Fluttershy a hard time.  And—well—they're kind of sort of right.  But they haven't known her for nearly as long as I have.  They're awfully scared of saying the wrong word at the wrong time and suddenly shattering the Pegasus like some wilting porcelain flower.  There's some truth to be had in that, but Fluttershy wouldn't be in the place of happiness where she is now if she wasn't so harshly kicked out of Cloudsdale......literally.  And she has yours truly to blame for that.  Eight years ago, when I raced a couple of bozos who were picking on her, the sheer speed of our flight caused her to fall to the Earth, where a bunch of hovering butterflies saved her fall in what had to have been a really wicked sight gag.
“Just like I'm always being my cool butt-kicking self, Fluttershy is always being her gentle animal-loving ponysona.  Just like she would say; it's the niches that we fill.  She can always expect me to be the kind of pony I am, and I can always expect her to be the kind of pony she is.  As long as we've got all that covered, our friendship remains golden.  So, if anything, when I'm giving Fluttershy the boot every now and then to get her to cheer harder or be more assertive, I'm just maintaining what makes Friendship so self-sufficient and self-magicient....or wutever.  You get it.  Let's see Twilight put that into a letter!  Hah!
“And it's not always me helping out Fluttershy—though gawd knows she could use all the help she can get.  But she's infinitely supportive of me too.  The kind of things she does for me, for my reputation in Cloudsdale, for the....for the memories of my mother—it goes beyond anything I can bother to explain to the other girls without coming across like a total sap.  And that's another 'magical' thing about friendship, I guess.  No matter what way you look at it, one of your many friends and one alone is going to be your 'best friend'.  I really don't think there's anything wrong with that.  That's just natural....and stuff.  And you know it's right cuz when you see that one friend, your heart throws off all the weight that a miserable day has piled up on it and you remember what it means to be happy just to be.
“So, yeah.  There you have it.  Fluttershy is my best friend.  No doubt about it.  There is only one problem I have with confessing that onto paper, and it's that I'm not entirely sure if she kno--” (FWOMMMMP!)







A mound of dust flies obscenely across the parchment that Rainbow is writing on.  Frowning, she pierces her gaze up from the mountain cliff atop which she is roosted, saddle-bag and all.  “H-Hey!  What gives--?”  A glaring, a blinking, and then a rolling of both violet eyes.  “Nnnnngh—Gawwwwd.  Just what do you duncebags want now?”
A bruised, scuffed up, but thoroughly battle embroiled Dumb-Bell leers down at her.  “Ooooh!  New words!  I'm scared!  Where'd you think up 'duncebags', Rainbow Crash?”
“Halfway between kicking your sorry butt and being bored with it.”  The blue Pegasus nonchalantly brushes the dirt off her scroll of paper sheets and rolls it all up.  “Seriously, Dumb-Bell.  I could spend all afternoon reminding you how ugly you are by beating your face back to jelly, but now's not a good time, okay?”
“Why?  You stink so much at weatherflying that you've resorted to being a sky mule?” Dumb-Bell spits.  “Whatcha writing anyways, Crash?  Better be your last will and testament, cuz we're fixing to bury you!”
“And who's this dark and foreboding 'we' in case I can't already pretend to know?”  Rainbow boredly smirks at him as she sheathes the scroll into her saddle bag.
Two predictable shadows hover down in the amber glow of the setting Sun, followed at a great distance by a much less predictable fourth shadow.  “Hey, Dumb-Bell!  You found her!”  Hoops lands his hooves on the ground and retracts his bruised wings.  “The heck is that on your back, girl?  I knew someday we'd all send you packing from Cloudsdale, but this is ridiculous!”  Quarterback lands next to him, chuckling in a dull monotone.  “Shut up, brony.”  (“Ahem.  Y-Yes, Hoops.”)
“It's none of your business.”  Rainbow Dash upturns her nose with a smirk.  “Unlike a bunch of cement-skulled Pegasi I know, some of us actually have friends that we do favors for!  You, of course, wouldn't understand that; because to you a 'friend' is some random object that's too big to eat and too small to make love to.”
The three wing'd colts glance at each other quizzocally.  Dumb-Bell raises an eyebrow and does the honors of grunting out:  “Wh-What?”
“I rest my case.”
“You've been writing too much.  It's making you mouthy.”
“Better to have a mouth full of words than a mouth full of welts—Or are you three really that intent on reliving our little dance this morning?”  Rainbow smirks.
“Girl—We could clean your clock anyday of the week!  And especially without crotchety old Doctor Rose Heart coming to your rescue at the last second!”
“Pfft—She so did not!  The only thing she nearly came to was a heart attack after seeing me beat the ever living spit out of you glue sniffing cloug rats!”
“Whatever--”  Hoops shakes his snout and hisses:  “We didn't come here to trade boring insults, Rainbow Crash!  We came here to settle the score....!”
Rainbow's eyes narrow into a hardened glare.  “Just what did you have in mind, buckaroos...?”  She starts to grind her front hoof into the stone and dirt of the cliffside beneath her.
“Pfft—Please....” Dumb-Bell waves a lackadaisical limb.  “Anypony can beat up a lonesome half-wing.”
At that last insult, Rainbow Dash sneers hoarsely, her violet eyes burning like bloodthirsty embers:  “You're welcome to try--”
“But you said it yourself—You've got stuff to do for some lousy excuse of a friend.  So, in the interest speed—We thought we'd outrace your sorry butt into the ground!”
“Pfft—Snkkkkkt---WAHHHH-Hahahahahahaha...” Rainbow Dash bowls to the ground, the prior menace completely taking off from the runway of her mouth as she gasps for breath, nearly praftalls, and laughs some more—pounding the dusty Earth with a blue hoof.  The three male Pegasi stir and shuffle uncomfortably from where they stand as Rainbow Dash laughs, laughs, wheeeeeeeeeeeezes, and laughs again.  “Ahem....eh...eh heh heh....Ohhhhhh yeah.  Ohhhhh yeah that's rich—Wait Wait Wait Wait—I forgot to do something!”
“What....?” Dumb-Bell burts.
“LAUGH AT YOUR SORRY BUTTS SOME MORE!  AHHHHHHHH-hahahahahaha—Outrace me?!  Miss Sonic Rainboom?!  Haaaahaaahaaaaa.....”  Rainbow Dash almost rolls over, her saddlebag full of rubies rattling and wrustling with the jostled movements.  Another wheeze, and she rubs the tears out from her eyes.  “Whewwwwwww......”
“Not just race us, you donkey-faced loser!”  Hoops grunts.  “We brought a secret weapon that's gonna put your boasting face to shame!”  He points a light-brown hoof skyward for emphasis.  “Say hello to our not-so-little friend!”
“S-Secret weapon, huh?”  Rainbow Dash fights off a lasting wave of giggles as she wobbles back onto all fours, glancing skyward.  “Better be a tomahawk missile, cuz I don't see what else would come close to—Hello!”
The fourth shadow finally touches down—A wave of dirt skittering from two majestically flapping green wings as a young stallion with dark hair lands among the other three.  He's a very athletic colt—far less muscular than the bulky likes of Dumb-Bell, Hoops, and Quarterback—but very obviously lithe and well fit.  His limbs coil and uncoil like tightly bending springs, the tell-tale signs of a well trained speedster.  The ends of his hooves are shiny, and his wings are immaculate.  In spite of his unwitting gravitose, his face is anything but menacing.  A gentle smile alights the air as he blinks chestnut eyes across the scene, his black tail flicking to show a straight yellow-and-green streak drawn down the centermost hairs.
“Hi there!  You must be Rainbow Crash!  I'm--”
“Dash!”  Rainbow immediately bites.  “And I don't care who you are!  If you're with these bone-headed morons, you can go suck on the wrong end of a pineapple!”
The agile stallion sweatdrops.  “I-I'm sorry.  Eheheh—I didn't mean to strike a bad chord.”  He turns towards the other Pegasi, blinking.  “But I thought you dudes said her name was--”
“Stop being lame, Stu!”  Hoops facehooves briefly, works on his smug smirk and trots between him and Rainbow Dash.  “Crash—Meet Stu Leaves, the fastest and most dazzling flier out of Torontrot!”
“Oh come on, brony...” The aforementioned 'Stu' chuckles, blushing.  “Th-That's just a gross exag--”
“SHHH!”  Dumb-Bell snarls and steps ahead, adding to Hoops' stance.  “He's won twelve straight tourneys in a row between here and Fillydelphia!  Torontrot University spent a fortune to keep him on their aerial race team until he finally transferred here to study at Cloudsdale.”
“Well—Yes yes—Those things about the tournaments are true.”  Stu Leaves shrugs.  “But in all honesty, all I'm really here for on this side of Equestria is because I've just been inducted into the--”
“So you think all of that is supposed to impress me?”  Rainbow Dash glares down Stu—causing him to shrink back, twitchingly.  “I dunno who the heck you are and I don't care—But if these flying buckets of screws brought you here to intimidate me, then you can just turn tail and hover on back to Ontarioats!”
“Uhm...Erm—Torontrot--”
“Whatever!”  Rainbow Dash marches haughtily towards the cliff's edge and boredly examines the creases in her left hoof.  “I'm Rainbow Dash—Weather flier of Ponyville and winner of this year's Young Flier's Competition--”
“Ohhhh—The Cloudsdale Young Flier's Competition!”  Stu nods, grinning.  “Heh heh heh—I heard about that!  It sounded sooooo cool!  Plus, I heard that Princess Celestia was there, and I've always wanted to meet--”  He suddenly jolts, his chestnut eyes dilating.  “Wait.”  He squints her way, trembling slightly.  “You're the winner of the Cloudsdale Young Flier's Competition?”
“Yup.”
“You're....(GULP)....the amazing Pegasus pony who did the sp-spectacular Sonic Rainboom?”
“Yuppppp...” She smirks proudly over her shoulder.  “And.....uh....lemme see.....uh......Yup.”
“Whoah.....” Stu blinks, his wings suddenly sprouting up.  “That's so cool--”
“That's so nothing!”  Dumb-Bell growls in the newcomer's face.  “Look at her!  She's a stuck-up angry headed half-wing!  We brought you here so we can all teach her her place!”
“Yeah!”  Hoops rears his hooves and smirks evilly.  “Man, I can't wait to see the look on her face when you smoke her--!”
“Wait...Uhm....” Stu squints, making a slightly confused face.  “Where did 'half-wing' come from?  Isn't that a little rude to be callin--?”
“Look...” Rainbow Dash sighs and glares across the way at the newbie.  “'Stinky Litter', was it?”
“Stu Leaves.”
“Whatever—You're obviously not from around here, so I can't rightfully blame you for not knowing didley squat about these soulless dweebs that you're hanging around with.  So I'll just cut you a break and let you leave peacefully before I do to you what I did to them!”
“So that's where all those bruises on your guys' faces came from!”  Stu chuckles, waggling an eyebrow.  “And you dudes said it was cuz you fell into a snowflake machine!”
“Yeah yeah—So we bent the truth just a tad--”
“--cuz I was saying to myself: 'A snowflake machine is too small for three young adult colts to all fall into at once!  That's horesh--'!”
“Right—WE MADE THAT UP!” Dumb-Bell groans once more.  “Look, Stu.  We promised you that you'd have a good time.  So now that you're here and she's here and we're here—Let's just do this race and get this over with!”
“You guys are seriously so pathetic that you need a tournament flier with the brains of a watermelon to come and race me for you?”  Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes at them.  “Really smoothe, you guys.  Why don't you do evolution a favor and crawl back into a cave where you'll be in good company with all the other dumb rocks?”
“I-I don't think I have the brains of a watermelon--”
“Who said you were just gonna race him?”  Hoops smirks.
“Oh, this sounds rich,” Rainbow sneers back, smiling.  “Hit me, why don't you?”
“We challenge you to race all four of us....through Cloven Canyon!”
Hoops points off the cliffside towards a grand vista resting majestically beneath the Western setting Sun.  A curved crescent of a ravine bends from the South to the North to the South again.  The canyon breaks into a cave at the Northernmost spot, before once again reforming into the amazingly deep trench filled to the brim with briars, rock formations, and jagged granite structures.  The rocky plateau within which the ravine is chiseled is pot-marked with miniature craters and pony-shaped impressions, the tell-tale signs of the unbelievably natural structure being a racing hotspot for Pegasi over countless generations.
“Whew....” Stu Leaves whistles shrilly.  He smirks:  “Cloven Canyon—I've read up so much on it before, but seeing it up close—It's positively breathtaking!”
“It's also potentially life-taking if you don't know what you're in for!”  Dumb-Bell mischievously grins, trotting around as he further monologues:  “First, it's a deep plunge into a shallow ravine full of jagged spikes!  Then it's a sidewinding squeeze of narrow trenches sunk into the earth!  Then it's a huge briar patch full of ancient, petrified thorny roots!  Then there's Cloven Cave—a dark and scary tunnel carved through crumbling, unstable rock!  Finally there's the last stretch—a grand winding curve through a countless obstacle course of rocks, buttes, and stala-....stalag-....st---even sharper rocks!”
“Sounds fun.”
“So let me get this straight... ....”  Rainbow Dash balks at the three brash ponies and their friend, before nodding her multi-colored mane towards the curved, gaping canyon of doom.  “You want me—To race all of four of you—Through Cloven Canyon—And my only chance of proving myself up to the challenge is if I come out in first place?”
“And the loser gets to realize what a stupid half-wing she was for ever talking smack to us to begin with!”
“Seriously—What's all this flak about a 'half-wing'---?”
“Sounds like a lovely way to waste an afternoon.”  Rainbow Dash says—but feels the weight of the rubies on her back once more and clears her throat.  “But—Another time, perhaps.”
The three bulky colts gape at her simultaneously.  “You're turning us down?”
“Pfft--Don't look so shocked.  Would a hydra bother to meet a cockroach's challenge at a biting competition?  Meh—You three aren't worth my time, with or without your prettyboi excuse for a 'secret weapon' over there.”  She turns tail and makes to fly off the cliffside.  “Like I said before, I've got stuff to do.  Why don't you guys try getting some real friends and maybe you'll understand a thing or two about how impossible it is for your worthless selves to do so!”
“And just which of your friends makes it worth you turning into a cowardly filly on us?”  Dumb-Bell barks before Hoops or Quarterback can bother to stop him.  “Is it that lame Klutzershy?”
Rainbow Dash freezes in place on the edge of the cliff.  She icily turns around, icily glares, icily marches back towards the group.  Her frowning snout stares down Dumb-Bell, her voice thickly cold, like a cauldron drop of liquid metal.  “What did you just call her....?”
“Klutzershy.”  Dumb-Bell bravely hisses into the blue Pegasus' face.  “And she really is a total klutz for thinking she's of any worth for clinging onto your sorry wings!”
“Wh-Who's this 'Klutzershy'?”  Stu blinks oddly.
“Her name is Fluttershy!”  Rainbow Dash barks.  “And if the three of you brainless punks had any ounce of good sense in you, you'd remember how badly you bit it the last time I made you pay for poking fun at her!”
“Oh yeah?”  Dumb-Bell grins.  “Why don't you remind us, half-wing!  If it means so much to you--”
“Fine!”  Rainbow Dash grins back.  “I will!  I'll beat you--”  She points a hoof.  “And you!” Another hoof. “And most especially you!”  A jagged hoof at the blinking Stu.  “All on my lonesome—Be it here, be it in Cloven Canyon, be it on the surface of the Celestia-forsaken moon—Anywhere!”
“Snkkt—hahaha--” Hoops chuckled.  “But what about your precious delivery--”
“And even with this pathetic bag of crud on my back!”  Rainbow Dash hops, saddle jostling.  “And when I win against all four of you—The losers will have to march up to Fluttershy's door and apologize in pony!”
“Pfft—As if--”
“Swear it!”  Rainbow snarls.  “Or the race is off!”
“All right then, Rainbow Crash!  We swear—Right, bronies?”
“Right!”
“R-Right!”
“...... ..... ....” Stu blinks.  “Oh....erm...” He blushes.  “Eh heh—Right!”
Rainbow Dash takes a page out of Apple Jack's book, spits on her hoof, rubs it against her chest, and extends it forward for Dumb-Bell to shake.
Dumb-Bell reaches forward--
But then Rainbow Dash takes a page out of her own book and slaps her hoof viciously against Dumb-Bell's unguarded chest. WHAP!
“OOOF!”  The colt bowls over as his two companions chuckle madly.  He snaps at them and flaps his wings as he takes off after Rainbow Dash towards the Cloven Canyon beyond.
Stu watches the four fly off.  His chestnut eyes twitch, and he once more flicks his yellow-and-green streaked tail of black.  “Heh-Heh!  This will be fun!”
“Shut up, Stu!  And come bring your wings with you!”
“Er, s-sure thing....”  He effortlessly soars after the bunch.  “Yeesh, the things I insert myself into...”








“There's a reason why I shouldn't really be the one writing about friendship, and Twilight should be, Princess.  I mean, I'm pretty sure I did my job here in this letter—which is already a lot longer than I had ever planned on hoofing into words.  I've told you about Apple Jack's dependability, about what it takes to get used to someone like Pinkie Pie, about Rarity's generosity and vampirism, and also about Fluttershy being my best friend and all...
“But in the end, as awesome as Friendship is, I feel a little bit evil to say that it's not the most important thing in my life.  More than all of that, I like flying.  More than flying, I like showing off as the best Pegasus in the world—like I am.  And more than showing off, I—Rainbow Dash—love winning.
“What does it to mean to win?  Quite frankly, I've always felt that it means showing the rest of the world how much it stinks and just how awesome you are in comparison.  We can pillow-fluff together all of the poetry we want to about the Elements of Harmony this or Sharing and Kindness that—But in the end we're all still living in a crazy mean world with crazy mean ponies and only so few plunderiffic spoils to be had between them.  Life is really just one big mad race to see who gets what and how much of it.  I think that's why sports were invented—cuz if we couldn't act out all of our aggressive selfishness in some sort of traditional artform, then we'd all be bucking each other's skulls off for realziez.
“Now, granted, there are times when I've put winning to the side for the sake of preserving friendship.  Take the Autumn Running of the Leaves, for example; I made a total mule out of myself by scuffling and scraping and clawing with Apple Jack during the whole competition.  But when I realized I had lost the race—And AJ too for that matter—I decided just to let the whole thing rest, cuz if I beat the fact that I lost into the ground, I could have severely ticked off Apple Jack beyond the point of forgiveness.  And as much as she smells like hay, I really don't think I would want something that terrible to happen between me and her at this point in my life.  After all, I have all the time in the world to be winning at what I do—but friendship, as it turns out, is quite a fragile thing.  And losing friendship is a lot worse than losing anything else.  Trust me on that crap.
“But then there's the other side of me—the part of me who needs to win, no matter what.  And that shade of Rainbow Dash takes a sideways glance at—say—Twilight Sparkle and how happy she was to get the Fifth Place Medal for finishing the Running of the Leaves.  I acted all happy for her and jazz at the time—but, seriously—fifth place?  The only reason a medal like that exists is to make ponies think of putting something else around their neck that isn't a noose once they've trotted back home in humiliating shame.  I mean—Kudos to Twilight Sparkle for wanting to live in the moment and enjoy the race.  I too like to live in the moment, but only if that moment is meant for living in its fullest.  And anything but first place—in my book—is not worth living for.
“Twilight's a flippin' nerd, by the way.  I dunno if you know that about your star pupil.”







“Okay.  Here are the rules...”
Hoops speaks, all the while flexing his wings and shaking his hooves loose from the southwestern edge of the cascading canyon cleft.  Beneath him and the other stretching Pegasi, Cloven Canyon dips deep into a violent smattering of rock outcroppings, before bending gradually towards the right into a series of several haircomb thin trenches that further carry the ravine eastward beyond sight.
“After the starting signal, we descend upon the canyon.  This will be no holds barred; every pony for himself—Rainbow Crash too.  No flying above the trenches!  If so much as one tip of your wing rises above the walls of the canyon, you're disqualified!  The entire race must be flown through the ravine—and that includes both the briar patch and Cloven Cave located towards the center--”
“I know what the rules are!”  Rainbow Dash grunts while doing push-ups with the bulging saddlebag on her back.  Her sweat glistens in the yellowing Rays of the Sunset.  “Don't act like it's not my millionth time flying Cloven Canyon!”
“It's my first time!”  Stu Leaves pleasantly chuckles.  “I-I'd like to hear the rules, if you don't mind!”
“Well why don't you grab some audio tapes on your way out?”  Rainbow Dash sneers.  “They're in the Cloven Canyon gift shop!”
“R-Really?”
“Nnnngh—Gawd.”
“Ahem—Like I was saying...” Hoops briefly glares and resumes:  “The first to make it down the Southeastern curve and land on the top of the slope is the winner!  If it's any of us colts—We win.  If it's Rainbow Crash—which it won't be—then the half-wing won't have to swallow her own horseshoes!”
“Horseshoes?”  Rainbow Dash wheezes in mid ruby-weighted push-up.  “That w-wasn't part of the agreement!”
“It became so the moment you told us we'd have to go and apologize to Klutzershy if you won!  Yeachkk!”
“For the last time, don't call her--”
“Hey, I've got a question!”  Stu stretches a wing up high.
“What?”  “What?!?”  Both male and female Pegasi glare at him.
He shrinks back slightly, colored black tail flicking nervously.  “Uhm...Wh-What do I get for winning?”
“A place to sleep for the week!  Cuz we'll make sure nobody's lending you a room in Clousdale University's dorms if you fail us!”
“Why's everyone so flippin' hardcore over a single map anyways?”  Stu Leaves nervously laughs.  “Eheheh—It's just a race, right?  Why all the madness?”
“Madness?”  Rainbow Dash snarls, does one final push up, and hisses:  “This.  Is.  Cloudsdale!  Nnnngh-YEAH!”  She hops up tall to her hooves and shakes the sweatdrops loose.  “Ready to race your sorry snouts into the ground, you pathetic wastes of thoroughbreds!”
“Not without us, you aren't!”  A feminine voice calls out from above.
“H-Huh?”  Dumb-Bell glances up from doing sweaty curl-ups.  He groans.  “Oh great—The Estrogen Squadron has arrived...”
A certain mohawk'd Pegasus with glittering red eyes touches down along with the usual circle of her closest companions.  “Rainbow Dash!  There you are....!”
“Hiya, Wyndi...” Rainbow Dash softly smirks.
“Wyndi Breeze, as I live and gag...” Hoops rolls his eyes under a mat of stiff bangs.  “Come to take the half-wing's side, as usual?”
Wyndi stares down Hoops with a vicious glare.  “Honestly!  Still using that insult as a crutch?”
“Pfft—Rainbow Crash is the one needing a crutch!  Not me!”  Hoops smirks back at the filly.  “What's the matter, brush-head?  Your day-job of sticking your skull in a toilet rubbing you the wrong way?”
Quarterback and Dumb-Bell both laugh.  Stu Leaves merely blinks.
“Some of us have better things to do than poke fun at each other like immature foals!”  Wyndi upturns her nose.
“Yeah?  Like what?”
“Like cheering for the best flier in all of Equestria!”  Wyndi smirks and marches over to Rainbow Dash's side.  “Heya, Dash-Dash.  At first, I thought it was just another wing'd rumor.  But as soon as we heard you were racing these four beef'd up crash test dummies, well—How could the girls and I resist coming to watch?”
“And how exactly did you know that we were gonna---?”  Rainbow Dash stops in mid-sentence, her eyes thinning pathetically towards Stu Leaves.  “Wait.  Lemme guess....”
“I hear that he's the fastest flier out of Torontrot!”
“Is he, now?  I only had that shoved through my ears with a forklift the first moment I saw him.”
“No joke!  This is gonna be so awesome watching you show this schmuck that Cloudsdale's got the best wings in all of Equestria!”  Wyndi aimed her snout upwards, gesturing towards several conjoining flocks of Pegasi—over three dozen in count—suddenly descending onto the scene, forming quite an audience at the edge of Cloven Canyon.  “I wasn't the only one who heard about this!  Everyone's chomping at the bit—literally--to see you do your stuff!  Maaaaaybe I kind of sort of talked most of them into coming here, but—ahem—Who knows?!  Maybe we'll get to see you do your awesome Sonic Rainboom again to boot!”
“Ehh—I dunno....” Rainbow Dash blushes slightly and scratches her right leg with a proud hoof.  “The Sonic Rainboom is kind of a 'you only live to do twice' sort of a thing.  Besides, I'm branching out.  I've always hated the thought of being a One Trick Pegasus.”
“Uhmmm.....” Wyndi suddenly sweatdrops, glancing at the Rainbow Dash's backside.  “Rainbow—Just what in Equestria is all that?”
“All what?”
“That.”
“Oh—A bunch of junk I'm delivering for a friend.”
“But—Erm...” She leans in, whispering while glancing nervously at the gathered crowd over their shoulders.  “Isn't that kind of weighing you down?”
“Pfft—Weighing me down?” Rainbow Dash smirks.  “Do you forget whom you're talking to?”
“N-No, it's not that.  Just--”
“I'm Rainbow Dash.  I put the 'G' in gravity, then take it right back out to laugh at 'Avity'.... ... ...Okay, I didn't really think that last bit out too well.”
“They talked you into it, didn't they?”
“Nobody ever talks me into anything.”  Rainbow frowns.  “I made it as part of the challenge.  Besides....”  She grumbles.  “They called her 'Klutzershy' again...”
“Who's Klutzers--?”
“But don't worry—I've got this all in the bag!  Erm—Including the bag.  I'll outrace these morons lickety split, and then finish my delivery for Rarity afterwards.”
“That's a delivery for a friend?” Wyndi Breeze gulps.  “Dash-Dash, are you sure you don't want me to hold onto it while you--?”
“HEY!”  Dumb-Bell barks from the sidelines.  “Are you two done making out?  We got a race to do before sundown, yanno!”
“Yeah—You ready to lose, Rainbow Crash?”  Hoops joins in.
Rainbow Dash menacingly trots around Wyndi's side and grins at them.  “A wise sage once said:  'Some will win, some will lose; some were born to sing the blues'.”  A snorting of her nostrils, and she smiles an evil crescent moon.  “After tonight, you'd better buy yourself a birdcage, cuz I'll teach you to sing like there's no tomorrow!”
Dumb-Bell:  “That was so stupid, I forgot to laugh!”
Rainbow Dash:  “If I was as ugly as you, I'd take one look in the mirror and forget how to laugh too!”
“Ohhhhhh!”  “Haaahaahaa!”  “Woooo!”  The surrounding audience cries and chuckles and cheers.  Dumb-Bell glances at all of them, snarls, and roars:
“All right!  Hoops!  Quarterback!  Stu—Let's get this action started!”
“I know you're gonna show them who's boss, Rainbow...” Wyndi glances nervously from the blue Pegasus' saddlebag, the canyon spikes, the audience, and her again.  “B-But remember, Dash-Dash....be careful.”
“Wyndi, if there's anything you remember from when we used to hang out all the time—I may be many awesome things.  But when I came into this world, I was most certainly not introduced carefully.”  She licks the sweat off her lips and gallops towards the edge of the Canyon slope.  “Care to do the honors for me...?”
“Huh—OH!  Sure thing, Dash-Dash!”  Wyndi spins and whistles to her gaggle of friends.  One of the fillies tosses her a checkered flag on the end of a wooden stick.  She catches it in her snout and flutters over to a loan rock spire positioned about twenty yards in front of the starting line.
Rainbow Dash touches down between Hoops and Stu Leaves, grinding her hooves until she is right at the edge of the invisible starting line that the four racers have formed behind.  She cracks the joints in her neck and knees before hunching over to focus--
“You're going down, Rainbow Cra—”  Hoops begins.
“Ssssssh—No, dude!  She has a comeback for that one!”  Dumb-Bell pathetically reminds his friend.
“Uhhh....Uhhh....”  Hoops blinks, blinks more stupidly, then growls:  “Now you just threw off my rhythm!”
“Yeah!”  Rainbow smirks.  “Assuming you were dancing to a funeral dirge!”
Quarterback laughs snortingly at that.
Hoops spits:  “Shuddup, brony!”
“Y-Yes, Hoops....”
Stu Leaves stretches, takes a deep breath, and smiles.  “Mmmm—Great air over this canyon, isn't it?”  He glances over at Rainbow Dash, grinning.  “Good luck!  Hope you have fun!”
“The only thing I'm gonna have is the last laugh at your failure!” The Blue Pegasus glares back.  “So why don't you keep your shallow words to yourself you...you...”  She squints quizzocally over him, finally focusing on the green-and-yellow stripe highlighted across his black mane and tail.  “--you Streakie!”
“H-Hey!  'Streakie'!”  Stu blinks, tapping his chin in thought.  “I kinda like that!  I think maybe I should make that my wing-name the first day I fly with--”
“Save your breath for losing, buddy!”  Rainbow Dash squats low, her legs coiling into a muscular spring as she glares fearlessly into the mouth of the canyon sloping beneath them.
The gathered Pegasi whoop and cheer—Leaning forward on the edge of their hooves as Wyndi positions herself on the rock spire with the checkered flag.  All eyes are on her as the five racers tighten their limbs.  The wind grows cold and breathless between their heartbeats as sweatbulbs dribble off of outstretching wings as one by one they prepare for the inevitable jolt of the race's start.  A magical sound like burning jet engines converge upon the scene, accompanying their shadows that stretch tensely Eastward in the wide golden glaze of the setting Sun.
Wyndi glances at them all, at the audience, at the Canyon below.  A curve of her lips, and she whispers out the side of her mouth.  “Go for the Boom, Dash-Dash.”  And with a swing of her neck, she waves the checkered flag down in a majestic arch--
SWOOOOOOOOOSH!
The mohawk'd girl briefly shrieks as five blazing bodies roar past her and plunge like comets into the yawning ravine below.  She grins and yells at the top of her lungs as the Pegasi flutter over and make a swift straight line for the other end of the canyon, their eyes locked on the distant fliers below.









The wind howls madly around Rainbow Dash's slicked-back ears as she aims her snout like a cruise missile, her body angled to slice forward through the condensed air between the canyon walls surrounding her.  The roaring cacophony of the deep earthen trench run is quadrupled by the proximity of so many other pairs of wings around her.  The four colts are rumbling the air all around, ramping up the turbulence as the young female Pegasus bolts along the first leg of the race.  She veers left and right, gracefully dodging various jagged towers of rock and granite shooting up out of the mercilessly pointed floor of the ravine.
A wild shout—And she looks behind her to see Quarterback barely lunging out of grasp of a jagged spike of rock.  He exhales with relief while his brother and close friend surge past him, snarling and grunting with the effort of acceleration.  Stu Leaves is nowhere to be seen.
“Heh.... ...Stupid newbie--”  Rainbow Dash speaks aloud, only hearing herself below the tumultuous thunder of canyon flight.  “--the moron's so far behind, I can't even see him--”  She glances ahead.  She gasps.  “Horseapples!”
Stu Leaves is about five breaths ahead, his majestic wings outstretched like a giant green eagle.  He throttles effortlessly past the buttes and other rock formations, gently tilting on the z-axis with trained professionalism as he barrels towards the distant haircomb trenches ahead.
“Grrrrghh!”  Rainbow snarls and tightens her outstretched hooves as her wings kick into a faster 'gear'.  “Not on my watch, showoff!”  She slowly inches her way forward, past her previous velocity—Just as a great dark shadow looms in from behind.
“Nnnngh—YAH!”  Dumb-Bell viciously elbows into the blue Pegasus, sending her veering straight into the path of a hurdling column of rock.
Rainbow Dash gasps, clenches her teeth, and twirls to the left.  She barely rounds the bulging stalk of the rock pillar, zoops around it, and comes back parallel to Dumb-Bell's flank.  “So that's how it's gonna be?”
“You're gonna live up to your name, Rainbow Crash!”
“Good thing your parents didn't waste time when coming up with yours!”  Rainbow Dash banks to the left suddenly, rotates her wings into a right angle with each other, and flings herself via the wind into a corkscrew, shooting towards Dumb-Bell.
“Wh-Whoah!”  He flinches and dives low to dodge her--
Swooosh!  The sheer wind resistance from Rainbow Dash's proximity sends him flailing backwards.  She once more focuses on the distant image of Stu Leaves far ahead and shoots her wings back behind her to catch up with First Place--
“HAAAUGH!”  Hoops roars up in Dumb-Bell's stead, headbutting Rainbow Dash viciously in the flank.
“Whoah-Whoah-Whoah-Whoah!”  Rainbow Dash suddenly goes bug-eyed as she spins several three-sixties, falling back to Third Place.  A growl, and she kicks her hooves square into the side of the canyon wall.  A crunching noise—and a vertical crater forms as she savagely kicks off—POW!--and bullets herself into Hoops' side.  “Unnngh!”
Wham!  “Augh!”  Hoops snarls and butts into her again.  Rainbow Dash recoils easily, twirls around him, and bats his face repeatedly with her front hooves at full speed.  He spits and coughs and sputters dizzily from her blows—snarls--then clamps onto a strap of her saddle bag with clenched teeth.
“H-Hey!  Don't touch the leather!”  She snarls as their conjoined flight takes them barreling madly back and forth in a weaving pattern across the canyon—bumping into several rock pillars, spilling dust and pebbles everywhere and forcing the other two races behind them to duck and dodge.  Thud!  Thud!  Thud!  “Nnnnnn-nnnngh!”  Rainbow Dash hisses, struggling to disentangle herself from the light brown bully.  She looks up and gasps to see the thin trenches looming within a breath's reach, and Stu Leaves disappearing within the far right gap.
A deep snarl, and Rainbow Dash suddenly retracts her wings.  Hanging on by Hoops' weight alone, she causes the two to spin-spin-spin-spin uncontrollably until the shouting colt finally lets go of her strap, flinging the two of them blindly towards the trenched wall.  Rainbow Dash gasps for breath, angles herself sideways, and stretches her wings flat out in time to squeeze her way through the leftmost trench, Dumb-Bell fast on her tail. SH-SHOOOP!
Speeding sideways, Rainbow Dash hugs all four legs to her belly—barely threading her blue way through the sandwich-thin trench.  The tight squeeze gets tighter as this part of the canyon starts to bend northeasterly, forcing her to curve blindly into the walls blurring dustily beyond the extremity of her clouded vision.  The seriousness of this claustrophobic part of the race makes itself clear in the grinding noise of the saddlebag's bulging body as it scrapes the north face of the trench she's currently throttling through.
“Nnnngh—Stupid....Rubies... ....Hoity.... ...Toity....Can... ...Make Love.... ...To My....R-Right Hoof!”  Rainbow Dash spits and drools into the merciless g-forces.  Suddenly, she's yanked hard from behind.  “Ackies!”
“Hnnnngh!”  Dumb-Bell clasps ahold of her tail, kicks off the wall, and grabs her soaring body in a vicious double-arm hold from behind.  “T-Time to kiss granite, Half-Wing!  Haah!”  He yanks her neck into a stiff hoof-bar.
“Hckkk--”  Dash sputters and gasps for breath.  “Snkkt—H-Hey!  Quit it, you suicidal pile of parasprites--”  She gasps as her skull is viciously shoved into the blurring trenchwall beside her.
“Heh heh heh heh--”  Dumb-Bell's eyes bloodily throb as he grinds her dustily into the roaring earth.
Scrkkkkkkk!  Rainbow Dash's eyes roll back into the frictious mayhem rubbing her cheek raw.  A spot of golden sunset glints into her eyes.  She she shuts her lids, takes a focused breath, and yanks her tail back.  The multi-colored 'limb' agilely wraps around Dumb-Bell's left rear hoof and pulls harshly.
“Nnngh—Ah—WHOAH!”  Dumb-Bell shrieks girlishly as his own weight is dragged out from under him.  He lets go of Rainbow Dash in a horribly unrehearsed full-hoof'd toss.
Rainbow Dash grunts and gasps as she pinballs violently between the thin walls of the trench.  Whud-Whud-Whud-Whud!  A bold shout—she retracts and unfurls her wings in a well-timed flap, pushing her upwards and sending a gust of wind down into Dumb-Bell's now cannonballing ragdoll of a body just as--
SWOOOOSH!
--they emerge from the thin line of trenches, with Rainbow Dash twirling upside down so as not to gain disqualifying altitude.  As for Dumb-Bell:  “Aaaaa--”  He bowling balls his way over the ground, bounces several times--”Oof!  Ugh! Augh!  Whoah!”--and collides brick-hard into a rock column positioned in the center of the widely opening canyon.  THUDD!  Rainbow Dash soars mightily overhead, followed shortly by Quarterback and Hoops, emerging from their own separate trenches and zooming hot on the blue Pegasus' tail.
Rainbow Dash spits and coughs up dust, rubbing her reddened cheek.  She squints ahead and snarls to see Stu Leaves looming even farther ahead than before.  “Darn it!  Darn it darn it darn it—Must burn atmosphere!”  A roaring jet sound, and she bursts ahead in a vaporous cloud of billowing oxygen molecules.  The jagged canyon congeals into a great brown blur around her as she aims herself towards a wide black blur:  the ancient briar patch that thornily resides ahead of the race.  A shadow suddenly looms over her.  She glances up to see Hoops struggling to catch up.
“Y-You're gonna pay for clobbering Dumb-Bell like that--!”  The light brown colt pantingly growls.
“Yeah?  With a pocketful of your broken dreams, maybe!”  Rainbow Dash smirks and flies upside down with her hooves lazily hooked behind her head in a reclining position.  “Tell me, Hoops—Are you really flying, or are you just farting with style?”
“Why you--!”  He snarls and angles his wings so that he's soaring down at her in a maddening drop-kick.
“Heeheeheehee--” Rainbow Dash sticks her tongue out and effortlessly banks sideways to avoid his drop.
POW!  Hoops' hooves form a crater in the earth.  Bouncing up, he dizzily blinks and realizes he's lost speed.  Frowning at Rainbow Dash as she soars after Stu towards the thick of the briar patch, he then glances sideways and smirks at a pile of loose rocks.  “H-Huppp!”  He dashes down, expertly arches his body up, and kicks a flurry of razor-sharp rocks forward so that they slice their way viciously towards the Second Place filly.  “Here's for trying to be a real cut above the rest, Rainbow Crash!  Hah hah hah--”
“Now just what is he hee-hawing about--?”  She glances back.  Her violet eyes widen.  “Cow Cookies!”  She shrieks and twirls her body with limbs branched out at awkard angles, forming an appropriate silhouette that dodges all five or six rocks hurtling towards and past her.  SW-SW-SWIISH!  One grazes her left leg, spilling a tiny spray of blood.  Wincing, she yanks her head upside down and glances ahead of her.
As Stu Leaves dives through a hole in the briar patch, the thrown rocks surge forward and slam into a cluster of brown-twigged nests.  In a flurry of caw-cawing noises, a murder of crows spills out and flap every which way across the already clustered entrance to the black sea of thorns.
“Hoboy!”  Rainbow Dash holds her breath, retracts her left wing, and spins-spins-spins-spins like a corkscrew through the rampaging flock of black feathers and beaks.  Fw-Fw-Fw-Fw-Fw-Fwoosh!  The Blue Pegasus knifes her way twirlingly through a thick ocean of shrill cawing noises.  “Nnnnn-Nnnnnnghhh!”  Finally bursting through, she reopens her eyes and gasps to see a jagged web of thorned branches screaming towards her eyesight.
The filly stretches her left wing back out, angles both Earth-ward, and soars up at the last second.  She roars over a cluster of thorns, only to hurtle her way straight into another set of brambles.  Stifling a shriek, the brave Pegasus proceeds to dip and dodge and wind and thread her way through the obsidian-black web of cluttered wood and spikes that make up the Cloven Canyon briar patch.  All visible light blinks in a kaleidoscope as the gnarled black forest of the middle-canyon shutter-snaps the glow of the beaming Sunset above.
Several cluttered limbs below, Hoops' younger brother Quarterback is having even worse luck than the she-Pegasus.  “Nnngh—B-Brony!  Why'd you have to do that?!  I c-can't handle these stupid birds--”  He whimpers and helplessly bats the cawing creatures off his face.  Squinting forward, his face pales and his eyes dilate.  “Ohhhhhhh Luna Lumps.”  THUDDD!  He slams straight into a thorny vine, bouncing off several more down below as he rattles his grunting and gasping way towards the Canyon Bed.  Above him, Hoops soars undaunted, squinting and glaring upwards until he catches sight of a blur blue.  Snarling, he kicks off a random branch blurring beneath him and shoots violently upwards.
Just as Rainbow Dash can finally register a green shape flying ahead of her, she catches wind of a hurdling missile from down below.  “H-Huh?  Oh, of course--”
“Haaaugh!”  Hoops slams mercilessly into her.
“Ooof!”  Rainbow Dash careens upwards, flattens her body, slides thinly through a crease in two criss-crossing branches, then sails down with a spinning buck to his flank.  “Back at ya, brainless!”  Th-Thap!
“Ooof!”  Hoops swoops down, ducks under a thorny branch, growls, and jerks back up with another viscious swing of his hooves.
Rainbow Dash braces herself—but gasps in mid-flight, for Hoops has kicked the base of a huge cluster of briars instead, strategically causing it to rattle, shake, and rain twigs all over Rainbow's half of the canyon.
“See if you come out of this with any wings, Half-Wing!”  He chuckles over the rising thunder of the collapsing branches and surges out of sight.
Rainbow Dash pants and pants, twirling and dodging and barreling past a virtual blizzard of thorns and obsidian wood chips.  She glances ahead—eyes twitching to see an entire hulking trunk of vines crashing down from the snowball effect started by Hoops' kick.  With the entire upper part of the briar ahead completely obscured, she suicidally dives downward.  “Nnnnnngh—Ahhhhhhh!”  She screams for effort, slicing her way down against the rocky earth, spinning upside down as she panickedly sees the huge trunk slamming down onto her--
THUDDD!  She slides underneath the crashing stalk with only inches behind her tail to spare.  A sudden wall of thorns, and she pulls viciously up—roaring through a thin tunnel of vibrating vines and brambles.  The briar's canal grows tighter and tighter around her.  A hint of sunlight, and Rainbow briefly smiles—but then gasps to see a solid wall of twigs and thorns thoroughly blocking her way.  Rocketing forward at breakneck speed and with nowhere else to turn, she holds her breath, tucks both wings in, and curls up into a fetal position.
“.... ..... ...... .... ..... ....!”
SMASSSSSH!
Rainbow Dash's body explodes out of the Eastern edge of the great black briar patch, her body plummeting like a cannonball into the great yawning breath of the open canyon beyond.  Startled to see she's cleared the briar, much less done so alive, she flips her wings out and pulls her body up just two and a half feet before slamming into the jagged ground.  Twirling, twirling, twirling—she finally rotates herself upright in time to see the gently gliding body of Hoops half-a-breath ahead.  Bearing a new smirk, she spits into the air, growls, and bolts toward him.
“Hmmmm.... ....” Hoops enjoys the solitary victory all too briefly.  The sound of jet engine thunder, and he squints back behind his shoulder.  “Huh?  Oh no way--”
“YES WAY!”  Rainbow Dash zips up, plants her hooves into the square of his back, and applies all of her weight.  “Way to be my trampoline, duncebag!”  And she springs off him with a re-energized takeoff, leaving Hoops floundering and coughing in a wave of briarthorn'd sawdust.
“Nnngh—Kaff!  Kaff!  Rrrrrgh—No you don't!”  Hoops' wings surge violently to pull his hulking self up after her.
Meanwhile, Rainbow Dash is making up for lost time, slicing through the air towards a solid wall of rock ahead that can only be Cloven Cave.  She breathes steadier and steadier, marveling as the wing'd green form of Stu Leaves appears closer than ever before.  “Come on....Come on, girl....”  She hisses into the skin-biting canyon air. “Only halfway done.  Don't give up now.  Don't let some namby-pamby chump from Torontrot put you to shame--”
“Half Winggggg!”
Rainbow Dash groans and looks behind.  “What now?—WHOAH!”  WHUMP!  She gasps as Hoops sacrifices forward acceleration just to shove her up, up, up skyward with all his weight.  She struggles with all of her energy to break free—But can only gasp as she finds the two of them approaching the canyon ceiling, and inevitable disqualification--
“No holds barred...”  Hoops snickeringly hisses, throttling the two of them skyward.  “One way or another, y-you're gonna lose!  Even if it takes Stu to beat you--”
“I....Will N-Not....hnnngh...B-Be beaten by a sissy, prissy, mare-y Stu!”  Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath, reaches down, and unlatches the belt keeping her saddlebag in place.  The bulging bag flies free from her spine.
“Whoah!”  Hoops gasps, suddenly realizing that the weight he's shoving skyward is splitting in two and he's not sure what to do about it.  “Wh-What—Where--?!”
“Hnnngh!--HERE!”  Rainbow Dash clasps the strap of the saddlebag in her teeth, yanks hard to the side, and slams the satchel full of hard, jagged rubies mercilessly across Hoops' flank.  WH-WHAP!  Then a vicious uppercut of the mace-like bag against his skull.  WHAM!  As he teeters back dizzily in mid-flight, she grasps the bag in two front hooves and flies backwards, snickering at him.  “Come back when you've got the stones to mess with me, punk!  Haa haa haa---”  She glances forward, upside down.  “---Haaaa-AAAAAAAUGH!”
The mouth to Cloven Cave looms in front of her.
“Nnngh!”  She drops down—losing grip of the saddlebag.  In a desperate gasp, she flutters her limbs up and juggles the satchel once or twice before finally catching it.  As she barrels into the dark yawning entrance of the cave, she spins, spins, spins—all the while struggling to tie Rarity's flapping delivery back to her hide.  Finally, after floundering with the last beltstraps—tightening them in place—she pulls up in time to avoid a sea of razor sharp rocks glistening blow her.  She pulls up effortlessly, her panting breath echoing across the dark cavern.
The least can be said about Hoops—Who barely snaps out of the sleeping spell caused by Rainbow's bag-pummeling in time to see his body careening screamily into a rocky platform on the floor of the cave.  THUD!  The vibration of the colt's groaning impact reverberates across the cave, and naturally there's a large boulder positioned right on the crest of the platform that he slams into—So that it's ushered into a growingly violent roll directly after Rainbow Dash's multicolored flag of a tail.  CRKKK-KKKKK!
“Crud!”  Rainbow gasps and flaps her wings harder, surging forward to outfly the rampaging boulder.  “Crud crud crud crud crud crud in a crud trough!”
The cave roars with explosion after explosion as the runaway boulder smashes through pillars, colemns, clefts of rock, and various other geological absurdities.  As it barrels in on the blue Pegasus' hind quarters, the thunder becomes deaffening.
With the cave growing thinner, Rainbow Dash runs out of options for dodging left or right.  “Nnnngh—OhgoshOhgoshOhgoshhhh--”  She clenches her eyes shut, twirls upside down, and bravely surges ceilingwards, allowing the boulder to outroll her from a sneeze's distance below.  Something whips past her nose.  She reopens her eyes and gasps to see several stalactites zipping barely half an inch from her skull and chest.  Sandwiched between the rumbling boulder below and the slicing spikes above, she can only fly in place and hold her lungs—tucking her belly in.  At one point, a glistening sharp stalactite nips at her mane, slicing off a tiny prismatic lock of hair.  A second one sings serratedly past her ear and rips through one of the belt straps of the saddlebag.  SNIPP!  Rainbow Dash grasps and swiftly swings her hooves down to catch the bag of jewels before it can fall down into the crunching boulder below.  She desperately ties the dangling loose straps into a knot just as the thunder inside the cave increases tenfold.  She glances ahead, and in her upside vision she sees the forked mouth of the cave—forked, because there is a thick pillar of rock stretching from floor-to-ceiling at the edge of the cavern, decidedly resting in the runaway boulder's path.
“Uhhh-Uhhhhhh--”  She glances up, down, left, right--”ULP.”  She gulps and flinches as everything that is everything comes to a crashing end.  At the last second, she flips backwards--
SMASSSH!  The rocky boulder hits the pillar, exploding into two shattered halves—And through the dust in between the ruptured rock chunks... .... ...a blue Pegasus victoriously emerges, spinning the debris off as she banks a right and roars down the last stretch of Cloven Canyon, and the gracefully soaring figure of Stu Leaves beyond.
“Aaaaah!  AAAAAH!”  Rainbow Dash lets out a war cry and tightens the hastily tied saddlestraps on her chest before beating her own breast with both hooves.  “Who wants some, Equestria?!”  She snorts out her nostrils.  “Plenty more where that came from, you silly stupid land of magical horse friends!  Bring it!  Rgghhhh!”  With a crazed look on her face, the rainbow colored pony angles her wings back like a steel arrowhead and shoots forth with the power of several invisible exploding stars.
In the meantime, Stu Leaves is pacing himself, maintaining an expert velocity as he eyes the distant upwards slope at the Southeast far edge of the canyon: the end of the race.  As he comes around from briefly dodging a rock pillar, he double-glances sideways to see a blue figure roaring up to match his speed.  “Wh-Whoah!  Hey there!”  He smiles breathily, the yellow and green streaks in his black mane billowing wildly behind him.  “Finally!  I was starting to get lonely!”
“Second Place is as lonely as it gets, pistachio-eyes!”  Rainbow Dash pants and grins devilishly at him.  “You wanna fit in at Cloudsdale?  Go make yourself a crater in the Earth!  HAH!”  She blurs past him.
He blinks—Then grins and accelerates to match her.
Soon, both green and blue Pegasi are surging neck and neck, weaving in and around buttes and boulders and rock pillars.  The setting Sun turns amber then crimson against the aged levels of rock whirring past their billowing manes as both ponies twist and spin and roar towards the finishing line together.  Stu Leaves sweats and licks his lips in concentration.  Rainbow Dash grimaces and hisses into the wind beating against her face.  As the distant cheers of Wyndi and the other spectating Pegasi alight their ears, it's Rainbow Dash who starts to pull ahead—slowly—inch by inch.
Stu marvels at her, his breathless mouth agape.  He chuckles into the crashing wind and exclaims:  “H-Hey!  You're good!”
She sneers back.  “No—I'm the best!  Hnnnnnghh--”  Rainbow Dash strains and struggles, seeing the sloping earth ahead, the line of equine silhouettes laced above the canyon wall with stretching wings.  She glances back—eyes tearing—as she revels in the distance she's gaining between Stu and herself.  But that's not all.  “H-Hey!  Stu Leaves!  Champion of Torontrot!!”
“Nnngh--!”  He pants and barely manages to look ahead at her.  “Wh-What...?”
Her eyes narrow.  “Eat.  My.  Dust.”  A shout, and Rainbow Dash stretches her wings straight out to either side.  For the briefest of seconds, she stalls in-midair, only for her to flap her wings one more time, waving a concussion of sheer wind resistance back towards him in a bubble of distorted air.  THOOOMMM!
“Whoah-Whoah-Whoahwhoahwhoah—AAAGH!”  Stu Leaves howls helplessly as he flails in the air from the thunderous knockback.  His twirling body screams down Earthward, ricochets off the canyon wall, bounces hard against a rock pillar, and slams meteor-hard into the ground.  WHUD!  “Ughhh--”
“Send my regards to gravity, you hay-brained melon fudge!”  Rainbow Dash triumphantly roars as she curves upwards into an ascent, navigates the rising slope at the end of the canyon, and rockets over the finishing line in a prismatic blur of happy madness.  SWOOOOOOSH!
Wyndi and the other Pegasi cheer insanely, their whoops and whistles filling the air as a bruised, dusty, breathless, but altogether relieved Rainbow Dash coasts southeasterly, gazing down at them with a smirk.
“Heh....Yeah.....Awwwwwww yeah....”  Rainbow Dash accepts their praises with a waving hoof.  “I swear to Alicornia!—This is the Most Awesome Day that Ever Awes--”  THUD!  She flies smack-dab into a random mountain side.  Googly eyed, she slumps down the rocky face.  “Unnngh---D-Dang it!   Stupid mountain!  You r-ruined moneyshot!  Unff!”
Plop!








Now that the race has finished, now that Wyndi Breeze and her friends have given Rainbow a flurry of hugs and pats on the back, now that the three burly Pegasi bullies have limped on home under a dark cloud of grumbles and muted cusses, now that the burning red Sun is easing its melting way down over the horizon to her backside—Rainbow Dash waves goodbye to her parting 'admirers' and trots dazedly towards the edge of a mountain cliff, overlooking the distant haze of suburban Upper Clydesdallington far below.
“See ya guys later!  Bye!  Take care now!”  She yawns, winces, and shakes the last remaining specks of dust from her main.  “Nnnngh—Yeesh.  Lousy bunch of nutrasweetened suck-ups.”  She loudly cracks a few joints in her upper body.  “Oh—OH yeah.  Yeah, that hits the spot—Unnngh....Whew. 'Cloven Canyon'?  More like 'Concussion Canyon'.  Princess Luna on a Pogostick, what a rush!”
She fumbles a hoof over her chest and once more feels the haphazard knot made with the dangling ends of the shredded saddlebelt.
“Whew!  That was a close one.  I know Rarity isn't much for leather—But Celestia have mercy if she gets pee'd off at me for a little snip to her duds.”  She plops her flank down in the red glow of the Sun and unties the saddlebag, holding it in front of her for closer inspection.  “Yeesh—Dang spikes tore clear through the thing!”  She turns the bag upside down.  “Maybe I could get Fluttershy to help me stitch up some velcroooo--”
FWOOOOMP!  A pile of red dust pours out of the flap of the saddlebag as the thing expels its now-powdery contents.
“--ooooooHHH-AYE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-GHH!”  Rainbow Dash's eyes bug-out as she slaps the hollow bag over the offending mass of crimson bits.  “..... .... .. .... ...”  She glances every which way like a startled meerkat with dilated eyes.  Slowly—wincingly—she lifts the open bag up, once more staring at the petrified remains of the crushed-to-bits rubies.  “Uhhhh....... ..... ...Uhmmmm... ... ....”  She blinks.  “... ... ... ... .. ........Uhhhhhh....”
A gust of high mountain wind.  A quarter of the red dust scampers off gaily into the atmosphere.
“MEEP!”  Rainbow Dash once more slaps the bag safely over the unsafe debris.  She bites her lip with a hissing noise:  “FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF—”  Sweatdropping, she glances west towards Ponyville.....then east towards Cloudsallington.  Then east again.  Then west again.  Then....









A large, iron-wrought, black gate marks the entrance to the luxurious three-story mansion that is Hoity Toity's estate.  As the last rays of the sun glitter off the immaculate sidewalk, the bubbling fountains of the fashion overlord's front yard, the brass alicorn statues flanking his outer wall...
A loud scraping noise can be heard.  A large, porcelain urn is being pushed into frame—and behind it is Rainbow Dash, nuzzling with her forehead, limbs buckling with all her might.
“Nnnnn-nnnnngh!”  She finally pushes the heavy urn all the way until it taps into Hoity Toity's black gate.  She slumps and pants, pants, pants—before shaking her mane, hovering up, and tapping a hoof onto a big black button.
DINNNNNG-DONNNNNG!
A deep breath, and she zips across the street—hiding in a bush besides the opposite sidewalk.  Peering out from the shrubbery, she inhales sharply, taking in one last drink of the grand mansion, not bothering to wait for its celebrity occupant to trot out and acquire the 'delivery'.
“......Mmm......Eh......Who knows, he probably won't know the difference.”  The blue Pegasus lazily shrugs and flutters off towards the western horizon.  “Judging from the palace he lives in, the rich flake will probably just snort it.”
> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 6
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I Remember Rainbow Dash – by short skirts and explosions

Act 1 – Chapter 6 – Why Do the Eyes in Twilight Sparkle?


A violet-hot Sun melts over the Western Horizon, casting a violet glow over the last glistening inches of rooftops in downtown Ponyville.  One by one—as the wandering hoovesfolk dwindle thinner and thinner in the streets—the lanterns dotting the streets are lit, so that a warm gold haze fills the space between buildingfaces.  The gentle roar of the great spinning world deflates to a soft hum as the first of many crickets wakes for a nocturnal symphony.
The air cools and the ground hushes, the blades of grass wilting under the condensing moisture of an atmosphere pent up with a day's worth of energy, imploding breathlessly as scant traces of the afternoon blink into nothing, giving way to the indigo kiss of full blanketed evening.
A few young fillies giggle and murmur about one rumor or another as they trot their ways home.  A patrolling policepony helps an elderly mare across town square towards her destination.  On the far side of the town, a few late-working weather fliers swoop down, gather the last batch of midday clouds, and surge darkly towards the dwindling North like black comets.  The Sugarcube Corner's door grows dark as the owners pull the blinds over the windows, closing for the night.  Off in the distance, the Carousel Boutique's lights switch off from the inside—and several buildings flanking it cascade into the shadows, like a row of candles going out.
Ponyville is not asleep, but its invisible eyelids are growing heavy.  To the East, the distant speck of Canterlot glows like a torch.  To the West, the mountains swallow the last inch of the sun like the edge of a giant aperture.  And here—where life is simple and life is peaceful—everything is as serene as the Beginning of Time itself... ....as well as perhaps its End.
Rainbow Dash feels this.  She has just fluttered down to a perch atop a hilltop overlooking the now cold blue roofs of Ponyville.  The advent of night blows against her in a gentle cold wind, fluttering at her rainbow colored mane—bangs of brightness that challenge the oozing shadows of the world.  She takes a few heaving breaths, the bone shattering blood rush of the day—in all of its bully bashing and cloud kicking and Everfree Foresting and canyon racing—coming to a vein-pulsing cascade in her gut, melting finally into a cool exhale as her heart slows down to dance with the gentle sway of the sleepily mellow town that gazes back up at her with icy rooftop eyes.
Something floats out of the blue Pegasus' parting lips—perhaps a ghost, a surrender—and the colorful speedster of Cloudsdale—who knows no concept of stillness and no grasp of hesitation—finally relents to the bending of the globe, as she kneels down and folds her hooves underneath.  Her wings coil tightly to her side as she gently plops her snout down into the soft grass—breathing out long and hard through a pair of bruised, slightly scuffed nostrils.  The aches and pains of a spastic day—just like any other Rainbow Dash day—briefly surge through her, only to drift off like flower petals on a great black stream, dissolving away with a warm gasp in the Pegasus' throat:
“Meh...this is okay.”
Another breath; anvils hang from her left and right lungs.  She gazes her violet eyes skyward.  She blinks, and something blinks back.  Bright and distant—real and rich, but all too easily gone in a squint:  the first star of the evening.
Rainbow Dash's eyes curve.  A slight twitch, as things are pulled back, danced back, and yanked back all the same... ... ....










(Several Months Ago....)
   “There it is, girls!  There it is!”  Twilight Sparkle excitably chirped as she leaned forward on the spacious balcony of her brand new home.  She grinned wide, her rear hooves clopping up and down as she leaned her upper limbs on the wooden railing overlooking the edge of evening-drenched Ponyville.  “Come on!  The first star's already out!  You're gonna miss it!”
“We thought yer wanted—nnngh---this h-here contraption before you wanted us takin' a gander at the sky!”  Apple Jack strained as she and Rainbow Dash shoved a deceptively heavy telescope through the open doors and onto the middle of the balcony, scraping dust and wood chips in the hurculean effort.  “Hnnngh!”
“I do!  I do—Oh!  Girls, you've done so much already.  Here, allow me--”  Twilight half glanced backwards, her horn glowing brightly.  A stream of bright violet energy—and the telescope magically floated out of the suddenly lunging ponies' grasp.
“Ghhh—Wh-Whoah!”  Apple Jack and Rainbow Dash fell over each other.  They huddled in an awkward pile, gathering their bearings as Pinkie Pie giggled from the sidelines.  “Whew.... ...Ah reckon ah'm seeing stars already!”  Apple Jack shook the cobwebs out, picked up her hat with her teeth, dusted it off, and flung it directly upwards—ducking her head so that the cowfilly attire would plop securely over her skull.  “Yanno, Twilight—Next time you could warn a girl, don'tcha think?”
“Erm....” Twilight blushed rosily.  “S-Sorry.  G-Guess I'm just a bit too excited.”  She planted the telescope down at the edge of the balcony with gentle telekinesis and tilted it eastward.  “I didn't expect nightfall to happen so soon.”
Rainbow Dash got up and dusted off her wings with a grumble.  “Nnnngh...Yeah, well, time flies when you're moving a load of junk--”  She froze in mid sentence under the glare of a certain blonde filly.  “....er.....N-Not that I'm an expert on flying....er...time flying.  Or j-junk for that matter.”  She rolled her eyes.
“Hmmph....”  Apple Jack turned around and put on a polite smile as she trotted over to Twilight's side.  “We've been more than happy to help you move into Ponyville, Twilight.  Though why Princess Celestia figured you'd be at home in the loft of a lonely old tree library—Ah'll never guess.”  Apple Jack glanced quizzically at the astronomical device before turning her gaze once more towards the Unicorn newcomer.  “Reckon Ah should stick to apples and not real estate.”
“Are you k-kidding?”  Twilight smiled gently.  “This place is perfect!”  She motioned with her horn towards the lit interior of the toasty warm tree behind them.  “I've always wanted to work at a small town library.  Granted, I had way more books to read back in Canterlot—But here there are a whole slew of books I've never laid my eyes on before!  I can't even begin to imagine the kind of historical and scientific research I'll be able to do now that I live in Ponyville!”
“Y-Yeah.. .... ...”  Apple Jack gulped and put on a brave grin.  “Sounds like a good 'ol time to be had!”
“Yeah, if you were born under a rock!”  Rainbow Dash began to pantomime 'wretching'—WHAP!--a brown hat flew into her snout.  “D'oh!”  She glared at a frowning Earth Pony and ultimately sighed, wings drooping.
“I don't think I've ever seen one of these things before!”  A certain pink-hair'd filly bounced over to the side of the balcony and proceeded to squint up close to the telescope from over a dozen dramatic angles.  “Where's the 'On' button?”
Twilight giggled.  “There is no 'On' button, Pinkie.  It's simply a series of refracting mirrors constructed at appopriate distances and angles from each other within a cylindrical tube so as to provide a magnified look at--”
“BOOGERS!”  Pinkie Pie balanced precariously on the edge of the balcony, her tail flapping as she grinned and glared down the large end of the telescope aimed at the inside of Twilight's new house.
Twilight went cross-eyed, then shook her head and made a face:  “I-I beg your pardon?”
“I can see your boogers!  Heeheehe--”
“Pinkie Pie, you're looking down the wrong end--”
“Ohhhhh--”  Pinkie blinked over the stalk of the device then stared down the large end again.  “Ohhhh!  I see—those aren't boogers!  They're just Rarity and Fluttershy!”  She waved a hoof overhead.  “Heya guys!  Come out of Twilight's nose, will you...?—Whoah-Whoah-Whoah--!”  She suddenly teetered back towards a three story drop off the balcony--
Snatch!  Apple Jack grabbed the pink filly and effortlessly dragged her onto even planking, all the while shouting over her flank.  “Rarity!  Fluttershy!  Get yer tails out here!  Twilight says that the good stuff's about to start!”
“We're cominnnnng!”  An elegant voice sing-song'd from inside the wooden dwelling.  “Just as soon as Fluttershy and I eliminate the last vestiges of this awful dust!”
“Pleeeeease, girls!”  Twilight's ears drooped, accompanied by a sad frown.  “This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment!  Maybe even once-in-an-existence--!”
“But not all of Twilight's boxes are unpacked and I do so wish to see how her drapes of Canterlotlian Silk look around the windows!”
“M-Miss Rarity?  I r-rolled these rugs out onto the main fl-floor like you asked me to--”
“Please, darling—No need to call me 'Miss' anymore. We're friends now!  And---OHH!--no, dear, not that carpet!”
“B-But you said--”
“Those rugs won't do against this Ponyvillean wood!  And they clash with the drapes!  Oh heavens!--We've got to start over....”
“Like Granny Smith's bed pan y'all will start over!”  Apple Jack shouted once more as Pinkie bounced all around.  “All that fru-fru nonsense can wait!  You heard Twi!  This here's special!  So hoof to it!”
“Mmmm—Yes!  Fine!  No need to be positively oafish about it.”  The white Unicorn marches onto the balcony with a drooping yellow Pegasus in tow.  “Seriously, Twilight—if you want to get your new abode furnished appropriately—Invite us earlier in the day!”
“I-I'm sorry...” Twilight bit her lip.  “I figured if I asked for everyone to show up earlier, I'd be wasting your time--”
“Nothin' to it, gal!”  Apple Jack smiled.  “This is the most fun Ah've had in a heapin' long time.  Glad to have you setting up roof—er—branches in the center of Town!  Ponyville could use an ounce of Canterlot to give 'er some flavor!”
“Heheh—I guess.”  Twilight blinked at the shuffling Pegasus.  “You okay, Fluttershy?”
“I'm....uhm....”  She dug a hoof into the balcony and avoided the Unicorn's gaze.  “I-I'm sorry Miss Sparkle that your carpet didn't match the drapes--”
“Oh heavens, precious!”  Rarity briefly rolled her blue eyes.  “I was only teasing!  You truly do need to lighten up!”  She playfully nudged Fluttershy with the tiniest of featherlight taps.
“UNF!”  Fluttershy practically pratfalled, blushing wide as her wings twitched and she wobbled back up to an overtly feminine gait.
Rarity sweatdropped, gulped, and smiled awkwardly in Twilight's direction as she trotted forward.  “So—When do the majestic festivities begin?”
“I-I can't really say.. ....Except th-that it will be very, very soon.” Twilight breathily exclaimed.  “For the past nine hundred and ninety-nine years, it has been Princess Celestia who's raised the Moon.  Now that Princess Luna is back...”  She bit her lip and glanced nervously eastward beyond the distant speck of Canterlot.  “I frankly don't know how it's going to go.  F-For all we know, she may not even be doing it tonight.  You have to imagine that after so many years of imprisonment, she must be out of practice!”
“Well, she certainly does have quite a huge audience to impress!”  Rarity brushed a hoof against her neck and sticked her snout heavenward.  “Over half of Ponyville's residents have taken an exodus to Canterlot to witness the Lunar Rising up close!”
“I bet you wish you were with 'em, don'tcha?”  Apple Jack remarked with narrow, suspicious eyes.
“Oh—Don't be silly!  I mean.....”  Rarity fought it ever so briefly; but she ultimately lost to a deep sigh barreling up through her system.  “....sure, all of Equestria's finest will be there!  There will be Hoity Toity, Sapphire Shores, Trotter Swiftly—not to mention the finest in retro attire, reintroducing arcane Lunar Republican Gowns and Suits back into the fashion world for the first time in nearly a millenium!”  She took a deep, deep, deep breath—bottled up momentarily—and exhaled in a glistening smile summoned out of nowhere.  “But I say thee neigh!  I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here with my new BFFs!”  She scrunched down and gave Twilight and Apple Jack a hug with opposite arms.  “After all...”  She winked Twilight's way, her horn waving in the air.  “If Twilight Sparkle—the most gifted Unicorn apprentice of all Canterlotlian Magic—decided to stay here, then I would be an utter fool to want to be elsewhere!”
“Eheheh.....You're w-welcome, I think?”  Twilight gulped.
“SO!”  Pinkie Pie shot up randomly from beneath Rarity, consuming the center of the group.  “Is Princess Luna really going to moon us?  Huh?  Huh?”
“Pinkie Pie!”  Rarity barked.
“What?  Twi-Twi just said she would, didn't she?”
“I swear—Does anyone remember how to be a truly refined lady these days?  You do need to mind your manners!”
“I don't mind my manners!  They certainly don't get in the way of things!  What about yours?  Heeheehee--!”
“Rrrrghhh—And don't bump into Twilight so much!  This is her house and she needs her space--”
“Actually,  I-I'm quite fine--”
“HEY!  I just got the most super-kewlest idea!  When we're done watching Princess Luna strut her stuff across the stars, why don't we light a fire and have us some Sugarcube Corner Marshmallows?!”
“Hey!  Marshmallows sound great--!”
“Light a fire?!  Inside a library?!  Darling, are you as mad as your hair is curled?”
“Uhm—Guys...?”
“Momma Pie says that my hair is like this because of the Devil's Hoofiwork!  But I've never understood that—Because who in Equestria curls hair with hooves—Much less the Devil?  Say, do you think the Devil has cloven hooves?  That might explain how he does it, only why anyone would go to a salon run by the Devil I'll never know.  Maybe cuz the music's upbeat?”
“Oh my stars and garters—I positively give up!”
“Heeheehee—You know, the Canterlotlian Encyclopedia of the Equestrian Third Age suggests that the word 'devil' came from a root word in Diamond Dog tongue meaning 'bone'.  But that may be a tad bit redundant, considering that the Diamond Dog language has over forty-two words for 'bones'...”
“Ewwww—Bones?  I prefer my cupcakes boneless.  How about you?”
As the gaggle of young fillies continued to chat and murmur under the increasingly starry sky, a bored-looking Rainbow Dash hovered in the background, her arms folded.  A dim glaze washed over her eyes, and she yawned—her brightly colored mane drooping over a groaning face.
“Yeah... .... ...This is lame.  Screw this.”  With a stealthy smirk, she twirled about in mid-air, spread her wings, and made for the sky--
---only to be yanked to a stop in mid-air, her eyes bulging. Scrkkkk!
“Where d'ya think yer sky-scamperin' off to, Missy?”
Rainbow Dash sighed long and hard, sagging in mid-hover.  “Who's that mysteriously drawling voice biting onto my tail—Like I really have to flippin' ask?”  She glared back over her shoulder.
Apple Jack's teeth were clamped over the Pegasus' prismatic tail.  She spat out the hairs and trotted over so that her frowning face and hoarse voice could be tossed at Rainbow Dash beyond the range of the other ponies' hearing.  “What in tarnation is yer deal?  Are you fixin' to be a stick in the mud for a reason?”
“I could ask the same about you, buckarette!”  Rainbow Dash hissed back.  “You've been doing nothing all night but wrangling us all around Twilight Sparkle's side!  Why're you treating us like cattle?”
“Ah ain't treatin' you like no livestock!  If anything, Ah'm tryin' to stay in the spirit of friendship, which is the least Ah can say about you with your mopin' and your gripin' in the corner over here!”
“I'm not moping!”  Rainbow Dash squeaks back.
“Watcha doin', then?”
“I'm being fashionably silent!”
“You were fixin' to fly away!”
“Lots of other places in Equestria are fashionable!  Just listen to Miss Vampire over there--”
“Don't ya have a single guldarn'd inch of respect in that scrawny blue skeleton of yers?”
“Nope.”
Apple Jack growled under a whispery voice.  “Look—Twilight's been through a lot and it would really mean the world to her if we could all hang by the filly's side—Even if for a little bit!”
“And we haven't been through a lot?”  Rainbow Dash shrugged.  “I can't count the number of times I nearly lost my neck looking for those Harmonies of Element rocks!”
“Ah thought you fancied yerself a little adventure every now and then!”
“Yeah—when I'm in the spotlight!”
“Unngh—Land'o'Goshen—You are stubborn as a dried up stump!”  Apple Jack groaned.  She looked briefly sad as she then said:  “Don't you reckon it means something that you're supposed to represent Loyalty?”
“Yeah....”  Rainbow Dash nodded.  “It means I did my part--”  She pointed a hoof to herself.  “--and when it comes time that something else really big, bad, and ugly!sparkly comes to attack Equestria, then you guys can summon me again!  Cuz then it'll be exciting around here once more!”  She rolled her eyes boredly towards the other end of the balcony.  “Not like this....this....Filly Scout Campfire Foalsitter Club Mush-Mush!”
“Don't you see, Rain'bo?”  Apple Jack shook her head.  “Tonight is about more than just a bunch of gabbin' nonsense!  If you only paid a treasured moment like this some mind, then maybe you'd come to your senses about what we're all here for!”
“What?”  The Blue Pegasus folded her arms and snorted.  “Fate?  Obligation?”
“Bein' happy, girl...”  Apple Jack murmured.  “Flyin' crazily around at the drop of a hat may get you places, Rain'bo.  But Ah'd plum hate for you to miss out on something that's waitin' for you right here, below the clouds—If only ya stayed put for just once in yer life and gave it a look-see.”  She sighed and gazed aside.  “That's the funny thing about 'Loyalty'—Ah reckon—you gotta stay anchored in one place before you can learn to appreciate what it means to others... ...and maybe, just maybe...”  She glanced up with glistening eyes.  “--what it means to you.”  A punctuated smile, or at least an attempt at one; and Apple Jack slowly turned about, trotting back to join the others murmuing and giggling on the edge of the balcony.
“... ... .... ... ...” Rainbow took a deep breath.  She glanced skyward—towards the distant star-kissed clouds hovering invitingly overhead, like gray shades of the past.  A breath—a breath that turned into a groan, and finally a sigh; and the Blue Pegasus touched her hooves down to the balcony and trotted over until she was side by side with the girls... .... ...or at least side by side with Fluttershy.
“H-Hey, Rainbow Dash... ...” She gently smiled.
“Hey yourself.”  The multi-colored filly droned back.  “So what are we doing; just sitting here and waiting for the moon?”
“Mmmmhmmm....”
“Nnngh...” Rainbow plopped down on folded hooves.  “Great.  Really thrilling.”
“I know, isn't it?”  Fluttershy smiled, her snout tilting upwards.
Rainbow sweatdropped, glaring obviously at the yellow Pegasus.  But—just then:
“Omigosh!  There it is!”  Twilight Sparkle jumped up to her hooves and bounced in place in the style of the Pink Pony flanking her.  “It's rising!  It's rising!  Oh yes yes yes yes yes!”
“It is?  This soon?” Rarity gasped.
“Where?”  Apple Jack squinted, raising a hoof over her forehead.  “Ah'm a Day Pony by trade—Where is the gosh darn'd thing?”
“Up there—Due East!”  Twilight practically galloped sideways to the telescope and viciously swung it—nearly lopping off Pinkie's skull.  (“Yowsers!”)  “S-Sorry Pinkie Pie!  Ohhhhh come on come on come on---”  Twilight squinted through the telescope, gasped even harder, and nearly exploded as she pointed straight off the balcony's edge, her jaw gaping wide.  “There!”
All five pairs of eyes followed her limb—And sure enough a silver flame rose liquidly over the mountains of the Eastern Horizon.  For a brief second, the shadowy skeleton of Canterlot's spires were silhouetted by a bright white circle—And then the celestial object rose its virginal track upwards, casting a sheen of dim ivory over every crook and corner and niche of Ponyvillean architecture.  The world was briefly transformed into the copper bottom of a glass jar, lit alive by a tight swarm of snow white lantern bugs looming high in the zenith.
Rarity's eyes were sapphire saucers, her horn flickering briefly with an absent-minded surge of magical enchantment.  “Why....Wh-Why it's the brightest moonrise I've ever s-seen!”
“Oooooh....” Fluttershy's eyes sparkled.
“Hey!  H-Hey!”  Pinkie Pie pointed with a sharp gasp that betrayed her normally fearless self.  “The shadow's gone!  The shadow's gone!”
“Yes!  Y-Yes it is!”  Twilight nearly hyperventilated, rapidly switching her gaze from telescope to naked horizon to her new friends.  “The Mare in the Moon has been vanquished!  As soon as Luna was freed from the grips of Bitterness and Discord by the Elements of Harmony—the clouds of anguish left her!  Look!  L-Look at it!  A true Full Moon—The Mare Shadow is gone!”
“Well Ah'll be....”
“Oooooooh....”
“My stars—It's far more beautiful than I could have imagined!  Is this—Is this what the moon is going to look like from now on?  So crystal clear and... and....r-radiant?”
“D-Don't you see?”  Twilight beamed in a joy that nearly outshone the lunar object gracing the sky overhead.  “Right now—Before our eyes—Is a New Moon!  A New Moon for a New Age—The Fourth Age of Equestria!  And we—all of us—w-w-we're all alive!  All alive to witness th-this....” Twilight suddenly clamped her hooves over her mouth.  Tears welled in the corner of her moon-lit eyes.
“Twi?”  Apple Jack glanced over.  “Are you okay, sugarcube?”
Twilight's breath choked, rattling its way towards a teeth gritting smile as the tears rolled down her cheeks.  “Y-You have no idea how m-many times I've read about this....How often I dreamed th-that things would be this way—That Nightmare Moon w-would be vanquished, Harmony would prevail, and the New Age of the R-Reunited Sisters would....would....”  She rubbed her eyes and gulped hard, shuddering.  “I-I swear....it's positively too magical to be real.”
“Awwwww—How's this for realzies?”  Pinkie Pie explosively hugged the violet-haired Unicorn.
“Mmmm-Darling, we're all so glad that you're happy.”  Rarity trotted over and nuzzled her in addition.
Finally Apple Jack drifted in and rested a hoof on the shuddering Twilight's shoulder.  “We all did good, didn't we?  We harmonized the hayseed out of the Third Age!”
“With a Bang!  Rmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-kerpisshhhhh!”  Pinkie glutteringly added.
“Heeheehee....”  Twilight sniffled, took a shaking breath, and gazed emotionally towards her nuzzling companions.  “Y-You wanna know th-the real reason I didn't stay in Canterlot j-just to see Luna raise the moon up close?”
“Why's that, Twilight?”
“Because....”  She breathed deeply, gulped, and calmed herself in time to smoothely murmur:  “I-I could have been with Princess Celestia, I could have been with the Royal Guard, I could have been in the same audience as all of Equestria's finest—But I wouldn't nearly have been happy as I am right now—right here in Ponyville—to be sharing this with all of you... ....With all of m-my friends...”
“Awwwwww...Heeheehee!”
“Darn tootin'!”
“Oh darling, you're going to make me fall apart into tiny little pieces!”
“We're very glad to have you with us, Twilight....” Fluttershy smiled.  She glanced softly aside at Rainbow Dash.
“.... .... ...” Rainbow was gazing at Twilight in the center of the crowd.  Her violet eyes were curved inward, as if navigating a murky minefield of confused sensations.  She stared hard at Twilight Sparkle—how her tears ran down a smiling face, how they glittered in the New Moonlight, how they reflected the warmth of hugging friends so close to her.  The blue Pegasus didn't know it yet, but these very things were about to be burned into the deepest and most secret walls of her mind, brushing elbows with memories that she had long cast by the wayside, memories that were always so easy to fly away from, but suddenly seemed so small and yet so huge at the same time.
She barely felt Fluttershy's nudging until the fourth time the yellow Pegasus' soft nose brushed against her.  “Hmmm-What-What?”  Rainbow Dash blinked her way.
“Are you okay, Rainbow Dash?”
“Pfft.  Yeah.  I don't get what all the fuss is about.”
“Heehee—Don't you?”
“Nnnnngh...... .... ...” She took a deep breath, clearing her throat and muttering towards the dimly lit heavens:  “I give it about a week.”
“Give what a week?”
“This.”  She motioned to Twilight.  “That.”  She motioned to the moon.  “All of it.”  She bowed her head towards herself.
“Do you really feel like that?” Fluttershy blinked.
“Sometimes....”  Rainbow's voice was a dry river.  “A lot of times, I just don't feel, Fluttershy.”
“Mmmm...” Fluttershy nodded.  “Sometimes you don't have to feel, Rainbow Dash.  You only have to be.”
Rainbow's head raised to glance at her, eyebrow raised.  A strangely beating heart.  Slowly, icily, a devil-care-smirk formed.  “That easy, huh?”
“Mmmmm.......N-No....” Fluttershy blushed aside.
“Heeheehee....”  Rainbow exhaled smilingly.  “Tell you what...” Rainbow scooted over and stretched a wing out to rest on Fluttershy's shoulder.  “You continue doing the 'Kindness' thing, and I'll work on the whole 'Loyalty' crud.  How's that sound?”
“Deal.”  Fluttershy smiled bashfully with a nod.
Rainbow Dash took a deep, therapeutic breath.  As she felt Fluttershy's soft weight lean into her, she calmly observed as the other three fillies crowded around the telescope aimed at the great glowing moon, and Twilight Sparkle in turn.
“Aaaaaand—There!  If you look closely, you can see the Valley of Ice—Where water is believed to have liquified near to the moon's poles.”
“Wow—OOOH!  Kewlies!  Kewlies!  I can sooooo see it!”
“You reckon there's really water on the moon?”
“Well—I suppose Princess Luna could tell us all now!  Ohhhh—I can't wait until she comes up with a memoir or something!”
“Ungh—Please, Twilight!  How positively garrish that would be!  Who would want to read a book about a thousand year imprisonment under the posession of an inharmonious spirit?”
“It's all about the history and science of the matter—Oooh!  Pinkie, lemme move it again—Ahhh—There!  That—yes, yes, yes—Omigosh!  That has to be the gates to Ponymodium!  Luna's Castle built out of Moondust!  With the Mare in the Moon blanketing it all these years, it was always virtually unseen via telescope--(SQU-e-E-e-E-e-E!)--This is so exciting!”
“Hey, you think there're cupcakes on the moon?”
“Now why in the hay would there be cupcakes on the moon?  Luna was imprisoned, not doin' take-out!”
“Oooh!  I know!  We should totally bake a bunch of cupcakes for Princess Luna!”
“Mmmm—The Breakfast of Queens.”
“Hahahaha!”
“Heh heh heh...”
“Heeheehee!”










The clear moon looms overhead, shimmering silver rays down onto the nightscape of Ponyville as Rainbow Dash rests there, gazing, staying in one place...
A deep breath, and she thins her eyes—She weathers another breeze that kicks against her mane of colors.  Shuddering slightly, her violet optics flutter earthward, as many lonely quiet nights battle with fewer laughter-filled nights in the shadowed vestiges of her wilting head; she starts instinctively to murmur something, something she hasn't said since she was a young filly.  Something like a prayer, a plead.  But before it can so much as squeak forth into the chilly air--
“It's still so beautiful.”
Rainbow Dash gasps.  Jumping undaintily up to her feet, she flashes a look over her shoulder—and immediately calms.
Twilight Sparkle stands on the hilltop behind Rainbow, smiling—gazing up towards the source of the silver shimmer that's reflecting off her violet eyes.  A purple felt scarf flutters in the wind, fashioned snugly to her craning neck.  She tosses her mane briefly before sitting down aside the blinking Pegasus and monologuing forth:
“Every night after night—Without fail—Luna has successfully and gracefully done her half of the Royal Duty.  Every evening—since the week after we finally freed her with the Elements of Harmony—she's pulled this miracle off.  And still, after all of these months—So many sleeps taken for granted, so many fresh mornings spent alive—It never ceases to amaze me.  The Fourth Age is here; the Fourth Age is now.  And we stand on the threshhold of a new era—Not knowing what tomorrow may bring, but always invigorated by a gorgeous moonrise.”
Rainbow Dash feels an impulse to groan or yawn—but for some reason feels utterly compelled to do neither; she merely stands there, waiting for Twilight to get her words out.
And she does—turning around to smirk up at Rainbow.
“How's it feel, Rainbow?”
“Er.....”  The Pegasus shifts nervously.  “H-How's what feel?”
Twilight smiles sweetly.  A slight giggle.  “To have been a part of bringing in a New Moon to this world?”
“Hmmm....”  Rainbow Dash shrugs.  “Don't look at me.  That was all you, girl.  Well—All Luna, but because of you—I guess.  'Magic Spark' and all.  Then the bling around our necks.  Then the flashing lights.  Da da da daaaaa.  Power Ponies.  Mare-a-Zord.  Bingo!”
“Heeheehee....”  Twilight Sparkle folds her limbs under her and gazes down the hillside towards the tranquil rooftops of Ponyville.  “You may not be Pinkie Pie, Rainbow.  But you have your own brand of random.”
“Boy, would that be a sideshow in the making!”  She pads over and squats down besides Twilight, both ponies resting on the crest of the moonlit hilltop.  “I'd have to open up an 'Awesomecube Corner'.  All-you-can-eat-kicks-in-the-head from nine to five.  Free Sonic Rainboom refills.  You pay for your melting eyes in Wonderbills.  Last one who survives gets a special autograph from yours truly and then a free key to the underground vault so as to escape the fiery catapults from all other living things who want to grab my signature from her.”
“Okay—You can stop proving me wrong.”  Twilight drones.
“That's why you don't write checks that your flank can't catch.”  Rainbow nods, then adds with a nonchalant:  “How's it hoofin', Twi?”
“Mmmm—I was out here looking for you, actually.”
Rainbow winces.  “Yeesh—Don't say that.  You'll creep the moment away.”
“Oh—Are w-we having a moment?”
“Sure, why not?”  Rainbow yawns and plops down, exhaling a flurry of loose grass blades into the starry night.  “Nnnnngh....”
Twilight raises a humored eyebrow.  “Long day?”
“Yeah.  About eighty-five pages worth.”
“R-Really?”  Twilight's neck cranes back as her face distorts into a wretch of disbelief.  “Your letter to the Princess is that long?”
“No, not that—I was talking about the ponyf—Ugh....”  Rainbow Dash shakes her head so that we can skip that line.  “But on that topic, yeah—I've written a lot; darn you to heck.”
“Awwww—Was it really that much of a chore?”
“Errr....Dghh—Well, at first it was kind of crazy boring.  But then—I dunno...”  Rainbow Dash gazes down at her hooves kneading the earth.  “You told me to write from the heart.  But that didn't work so well for me—So I settled for halfway and wrote from the gut.  I hope that makes you happy.”
Twilight giggles again.  “I'm not the one you should be concerned with making happy.”
“Why not?  You're the one who talked me into doing this hoof-cramping thing to begin with.”
“Well...” Twilight gazes aside, blushing slightly.  “I was kinda sorta wanting to find you so that I could ask you about your progress--”
“--if you would call it that.”
“What, you're close to being done?”
“I....uhm....”  Rainbow blinks.  She glances back and fiddles with the weight of the scroll tucked under her left wing.  “.....I....I-I dunno.  I've certainly written a lot of nonsense.  I guess you can only go on for so long before you need to trim stuff down and make it all presentable--”
“It's a personal letter, Rainbow.  Not a novel.”
“Heh, if you say so.”  The Pegasus chuckles and gazes down at Ponyville.  “Knowing you, Twilight, Of Mice and Mares by John Steinbuck is nothing more than a hurricane pamphlet.”
“Well, I have full faith that you put together something that'll be integral to Princess Celestia's understanding of our most recent discovery.”
“I....eheheh...” Rainbow Dash nervously sweatdrops and stirs from where she squts.  “I-I'm not too sure that the Princess is exactly gonna get any of this.  I'm not sure even if I get any of this.”
“Oh you're just being hard on yourself.”
“Twilight—Don't you think that a Princess is the last person you'd want to expose to one's personal dribble on other ponies and their personalities and their feelings and their--”  She stops midway, wilting under the cold gaze of a not-so-humored Twilight.
“Jee—I dunno.  Does anypony else you know inundate the Royal Matriarch of Sun-rising with Friendship anecdotes—like—everyday?”
Rainbow Dash gulps and smiles nervously.  “Guess I'm not the only who's coming form the gut today.”
“Hmmm...” Twilight cocks her head to the side with a gentle grin.  She flings the loose end of the breeze-blown scarf back around her neck.  “So, you're close to finished?”
“Meh.  Call me done.”  Rainbow Dash flaps her wing, rolls the scroll over her neck, juggles it with her skull and snout—then clasps it in her hoof.  “It's a far-far better thing than I've ever chicken-scratched before.  And I mean that in every possibly literal expression you could ever want to vomit onto paper.”
“Whew!  I can tell what a day of writing has done for you!”  Twilight chuckles.  “I'm not sure if I should be scared or not.”
“Will you just take the dang scroll?”
“Okay, okay, Rainbow...”  The violet haired Unicorn reaches her hoof for the scroll.  Her reach stops about halfway as her eyes fall upon a wayward thought drifting through the darkness between her and her Pegasus friend.
Rainbow Dash merely raises a curious eyebrow, watching with unnerving patience as a gentle breeze kicks against them both, stretching the moment.  Twilight gazes up, her eyes deep pools of violet sincerity.
“You do realize—That if you never had flown that one fateful day, so many years ago, to defend Fluttershy's honor—We wouldn't be here tonight, having this conversation, working together to bring a letter to the Princess that reveals so much about....about....”  A deep breath, a gentle smiling rising up from within.  “.... ...about how tiny things in a huge world can bring complete strangers together and make their lives complete—and not just their lives, but the lives of countless others...”
“Countless others... ... ...?”  Rainbow Dash squints.  “The heck are you getting on?”
“Have you ever thought about it—I mean really thought about it, Rainbow?”  Twilight Sparkle takes a shuddering breath.  “I mean, I know it's been less than twenty-four hours since we all found out about how we got our cutie marks... ... ...But I've lost sleep over it.  Because it occurred to me—Without our pasts, we'd never have become friends.  Without our friendships, we'd never have found the Elements of Harmony.  And without the Elements of Harmony... ... ...”  She gazes solemnly up into the silver glow of the night.  “... ....would we really be enjoying this beautiful clear moon we have above us now?”
“... ... ... ...” Rainbow Dash gazes at her, up at the sky, at her, then at the sky again.  “Beats me—Can I take the Physical Challenge?”
“Rainbow!!!”
“Seriously--”
“I too am serious!”  Twilight sighs, shakes her head, and smiles helplessly.  “Oh well.  I guess it's just silly me.  You know I always get so sentimental over... ....over stuff like this.”
“Twilight...” Rainbow briefly groans.  “You know me as well.  I don't hold too much weight in....in....well—in everything like you do!  I'm sure if the past was different, fate would have—er—arranged the Elements of Harmony to do what they needed to do, even without us.”
“But what we have—This world we live in—The friendship that we share... ... ...it's about more than fate.  And this isn't just about the Elements of Harmony—but about your Sonic Rainboom as well.”  She smiles, eyes moistening like a stone skipping across the puddle of yesterday.  “It's magic.  Always has been, always will be.  I....I-I hope, Rainbow, that you understand exactly how much this... ...erm.......h-how much you mean to me.”
“.... ... .... ...” Rainbow Dash stares blankly back.  She does all she can to ignore a growing lump in her throat.
“Mmmm—Ahem.  But I could go on and on and on and on and on and on--”  Twilight laughs nervously to herself, sniffles herself dry, clears her throat, and reaches all the way for the scroll.  “Here, lemme relieve you already--”
“No.”  Rainbow pulls the scroll back.
Twilight blinks at her.
“Erm....that is....Eheh...” The Blue Pegasus coughs, bites her lip, then bravely smiles.  “I-I-I think I've got....g-got one last thing to write about.  If th-that's kewl with you.”
“.... ... ...” Twilight Sparkles smiles warmly back at her.  “And I know just where you can do it.”








“Spike!”  Twilight Sparkle calls forth as she trots in through the front door to her library/tree/house/playset interior.  “We've got company!”
“Twilight!  Finally--!”  The stumpy little draconian scampers over breathlessly.  “Where in Equestria have you been?  Pinkie Pie says that everyone's in place and all you need to do is fetch--”  The violet-scaled whelp freezes in place at the sight of Rainbow Dash, his eyes bulging.  He slumps back on his heels and fiddles his claws behind his back.  “Err—I mean.  Ahem.  Twilight?”  He cackles in overexuberant gravitas.  “Company?!  Th-This late?!  What's the world coming to?!”
“Spike... ...” Twilight Sparkle smiles cooly, whipping her scarf off and hanging it from a nearby rack.  “It's barely seven-thirty.”  She clears her throat, her betrayingly razor sharp eyes darting back and forth between him and the general area of the multi-colored visitor.
“Yeah, but...”  He leans forward and whispers not-so-subtley in the Unicorn's flickering ear.  “When the little hand is on eight... ... ..”  He blinks once more up at Rainbow Dash and sweats sulfuric bulbs.  “... ....sarsaparilla hits the fan.”
“Will you just relax?”  Twilight hisses back, breathily.
Rainbow Dash throats:  “Hey, you two—Doesn't Pictionary require a marker board?”
“Ahem—We were just... ...Uhm....” Spike gulps, glancing between Twilight and Rainbow Dash.  “... ...discussing....the next meteor shower?”
“I thought Twilight had said that there wasn't going to be a meteor shower for another month...”
“Did I say meteor shower?” Spike toys nervously with his tail.  “Wh-What I meant was partial-lunar-eclipse!  Twilight Sparkle and I know these things.  Why?  Because books!”
“Be a good dragon and fetch me something from—I dunno—the furthest part of the library.”
“To the Fitness Section I go!”  Spike trots past the Blue Pegasus.  “Hiya, Dashie.”
“Hey yourself, Sprocket.  Looking good.”
He glares at her.  “Yanno, ponies tend to call me 'Spike'.”
“Yeah, good luck with that. Twilight?--Got a writing spot somewhere in this place that actually isn't pot-marked by the impression of your hooves?”
“Heeheehee—Maybe.  Here, follow me--” Twilight trots up the steps with Rainbow hovering in tow.  After a winding ascent, she nudges a door open to a third story room with a double paneled window looking out onto the Town Square of central Ponyville.  “This is my new favorite writing place—And I promise you that it doesn't smell like bookmarks yet.”
“I bet it smells like bookmar--”  Rainbow Dash does a double-take.  “Well aren't you quick at the draw?”
“Hee-hee-hee—It helps to be prepared.”
“The day you learn to predict me, Twilight, is the day I eat Apple Jack's hat.”
“I'll be sure to tell her that.”
“Yeah, just don't tell her hat.”  Rainbow Dash trots up to a podium propped up against the window as Twilight magically lights a pair of lanterns on either side.  Laying the parchment of the letter onto the podium, Rainbow produces Scootaloo's metal writing utensil and slides it firmly over her left hoof.
“Ooooh....” Twilight smiles, glancing at the object as she finishes lighting the last lantern.  “An Earth Pony writing brace!”
“You mean you've seen one of these things before?”
“Well—In books.”
“What don't you see in books, Twilight?  I swear—one day you'll get married, but the honeymoon will get canceled cuz the groom will have to go back into the drop box by 6pm.”
“Heeheehee—Several philosopher ponies of the Third Age used devices like this to write some of the most important ethical dissertations of our culture.  Aristrotle, Descolte, Neightzsche, Camule—None of them could slow down too much or else their brilliant thoughts would fly straight off the pages and into oblivion.  But—I must say—this is the most elegant looking type I've seen...”
“Let's just say that history has a nifty way of repeating itself.  Especially in the hooves of petite, pink-haired pipsqueaks.”  Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath.  “Okay, Twi—I'm good here....I guess.  Thanks for the light and all.”
“Anytime!  But just one last thing--”  Twilight trots over and nudges the windows open with two hooves.  A gentle cool breeze wafts into the tiny room, infecting the lofty study with the purplish haze of tranquil night.  “I find that the fresh evening air is not only relaxing, but a great service to one's muse.”
“But what if I don't muse so much as I misuse?”
“The key is that you relax, Rainbow Dash.  And write from the heart—or the gut—whatever pleases you most.”  Twilight bows out, smiling.  “I'll be downstairs if you need anything.”
“How about a bottle of tap dancing explosions?”
“What?”
“Nothing.  I'm good!”
“Heheh—Okai....”  Twilight Sparkle makes to trot out of the room.  Her quadrapedal form lingers briefly, and she glances back—her horn a humble silhouette in the dozy lantern light.  “And Rainbow....?”
“Yeah, Twi?  What is it?”
“Thank you....Thank you so very much for this...”
Rainbow Dash raises an eyebrow.  She looks curiously back from where she squats before the podium.
Twilight's smile is like the edge of a New Moon, brightening:  “What you're writing, what you've done, and who you are—it's all very important to me, and to the rest of us girls.  For....For a while there, I sometimes feared that you were tempted to leave our little circle of friends.  But then—I dunno—something changed, and you're still here.  I don't mean to say that I ever once doubted your loyalty, Rainbow Dash.  But I feel like I've sometimes underestimated—well—just how happy you really have been.  And for that, I-I am sorry....”
“It's........ ..... ...” Rainbow Dash shifts nervously, smiling with no less awkwardness.  “It's quite alright, Twilight.  D-Don't be such a nerd about....er....the sweet stuff...”
“Eheh....of c-course...” Twilight blushes slightly.  Smiling, she backs out of the room and nods.  “I'll let you write now, Rainbow Dash.  Good luck.”
The blue Pegasus nods.  Twilight exits, and the pen-equipped speedster is alone.  But the seconds tick into minutes, and she finds herself simply sitting there, gazing blankly out the open window of the loft study.  The sudden abyss of unassuming downtown Ponyville stares back, and Rainbow Dash becomes suddenly aware of how thick her pulse is underneath her skin.  The parchment lies out on the podium before her, but she does not write.
She stands up and turns around, trotting out the study and descending slowly down the winding stairway.  Halfway to the first floor, she pauses, and gazes quietly at the scene.  From above, Rainbow Dash sees Twilight Sparkle, sees her nonchalantly rearranging old photos on the shelf of her family in Canterlot, hears her humming a pleasant tune to herself, spots a distant smile on the Unicorn's lips—when the violet pony doesn't expect anyone to be noticing.  After the space of half a minute, Rainbow Dash quietly trots back up.  She returns to the study, approaches the podium, and raises her metal-braced pen with a slow and meditative breath:








 “Princess Celestia, I would like to finish this letter by telling you about somepony whom you don't know—Somepony named Twilight Sparkle.
“You may know a certain star pupil of yours who is an expert at Canterlotlian magical arts.  You may be familiar with Ponyville's newest denizen and lead librarian.  You've undoubtedly read many of the letters that a certain purple colored unicorn has written to you about many of her friends and all of the complicated-yet-simple things she learns about being a good, healthy member of Equestrian society.  But I have to ask—and do forgive me for my boldness or rudeness or Pegasus grit or whatever—Do you truly, truly know Twilight Sparkle?
“Well, I do.  She's a nerd.  She's a bookworm.  She's a stiff neck at a rock concert, a tangled-hoof at a dance party.  She needs a manual to have sleepovers, she needs a written tutorial to speak out loud to a handsome colt passing by.  There are none who are more boring, more absent-minded, more ridiculously wordy, or more obsessive compulsive than her.
“But in spite of all that crazy fluff—Twilight Sparkle is still my friend.  And she's not my friend because she's some freakjob of fate and circumstance.  She's not my friend because the Elements of Harmony said so.  She's not even my friend because some crazy lucky Sonic Rainboom performed by yours truly made her get her act together at age seven.
“Twilight Sparkle is my friend because she gives me hope.  She proves to me that I'm cooler than most ponies, and yet she reminds me that there are many ponies to whom I owe my apologies.  She makes me realize that I can do awesome things, and yet I'm very capable of doing really cruddy things.  She's like an emotionally sensitive litmus test of all the good things and bad things I am, reflected back at me in her curious and almost foal-like eyes.  But why does all of this give me hope?  It's because in spite of all of her shortcomings and all of my shortcomings, when I'm in the presence of Twilight Sparkle, I can somehow expect that life in Equestria will only get better.  There's something infectious about being a friend to somepony who is just now discovering what friendship is.  You realize that you are a part of something important, just as you are an important part in her life—As you see her smile when you enter the room or you see her cringe when you do something stupid or you see her flare up when you do something even stupider.
“Twilight Sparkle reminds me that things can begin anew.  Here's a girl who rose from zero-to-hero in terms of popularity; a total shut-in at Canterlot became a galloping social hub in Ponyville.  And did she do it by being a jerk?  Did she get so many friends by being a total flake and buying all of our attention?  Did she waltz in, demand the spotlight, and make us all feel like pawns in her magical crusade of enchanted Unicorning?  Heck no—on all counts.  But rather—Twilight was honest, she was kind, she was generous and laughable and loyal—all of the things that define the rest of us, she embodies just by being herself.  And as she needed friends to remind her what it meant to be alive, we needed just one life to teach us what it meant to be friends.
“Just a few pathetic months ago, I would not even think of saying any of this out loud—much less in a written letter to the Princess of Equestria.  Call this what you want—a moment of clarity, a sappy tug of the heartstrings, a bad case of equine indigestion; but I think I get it all now.  Loyalty means more than just being around someone; it means giving them the grace to be around you.  I could have flown away from Twilight's fresh little 'circle' here in Ponyville flippin' eons ago; could have bucked her off my back like a blood sucking tick.  But, for whatever reason, I haven't.  And it's not like I planned it all out from the start—But I think Twilight is actually a happier pony today because I stuck around for longer than it took us to gather some boring rocks to fight back Nightmare Moon.  She didn't just need a friend for a day—she needed a friend to get used to, to squeeze into the cubbyhole beside and wriggle her hooves with, so to speak.
“Being around Twilight Sparkle is very inspiring, because everything is a new discovery for her.  And everything she writes to you is tasty and amazing because it really is all so 'fresh'.  But, as much as I hate to say it, the day you find out for yourself who Twilight Sparkle is—the day you learn what lies beneath the violet coat of your apt pupil—is not when she learns something new about a friend, but shen she loses that friend herself.  But, because I know who Twilight Sparkle is, because I've seen her laugh and I've seen her cry, because for some silly reason I see her in my head whenever I'm doing something nice or doing something stupid—I feel almost a supernatural tug to do all that is in my power to keep her from losing that friend, to keep her from losing me, as I have failed so many times in the past—with all faults solely my own—to keep myself from splitting with those who used to be my 'friends'.  I don't want Twilight to experience that—not yet.  She's best if she stays Twilight, not so much if she becomes Rainbow Dash.
“Maybe this is the real reason why I've been forced at hoof-point to make this letter to you, Princess Celestia.  It's not to get you to know more about me—the most awesome Pegasus in all of Cloudsdale.  It's not to explain to you how important that first Sonic Rainboom was.  It's all about Twilight Sparkle—somehow everything comes full circle to her.  I suppose it's fitting; she was the one who asked me to write this drivel to begin with.  And, for better or for worse, it's hopefully done something that I didn't originally intend, but is kinda kewl anyways.  This letter has told you about somepony named Twilight Sparkle—a pony who admires you far too much than she could ever stammer forth in your presence, a pony who wants what's best for everyone around her, a pony whom I can't quit—who's put this dang annoying thing in my gut called a conscience.
“She's a pony who, if I have anything to do about it, won't learn the bitter truth about friendship—that it can end, like all things end.  I don't think Twilight can live securely in the beat of the moment like I can—it's still not too late for her, don't you see?
“And so I end this letter, feeling like my hoof is gonna frickin' fall off, but even more so feeling like I've said way too much than I really wanted to and it was all thrushed upon my flank like a branding iron.  But hey—anything for Twi.  That's what we call her around Ponyville, by the way:  'Twi'.  When you live down here among the peasants of Ponyville, Princess, and your name is really just a souped up jumbilation of a common noun or two—You do wyrd things to get creative.  Twi doesn't like being called 'Twi' so much, but Twi can handle what we dish out to Twi—because Twi likes it so much.  Ew, that sounded kinky.
“I don't know if I'm going to have to edit this thing or hoofread it or what.  I tried going back a few pages and reading it myself but it put me to sleep.  And I really can't expect you to respond or whatnot—You being busy with, oh I dunno, the mother flippin' Sun and all.  I suppose I might bump into you—er—prance up gracefully and bow before you at the Grand Galloping Gala next month.  Or—heck—even better!  The A.W.A.—The Annual Wonderbolts Airshow is in Canterlot the week after next!  Speaking of Twi being all swell and 'TWI'—She bought two tickets to the Airshow.  Assuming she's pleased with this letter, she's likely to give yours truly a front row seat alongside her!  Yeah, I know, that may seem like a bizarre example of exploitation on behalf of your star pupil—But what's it matter?  Any chance I get to see the Wonderbolts perform in pony is worth dying for!  If nothing else, then just to see Soarin do his triple-barrel-roll over spewing fireworks, or Swiftwing do his quadruple sonic aircanterblast, or Spitfire do her spine twirling gravity death plunge, or Shattersky's smoke trailing cloud hop, or Shredfeather and Slamstar the Cloudsdalian twins performing their double zig-zagging pyrotechnic cloudswe—CRACKKKKKK!








Rainbow Dash blinks, her eyes wide.  Before her—at the end of viciously chickenscratching the last exciting paragraph, the metal brace of Scootaloo's design has snapped into brittle brass shards.  The pen has fallen down and rolled onto the floor; the letter, in all of its dramatic length and sincerity, remains unfinished.
“...... .... .... ...well, shoot.”  Rainbow Dash's violet eyes twitch.  She picks up the shattered bits of the metal brace and raises them to a squinting inspection.  “Hmmmm... .... ...nnnnghh—Freakin' pipsqueak.  Last time you buy parts from Mexicolt, I swear to Alicornia.”
A sigh.  Rainbow Dash scoots back and bends down under the table, searching with hooves and wingtips for the runaway pen.
“Where in the heck did you go?  When I find you, I'm gonna hunt down your entire family and fill their inkwells with graphite.”  Thud!  “Owie!  Dang podium—Twilight's cozy study is gonna coze my blood to a boil.  Where are we--?”
Suddenly, a swift gust of wind barrels through the window of the room.
“--ahHA!  There you are, ya little ceiling tile piercing!  Finally, now to--”  Rainbow Dash sits back up in front of the podium with the pen.  She freezes.  “... .... ...”
Every sheet of paper is gone.
“.... ... ....”  Rainbow Dash blinks.  She gulps.  She stands up, tilting her head and shakily glancing out the window....
Below, in the night-drenched shadows of the Ponyville road, eight sheets of parchment can be seen fluttering in a gaggle of paper chaos.  Before the Pegasus' horrified eyes, they roll directly into a thick puddle of brown mud.  After two and a half seconds of bitter soiling, an old workhorse clops absent-mindedly across the street, thundering his elderly hooves savagely over the soiled sheets, followed by two of his splintery sharp wagon wheels.  Another burst of wind, and four of the wet sheets shred themselves into a hundred soggy pieces—ambling on into the night.  Half a spastic eye twitch later, a shadowed creature patters out from the nearby bushes, gathers three soiled sheets in its racoon claws, nibbles a sizeable chunk of them into mush, and hurriedly carries the remaining bits off into the wilderness beyond Ponyville.  The very last page lingers for a few absurd seconds...before spontaneously bursting into flames—Well, not quite.  But why not?
“Y-Yeah, why not...?”  Rainbow Dash dryly gulps, her hair a sudden sweaty mat of color palettes drooping defeatedly around her ghostly pale face.  “Uhhhhh.....?”
“How's the letter coming, Rainbow Dash?”  Twilight sing-songs from downstairs.  “It's almost eight o'clock.  I'm sorry I forgot to mention it earlier, but I-I kind of need to make a last minute delivery someplace soon....”
“Uhmmmmmm....”  Rainbow Dash bites her lip, sweating bullets.  “Fuuuuuu--”
“Rainbow Dash?  Is everything alright up there?”
“Uhhhh—No—YES!  Um--”  She flashes her head towards the doorway to the study.  “Everything is---er---Fine and dandy!  Easy breezey!  I—Uh....”
“Need me to come up there and help you with something?”  Cloppity-clop-clop noises, approaching...
“No!  Er—I mean yes—But you don't need to come in here!  Your voice sounds really killer awesome from the acoustics of the hallway—outside the room.  Not inside.  Outside.  Er—Tell me, Twilight—Uh....H-How do you spell Deeyuss Exmakeena?”
“'Deus Ex Machina'?  Why, that's simple!  'D-E-U---'”
Rainbow Dash mounts the podium, bites her lip, flashes one look over her shoulder, two, three—flexes her wings—and zooms straight out the window in a blue blur.









Swoosh!  Rainbow Dash lands in front of the mud puddle in the middle of the street.  Wincing, she plops a hoof into the soggy body of water and digs for the last remaining shred of written parchment.  “Come on come on come on—Please at least be a page where I didn't write upside down or use ellipses like a transmitted disease!”  She hisses, fishes around, and finally yanks the soiled clump of dangling tissue out.  “Ah-HA!”  Half a breath, and the things dissolves in her grasp like hourglass dust into the Ponyvillean night air.  “Nnngh--!”  She pounds her hooves into the splashing puddle.  “Hraaaaaaughhh!  Equianu Reeves on a bench!  I swear to gawd—they named me 'Dash' cuz that's what happens to all my friggin' luck!”
She takes a deep breath, glances behind her at the lights glowing from Twilight Sparkle's house.  A sore-throated gulp, and she starts glancing and trotting and flapping and prancing around the center courtyard of Ponyville, murmuring and gasping to her frazzled self.
“Okay.  Okay.  Okayokayokay.  Just stay calm.  All I need to do is...is f-find some paper and rewrite all twelve hours of work in twenty seconds and I won't have to see Twilight Sparkle's disappointed face for the umpteenth time since it's first ever been burned into my Celestia-forsaken retinae!”  She glances under a rock.  “Paper?”  She fumbles through a trash bin.  “Yoohoo, paper?”  She fingers and bats at a bush full of leaves.  “Hey, are you paper?”  She nibbles on a few dry leaves, makes a face, and vomits them out.  “Bleachk—Okay....maybe if I just....uhhh......settled for leather instead.”  A shuddering, eye-twitching glance across the lengths and breadths of the lantern-lit townscape.  “Now—Just who can I skin alive that nopony's gonna miss?”
A sideways beating of wings from above.  “Good evening to you, Mister Squirrel!”
Rainbow Dash glances up—her violet eyes widen.  “D-Ditzy!”
“That's my name!”  The gray-coated Pegasus smiles, fluttering down to the Earth and walking up to a house while fumbling for keys from the mail satchel hanging over her shoulder.  “Though I much rather prefer  my birth title, 'Anastasia'....”
“You're—Uh—You're....d-delivering mail this late?”  Rainbow Dash sneaks up behind her, sweatily burning a hole through her skin with two psychotic eyes.  They briefly blink to normal as she mutters aside to herself:  “Nah.  No way in heck that gray flesh would absorb the ink...”
“What was that, Mister Squirrel?”
“N-Nothing!  Wh-What brings you to Ponyville?”
“Heheh—This is where I live, silly!”  Ditzy grins Rainbow's way, or at least she tries to.  Her eyes have minds of their own and their minds take them in opposite directions from the Blue Pegasus.  “After a long day of delivering postage, there's nothing I love more than returning home to my baby girl—Except maybe returning home with a check from the Ex.”
“You have a d-daughter?”
“Yupperooni!”  Ditzy blinks and taps her chin.  “Sometimes, when I tilt my head forty-five degrees, I have two of 'em!  Thankfully, they only have one hungry mouth between them.  Well, nice talking to you!  Wherever you are.”
“Uhhhhh--” Rainbow Dash glances back over her shoulder at Twilight's house, cringes, nearly pops an artery in her skull, and finally spins back—pointing a hoof straight skyward.  “Omigosh—Look!  A red herring!”
“Where?!”  Ditzy turns to look up, gasping.
Rainbow holds her breath, stretches, leans, and snakes a hoof into Ditzy's satchel.  She yanks out the first paper scroll she can find.  “Frickin' score...!”
“Mister Squirrel, I'm looking and I'm looking but I don't see any red herring!”
“That's okay, Ditzy!  It's been my experience that most ponies never do!”  Rainbow Dash takes off with a mighty swish of her wings.  “You'vebeenalotofhelpKaythanksbye!”  SWOOSH!
Ditzy scratches her skull.  “That squirrel gets sillier and sillier.  Oh well.”  She opens the door to her house and trots in, smiling.  “Darling, Mommy's home!  H-Hey, arlight!  I've got twins again!”









Zoop!  Rainbow Dash leaps in through the double windows, closes them, and slumps down—panting--before the podium.  As the lanterns rock and shake above her, she clamors through the wavering light to grasp her barely ink-filled pen.
Twilight is still going on in the hallway:  “--but 'Deus Ex Machina' was also a term that referred to a common setpiece in Third Age Flankspearean plays when they needed to suspend a 'ghostly supernatural' character from beneath the stage to above the crowd in an old fashioned simulation of levitation.  You see, Pegasi were never known for their prowess on stage and it was up to artistic Earth Ponies to come up with their own effects--”
“Yeah!  Sounds really awesome Twi!  Thanks!  You can shut up now—Uhm—BFF, sweetie!  Thankiessss.”  Rainbow Dash sweatily grins.  “Eheheheh--”  She all but slams her upper body down point blanc against the pilfered parchment that she's now unfurling across the podium.  Her violet eyes briefly register a colorful advertisement of several edible foodstuffs—all of which disappear in a blink as she slaps the unrolled scroll to its other side and shakily sticks a pen to the top of it in a panicked attempt at starting a paragraph.  “OhgoshOhgoshOhgosh—What the heck do I write?  Think—Dang it!  Think like you've never thought before--”  She goes crosseyed.  “Crud, but then that would be a first!”
“Rainbow Dash--?”
“Just one last secondddd!”  Rainbow Dash all but hyperventilates, wrestling with the pen and paper.  “Uhh......uhm....let's see....uhh....”  She chicken-scratches:






   “Dear Celestia the Princess how's it hoofin'?  Sonic Boomrain and friendship is the Awesome and Apple Jack smells like hay - I kick clouds while Rarity is a generous vampire who likes Pinkie Pie and I like Pinkie Pie but we all like Twilight Sparkle the most including me except I like winning even moresoest and friendship is totally awesome and those who don't agree should probably just kill themselves unless you accidentally drop the Sun into the Earth and then we'd all have nothing to worry about and I forgot the purple dragon's stupid name and what else what else Oh Yes Fluttershy is my best fri--”










Twilight Sparkle walks in.  “Everything cool?”
CLAP!  Rainbow Dash leans a suave elbow on a haphazardly rolled up, slightly bent-out-of-shape scroll on the podium.  She grins at the violet Unicorn, her multi-colored hair settling as if suddenly recovering from a forty-five mile plunge through the stratosphere.  “When have I ever—ever been coolor than I am right this very dang second?  Huh?  Huh?”
“... .... ...” Twilight blinks.  “O-Kaaaaaaaaaaay....”  A nervous side-giggle.  “I-I-I didn't mean to interrupt your letter to the princess.  I just--”
“Letter to the PRINCESS!!”  Rainbow Dash slaps her knee with a hoof.  “HA-HA-HA—Owwww--”  She rubs her knee, wincing, then clears her throat.  “Ahem—Oh yeah we totally baked that cake and ate it!  Totally finished!  Everything you ever asked of me totally completed as to your heart's desire—And--Uhm--The Princess' desire too, totally—Cuz she also has a heart, and hopefully a pair of eyes to read with and then tell what the letter is saying to that heart.....from my gut... ... ...my gut to the Princess' heart.  Yup.  Ahem.”  Rainbow Dash stares, stares, stares, and smiles wide, eyebrow twitching.
“.... ...... ...Well...at least you...erm....Enjoyed y-yourself?” Twilight nervously scrapes at the floor with a random hoof in front of her.
“Pffft—Do you wear a pink diaper?”
Twilight giggles.  “Well, if you're sure that you're done—I could do you the favor of relieving the letter from your hooves, Rainbow Dash.  I know you're a girl who likes her freedom in the sky, and I'm sorry for having bogged you down so much with the last second request to write to Princess Celestia.”
“Oh....Oh ho ho ho ho ho....Eheheh...”  Rainbow Dash chuckles nervously, motioning a hoof boredly into the air while still leaning against the scroll.  “Bog me down?  Me?  Rainbow Dash--?”
“So you'll let me deliver the letter, then?”  Twilight Dash reaches a hoof forward.
“NO!--”  Rainbow blurts, gasps, cringes, clears her throat, then stammers:  “Er, what I mean is—Are you sure?  Maybe I could just.....ehhh... .... ....H-Hang onto it a little bit.  Maybe....Uhm....P-Perfume it?”
Twilight raises an eyebrow.  “Perfume it?  You?”
“Do you have any idea how much the sky smells?  For real!  I-I-I can't blame a Unicorn for being ignorant of the clouds' fragrance and all, but—seriously—You ever ever wonder where all the farts in Equestria go?  It ain't a pretty scene.  And it'd be a shame for....for....”  Rainbow Dash lingers, biting her lip.
For Twilight Sparkle is trying her best to smile in understanding, but the corner of her mouth is twitching.  A sadness deeply shimmers from behind her strong pair of eyes, attempting to hold firm a dam of confidence against a great deluge of anxiety and confusion.  She kneads the ground with the front hoof, her tail flicking in an identically absent-minded telegram of her potentially shot down dreams.
“.... ... .... ...” Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath—a great muted groan that flounders through the hollow depths of her being—and she relents with a grunting voice:  “Eh, yanno--?  The Princess probably has guards who spritz all her letters with Cloven Clein before it gets to her.”  And before she knows it, Rainbow Dash is handing the hastily bound scroll over to--
“Heeeee—Thank you, Rainbow Dash!”  Twilight beams, telekinetically floating the 'letter' towards herself.  “You have no idea what this means to me!”
Rainbow Dash blinks at her own empty hoof, then at Twilight.  A vicious sweatdrop creeps a snail's path down her left temple as she crookedly grins:  “Right.  What's the worst that could happen?”
Twilight Sparkle trots gaily out the study and down the winding steps.  “I'll be sure to send this to Princess Celestia right away!”
“Uhmm—Tw-Tw-Twi!  Are you...er....”  Rainbow Dash hovers after her towards the first floor of the library.  “Are y-you really sure that you wanna send that thing in the morning?”
“In the morning?”  Twilight giggles.  “Don't be so silly!  I'd never do that....!”
“Whew....” Rainbow Dash exhales and murmurs to herself.  “I may still have time--”
“The morning is when Princess Celestia raises the Sun!”  Twilight steps into the main room of the library, smiling.  “I'm sending this to her now!  Spiiiike!”
“Nnghkkkt--!”  Rainbow Dash pops a blood vessel.  “N-N-N-Now?”
“I don't have a purple baby dragon for nothing, you know.”  Twilight slyly winks.
ZIIIP!  “You called, Twilight?”  The drake-lite in question salutes.
“OhhorseapplesOhhorseapples...”  Rainbow Dash nibbles on the ends of her hooves.
“Rainbow Dash is done with her letter.”  Twilight Sparkle regails him with an elegant upturn of the chin.  She drops the scroll telekinetically into his grasp.  “Send this to Princess Celestia—At once.”
“Unnngh—Twilight....!”  The whelp slumps, slothily shrugging his shoulders.  “You know I can't teleport letters this late at night....!”
“Whew....”  Rainbow Dash breathes.
“....not without eating a few gems first!”
“Hckkk--!”  Rainbow twitches again.
“Fine, whatever, Spike!  Just get 'er done.  And...Uhm...” Twilight briefly blushes.  “Is it--”
“Eight o'clock?”  He frowns up at his 'boss' and points at an invisible watch on his scaled wrist.  “Ten minutesssss ago!  Did I tell you, or did I--?”  He glances Rainbow Dash's way.  He chuckles nervously.  “Eheheh—-Sendingtheletternow.”  He dashes off to the side.  Rainbow Dash blinks, looking at him as he saunters over to a basket full of gyms and starts hungrily scarfing a few of the multicolored rocks down his tiny razor-sharp maw.
All the while, Twilight Sparkle paces back over to the Pegasus' side, murmuring about one thing or another:  “Like I said earlier, Rainbow Dash, I gotta make a last second delivery to Town Hall. I know that you've done so much for me today with writing that letter, and I hate to be a bother—But I was wondering if you could be so kind as to help me with the delivery?  It's just a brisk trot across town, and barely a trip's worth of books—But you being here would make it so much easier, and the Mayor would be indebted as well to have these research materials.  So, whaddya say?... ....Rainbow Dash?”
“.... .. ...” The Pegasus stares, gradually pailing with each icy second as she watches the purple whelp down one gem, two, three—then finally lurch as a belch rises up from his system.  The baby dragon opens his mouth wide, and with a resounding buuuuuuuuurrrrrp—He lets loose a plume of esophagus-kindled flames that envelopes the battered scrolled and magically teleports it to Canterlot.  (“Ah.  Yeah—There we go.”)
“Rainbow...?”  Twilight's face leans close up in frame.  “You there?”
“GAH!--Uh....Uh....”  Rainbow Dash blinks, blinks, smiles.  “Books?  You want me to carry your books?  Sure thing!  Anything for y-you, Twilight—You totally awesome friend whom I would never want to disappoint in any way ever!”
“Hmm-Hmmm-Hmmm....”  Twilight chuckles breathily.  “Very well, then!  Let's go, shall we?”  She trots to the other side of the room, gathering a few things.  “Spike!  We're (cough cough) heading to the (cough cough) Town Hall!”
“Right-o-Roonie, Twilight!” (Buuurp!)
“Spike!  One gem per letter!  We talked about this!”
“I must have been measuring that in the Mexicolt exchange rate!”
“Hey, those gems look delicious.”  Rainbow Dash drones.  “Mind if I have one?”
“Heeheehee—Dashie, you silly Pegasus!  Only dragons like me can eat them!  You would only choke to death!”
“Y-Yeah....”  Rainbow Dash gulps.  “So—Are you gonna pass me one, or....?”








Rainbow Dash steps out of the library and into the night-laden street of Ponyville.  She takes a deep breath, her wings flexing in and out, as Twilight trots up alongside her.
“Mmmm—What a beautiful evening.  I almost wish I had known about Ponyville much sooner.  If so, I would have moved out of Canterlot years ago.”
“Right.  Just watch out for the puddles.”
“Shall we....?”
“Shall we what?”
“Make the delivery to Town Hall, silly--”
“Aren't we missing something?”
Twilight blinks.  “H-Huh?”
Rainbow Dash smirks slyly at her.  “The books, Twi.”  She gestures her snout towards the barren backsides of both fillies.  “If I understood things right, you and I (cough cough) were heading to the (cough cough) Town Hall to deliver (cough cough) books.”
“Oh....Oh y-yeah....but of course...”  Twilight blushes a deeper shade of violet.  “S-Silly me....”  She backtrots slowly into the building that happens to be her house.  “Here I go....g-getting the books!  Eh heh heh...”
“Try not to marry one while you're at it!”  Rainbow Dash says.  She stands by herself in the cold tranquility of cricket-cadence.  A moth buzzes around a lantern hung overhead.  A deep breath; she tilts her colorful mane starward, and exhales long and hard—Followed suddenly by a cryptic:  “Five... ...Four.... ...Three... ....Two... ...One--”
“Hiya, Rainbow Dash!”  A pink haired Pegasus-diet pops out from behind a park bench.
“Wow.  Scootaloo.”  Rainbow Dash stonily smirks down at her, droning:  “What a surprise.”
“Jee, Rainbow Dash...”  Scootaloo hunches under a streetlamp, frowning slightly.  “Does anything get past your radar?”
“I'll have you know that my Eighth Sense allows me to know where all wayward young Pegasi are at anyday, anytime.”  Rainbow says.  A blink.  “Actually, I take that back—That's my Sixth Sense.  My Eighth Sense is Kickbuttery.”
“Really?”  Scootaloo blinks widely.  “What's your Seventh?”
“... ... ... ... ... ...Popcorn.”
“Heeheehee!  Anywho--”  Scootaloo beams, rummaging through a satchel being unshouldered from her tiny self.  “--I've been looking for you all afternoon since you left the Carousel Boutique--”
“Now there's a shocker.”
“Hush!”  Scootaloo half raspberries up at her, still fiddling with the contents of the satchel.  “I just finished working on something that I thought I could wear myself—but I realized I made them too big.  So I figured they'd be perfect for an awesome grown Pegasus like you!”
“I smell a really funny joke coming, but somehow I don't think the HUB would allow it...”
“I know it's here somewhere....” Scootaloo angrily hisses at herself as she all but dives into the bag.
Rainbow Dash suddenly squints at her.  “Hey, Pipsqueak.  Did you know that you're—uh—like totally covered in greease and crud?”
Surely enough, in the glow of the lantern light overhead, several smudges can be seen dotting random specks of flesh across Scootaloo's face, neck, and flank; the tell-tale sign of many an hour invested at a workbench.  “I toldja—Didn't I?  I just finished working on--”
“--your puberty?”  Rainbow Dash gasps.  “And all it took was some tweezers and duct tape?”
“Taa-daaa!”  Scootaloo raises a dried-up apple core.  Her eyes bulge.  “Whoops—That ain't it.”
“If I had patience, kid, it'd be worn anorexic by now.”
“Found 'em!”  Scootaloo grins up at the Blue Pegasus, grinning devilishly.  “Close your eyesssssss.”
“Ugh—Must we have all this pageantry?”
“Pretty pleeeeeease?”  Scootaloo does a puppy dog face.  “And hold your arms out!  I promise you're gonna love them!”
“Fine—FINE!”  Rainbow Dash sighs, rolls her eyes back into their sockets, and closes them with her head tilted up.  She stretches her arms forward like an equine zombie.  “I swear, though—If you dip my hooves into a bowl of slugs or some-crap, I'm gonna give you a thermonuclear wedgie the likes of which will be told in legend throughout Equestria for the next Three Ages to come.”
“Hehehe—But I'm not wearing any pants!”
“Who said I wouldn't be using your skin?”
“Ahem--”  Scootaloo's voice scrapes from beyond the opaque veil of Rainbow's eyelids.  “Okaaaaay....and....”  A light, leathery article is draped across the blue Pegasus' hooves.  “....open 'em!”
“Hrmmm...”  Rainbow makes a curious face even before she complies.  When her violets open, they blink and narrow as her face falls halfway between curious and quizzical.  In her grasp there lies a pair of leather-reinforced flight goggles.  Brass cylinders with finely drilled rivets frame a pair of crystal-clear lenses that frame either side of a snout-piece.  On the sides of either lens-cylinder are tiny adjustable knobs at varying degrees of depth between the furthestmost lens glass and the position of the invisible wearer's skull.  “Hey, whaddya know?  Super-peepers!”
“Inorite!”  Scootaloo beams, hopping in place with twitching wings.  “Like I said—I originally wanted to make them for myself, but they only slide off my face.”
“When did you get the bright idea of making flight goggles?  I thought most bugs had the better sense of flying out of the path of your rampaging scooter.”
“I.....Er.....”  Scootaloo bites her lip and blushes slightly.  “I-I kinda sorta got the idea shortly after the Parasprites attacked our town--”
“--and you saw me wearing my goggles.”  Rainbow Dash nods.  “How cute.”
“Whatever happened to those glasses anyway?”
“They aren't glasses.”  Rainbow half-hisses, sticking her nose up.  “They're for eye protection—Not for eye sight.  I was flying through a tornado of tiny village-devouring insects.  It's a miracle they lasted for more than ten seconds, or my flesh for that matter!”
“So you do need a replacement!”  Scootaloo eagerly suggests.
“Well—I don't exactly plan to run into parasprites again anytime soon.”  She adds with a mutter:  “Not without a flame thrower, at least--”
“But Rainbow!  They can be used for so much more than just bug wrangling!  Check it!”  Scootaloo grunts, struggles, and flaps her tiny wings so she hovers in place in front of the Blue Pegasus.  From there, she reaches in and taps various buttons and sliders on the side of the goggles' lens-cylinders, revealing a series of intricate glasses-within-glasses that swivel in and out of place at command.  “If you're doing an early morning weather flight and need to find a wayward cloud—This can let you magnify your vision and see from a far distance!  And this will dim the skies for when there's a bright reflection from the Sun!  And this--”
“I get it—I get it, Scoots.  They're Super Goggles—A definite improvement from my not-so-super bug goggles.”  She chuckles with a smirk.  “I like.”
“You like?  Or you like-like?”
“Please, don't make me choose.  Monogamy is a lie imposed upon us by the patriarchy—Wait, this is Equestria.  What the heck am I saying?  Snkkt—heheheh—Ohhhhh I'm exhausted....”
“Th-They're yours if you want 'em!”  Scootaloo chirps cheerfully, touching back down to the ground.  “Pleeeeease!  At least use them once when you're cloud kicking!  That's all I ask!”
“Yeah, yeah—We'll see....They are pretty snazzy, though....”  Rainbow Dash turns them over a few more times in her hooves.  “I totally dig the multiple lenses thang.  And the rivets; totally steampony.”  She makes a slight face.  “But.....hmmm....I dunno...”
“Wh-What?”  Scootaloo blinks.
“Eh—They certainly are very useful looking—But I guess they could stand to look....mmm...a little cooler?”
“Oh...Ohh.....”  Scootaloo sheepishly bows her head and picks at the ground with a wayward hoof.  “L-Like how much cooler?”
“Well, I'd say about--”  Rainbow Dash opens her mouth, but stops to gaze down at the partially-wilted image of the pink-haired filly.  She clears her throat.  “Scratch that.  They're A-okay in my Encyclopedia of Cool!”
“R-Really?  Yaaaay!”  Scootaloo bubbles from inside.
“Yuppers, definitely coolest of the cool.”  Rainbow Dash stretches the straps out, slaps it over her skull, and fixes the goggles onto her face.  Slightly bug-eyed, she smirks dashingly down at Scootaloo and holds her hoof straight out.  “..........”
“.... .... ...?” Scootaloo stares quizzocally at the outstretched hoof.
“.... ... ....”  Rainbow's lensed violet eyes blink down at her.  “Just pretend I'm Twilight Sparkle's dragon sidekick giving a thumb's up.”
“Oh.  Heheh—Gotcha.  Awesome.”  Scootaloo grins a crescent moon.  A giggle is shared between the two, and she blinks curiously towards the front of the library.  “S-Say....In speaking of Twilight—wasn't she here, just now, talking to you?”
“Yeah, she went back to grab some books for us to take to the Town Hall.”
“Yeah?  How long is that gonna take?”
“You're asking me?  I'd say just about long enough for us to finish this conversation--”
“I'm back!”
“Speak of the nerd!  Welcome back, Twi.”
The violet unicorn comes back with two dozen books, half on her back and half floating in the air via a purple glow.  “Sorry I took so long—Whoah!”  She takes a step back and blinks at the goggle'd expression on Rainbow Dash's face.  “There a hurricane I don't know about?”
“Tropical Storm Scootaloo.”  Rainbow Dash nods and raises her goggles.  “With pre-pubescent tantrums clocked at a constant thirty miles per hour.  Eighty percent chance of idol worship.”
“I'd kick your shins if I understood a single bit of that.”  Scootaloo briefly gripes.
“Please, pipsqueak.  You cannot injure a god.”  Rainbow Dash smirks.  She spreads her wings and straightens her back out for Twilight Sparkle to telekinetically lower the floating mound of books onto her flank.  “Yeesh, Twilight.  Did you save the Mayor's life from a rampaging committee meeting or something?  Since when did she lend you an entire rainforest of paper?”
“Actually....I'm.....erm....l-lending these to her!”  Twilight Sparkle nervously clears her throat.  “Y-Yeah, that's it!  She's been under the weather lately and---Erm....Needs to catch up on her ancient history.”
“Wutever.  That's boring enough; I'll buy it.”
“Need some help with those books?”  Scootaloo asks, flanking the goggle'd Pegasus.  “They look awfully heavy.”
“I may be many things, kiddo.  But child slave laborer ain't one of them.”  Rainbow Dash winks.  “Why don't you soar on home, it's getting late--”
“You're welcome to join us, my little pony!”  Twilight smirks the filly's way.  “The more company the better!”
“Yaaay!  I promise I won't get in the way!”
“... .... ....” Rainbow Dash blinks.  “Well then, I stand corrected.  Bow-legged, but corrected.  Let's get this over with, Twilight.”
“I can't thank you enough, Rainbow Dash.”  Twilight stifles a giggle to herself and trots at a brisk pace across Ponyville.  “Let's hurry.”
“Hurry?  Hurry for what?”  Scootaloo blinks.
A whispering sound.  Scootaloo glances at Rainbow.  Rainbow darts her eyes over Twilight's shoulder and winks knowingly at Scootaloo.  The young filly is twice as confused as she is unamused.  Nevertheless, she follows the two as they move across town, the stars in the sky failing to outrun them.
Several flickering lamplights later, Twilight is in the middle of rambling on about some astronomical dissertation or another—with Rainbow Dash trying to keep her eyes open.  The blue Pegasus glances aside and sees Scootaloo fidgeting in mid-gait, her face hung slightly towards the night-eaten earth.  Raising an eyebrow, Rainbow clears her throat and murmurs Twilight's way.
“Hey, uhm—Twilight?”
“--but if you take into account the sheer number of stars in our galaxy, much less the ones that are experiencing a severe massive implosion, the odds that a Gamma Ray burst would send an energy blast our way is statistically unlikely—at least in any given Age, and especially in anypony's lifetime--”
“Hey stars-for-brains!”
“Hmmm?”  Twilight glances back over her shoulder.  The Town Hall building is in view.  “Did you say something about stars?”
“Sure, why not.  Look—could you go ahead of us?  We'll catch up in a sec...”
Twilight fidgets, her eyes wrestling not to look at the Town Hall building just a few gallops away.  “But...T-Town Hall is.......right there--”
Rainbow Dash's violet eyes harden as she motions her snout emphatically towards Scootaloo.
Twilight mutely exhales 'oh', smiles, and trots on.  “Don't take too long!”
“Would I delay the great exodus of books to the Promised Land?”  The Blue Pegasus slows to a casual stroll, clears her throat, and smirks down at the peach filly beside her.  “What's on your mind, pipsqueak?”
“Hmm?  Oh, me?  Nothing--”
“Come on.  You're not the airhead that the smelly one is.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that Sweetie Bell is--?”
“Seriously.  Let's have it out.  You're down in the saddle about something.  Why else would you spend an entire afternoon hammering together such an awesome pair of goggles for me when you've already given me such a dashing gift earlier in the afternoon.”
“Eheh—You really liked that writing brace, didn't you?”  Scootaloo manages a smile.
“Oh.  Totally.”  Rainbow Dash briefly sweatdrops.  “I....put that thing through the rounds!  Yup.  Sure did!”
“I'm okay, Rainbow Dash.  Just—when you left the Carousel Boutique earlier, you seemed.....I dunno......Y-You seemed kind of sad.”
Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath, her eyes glancing towards the distant purple haze of the EverFree Forest beyond the curtain of night.  “Meh—I probably had something in my eye.”
“I didn't think you were capable of being sad, Rainbow Dash...”
“Seriously, kid?”  Rainbow Dash can't help but let loose a chuckle.  “I mean—That's sweet and all.  But I'm a Pegasus just like you—So I can afford to be anything and everything that other Pegasi are—Except for unawesome.  I could never be that.”
“Heeheehee...”  Scootaloo takes a deep breath.  “I-I admit, I could have waited until later in the week to give you those goggles...”
“And they are sweet goggles--”
“I mean it, Rainbow Dash.  Just—Today, after you got into a fight with those bullies... ...well... ...I-I heard more than I let on about...”
“Oh, this should be nifty.”  Rainbow Dash drones.  She glances down.  “Wanna fill me in?”
“They... ...They called you names.”
“So does everyone whom I butt heads with.”  Rainbow Dash briefly goes cross-eyed.  “And come to think of it—That's a lot of ponies.  Heh.”
“Th-They called you 'half-wing', Rainbow Dash.”
The Blue Pegasus stops in her hooves.  Dead still.
Scootaloo immediately winces regretfully.  She clears her throat:  “I-I've never heard that before.  And I-I can't pretend to understand it, but it sounds really.....really mean.  'I can't believe the nerve of that half-wing'--That's what I heard Hoops saying to his younger brother, just before they fixed a plan to challenge you to a race out at Cloven Canyon.”
“Scootaloo, don't you ever think that your cutie mark might end up being a hidden camera and a microphone?”
“How did that race at the Canyon go, Rainbow?  Huh?  Huh?”  She suddenly jumps, giddy.  “Didja whoop their butts?”
“One thing at a time, kiddo.”  Rainbow Dash turns around, faces Scootaloo, and squats down in front of her—balancing the books precariously on her flank.  “I want you to be straight with me.  After you heard that phrase, did you use it on anyone?”
“What?”  Scootaloo blinks.  “'Half-wing'?”
“Did you use it?”  Rainbow's violet eyes narrow like daggers.  “Tell me.”
Scootaloo shrinks back from the sudden seriousness in her beloved idol's voice.  “N-No!  I didn't!  P-Pinkie Pie swear...!”  She prepares to do the motions--
“No, don't—It's okay...”  Rainbow nudges her with a snout.  Her goggles slide down over her eyes; she lifts them with a hoof and a smirk.  “You're a silly, annoying pipsqueak at times, Scootaloo.  But you ain't a bad kid.  And I'm glad to hear you haven't ever used that term.  Now...”  She leans forward, eye-to-eye with the petite Pegasus.  “I want you to promise me that you're never ever gonna call someone 'half-wing', ever.  Even when you're really really REALLY angry—Which is a hard thing to do, cuz—trust me—I've been known to call people mean things when I get steamed, but never 'half-wing'.  Can you promise me that?”
“Absolutely, Rainbow Dash!”  Scootaloo nods, still slightly wide-eyed.  “I-I promise!  Though, I think it would help if I knew what it meant!”
Rainbow Dash slowly, sadly shakes her head.  “No.  It wouldn't.”  She stands up and resumes trotting towards Twilight Sparkle and the distant Town Hall.  “Even the ponies who use that phrase don't know what it means.  They think they do, but they really don't.  It just comes out of their chompers in a random spurt of anger and stupidity.”  She gazes depressingly into the distance.  “They don't have to live with it; having to live it down, having to prove themselves to everypony that they're not the ones who are missing something important—like decency, or respect, or all that other fluffy jazz.  Meh—It's not worth talking about.”
“Sure..... ...s-sure it is, Rainbow Dash.”  Scootaloo bravely gulps.  “I-I swear I've never seen you so serious about anything before!  You're beginning to sound almost like Twilight Sparkle!”
Rainbow Dash chuckles dryly, confident that her voice isn't heard from the Unicorn waiting from afar.  “Oh, believe me.  This is one serious thing that I have a full grasp of over Twilight.  All the better for her.”
“Have ponies always....erm....c-called you that mean phrase, Rainbow Dash?”
The blue Pegasus takes a deep breath.  She flicks her multicolored tail and grins calmly down at Scootaloo.  “I try not to keep count much, kiddo.”
“Why not?  It's important, isn't it?”
She leans her head down.  “When you're my age, you'll realize that some things aren't worth counting, no matter how many times a day you're made to face it.”
“Pfft—Not one of these speeches!”  Scootaloo half groans.  “You almost sound like my dad.”
Rainbow Dash pales at that, her violet eyes twitching.
“What's the matter, Rainbow?”
“Erm.....Nothing.  Everything is....”  She takes a deep breath, but smiles bravely at the end.  “Everything is awesome.  Wyrdly awesome—But still....”  She snaps out of the brief cloud as she and Scootaloo approach the edge of the Town Hall where Twilight's waiting.  “Tell you what?  How about tomorrow afternoon you and I go flying so we can test out these sweet goggles you made for me?  You can show me allllll the ways I can use them.”
“Really?”  Scootaloo gasps.
“Absolutely, pipsqueak.”
“Why not in the morning?”
“Cuz you're gonna wanna sleep in after tonight.”
“What's happening tonight?”  Scootaloo makes the face.
“There's the million dollar question.”  Rainbow Dash looks Twilight's way.  “Twi?  Care to do the honors?”
Twilight Sparkle immediately shuts the Town Hall door, through which she has been—until now—hushedly hissing something through the cracks.  She plants her left rear hoof against it and chuckles innocently.  “Wh-What are you going on about, Dash?”
“Jee.  Equestria will never know.”  Rainbow Dash once more motions towards the door.  “We're not getting any younger here.  Well, Scootaloo is—But I'm sure we can housebreak her again.”
“H-Hey!”
Twilight Sparkle groans, her cheeks rosy.  Regardless, a belated and exhausted smile:  “Nothing gets past you, does it, Rainbow?”  She proceeds to open the door.
“I don't get it...” Scootaloo blinks up at Rainbow Dash.  “What's she hiding?”
“Scoots, if you ever grow up to write my biography....”  Rainbow Dash leans in and whispers as a suddenly bright light spreads across the three of them.  “....be sure to mention that I'm the only surprise that Equestria ever got—ever.”
Creeeeeak!
“SURPRIIIIIIISE!”  The interior of Town Hall is presently beset with a two-story candle-lit and streamers-swarmed gala event, populated thickly by over four dozen ponies randomly gathered from both Ponyville and Cloudsdale.  Fillies and colts of every color of the spectrum are halo'd around the entrance, cheering wildly the arrival of a certain Sonic Rainboomsterette.  Above a series of tables—replete with almost every delicious baked item in the Sugarcube Corner's catalogue—a grand white banner stretches from balcony to balcony, embroidered with:  'Hooray For Rainbow Dash!'  As the cheering turns into clapping and hoof-stomping, a certain pink Earth Pony cartwheels giddily into view and practically backflips before tossing her arms up with a whooping howl:
“Weeee---Welcome, Rainbow Dash to the SUPER DUPER SECRET MEETING!  And guess what!”  (GASSSSSP)  “We decided to invite you at the last second!  Who'd a thunk et?  So let's hear it for the Saint of Sonic Rainbooms, the Filly of Friendship, the Queen of Cloudsdale—and our bestest of best companions---Raiiiiiiiinbow Dassssssssh!”
Another wave of applause and cheers.
Rainbow Dash blushes slightly, but nevertheless maintains a calm and proud gait as she slowly trots in, the obviously useless books sliding off her back.  Scootaloo gapes beside her, her eyes sparkling.
“A p-party....in honor of y-you, Rainbow....?”  A blink, and her wings suddenly spring ceiling-ward.
Rainbow Dash cooly shoves her wings back to the filly's side.  “Hey—Between Popcorn and Kickbuttery, remember?”  She winks.  “Ahem—How's it Hoofin', everypony?”
“H-Hello, Rainbow Dash....”  Fluttershy suddenly drifts in from the side, her cheeks red.  “I-I almost g-gave it away earlier.  But..... ...I-I had to keep mum....”
“And I was positively dying inside during our whole tea party!”  Rarity waltzes in, dressed for the occasion with an elegant silk blue scarf and matching hoofpieces.  “But this was all Pinkie Pie's idea, and I wasn't about to dash it against the rocks like some scheming ursurper!”
“Well, whaddya think, Dashie?”  Pinkie Pie somehow pokes her head in Rainbow's face from upside down.  “Did we get ya or did we get ya?”
“Oh yeah, you got me...”  Rainbow Dash drones with a sly smirk.  “From the window of a horseshoe repository, even.”  Chuckles alight the air from the gathered crowd of random Ponyvilleans.
“Ohhhh look at her!”  Rarity mocks a faint.  “She knew it—She knew it!”  A playful glare is cast across the room.  “Twilight—In all our months of BFFing—You still don't know how to keep a secret, do you?”
“I tried!  I really d-did....”  Twilight bites her lip and kicks at the floor with a hoof.  “I'm so sorry, guys--”
“Awwww—You did your best best bestest and it was so sweet of you!”  Pinkie Pie bounces in place.
Fluttershy gently nudges the violet Unicorn.  “It's okay, Twilight.  Rainbow Dash isn't easy to fool.  I should know.”
“My right flank, you know!”  Rainbow Dash chuckles at Fluttershy.  “Remember that time I thought you were making faces with me for several minutes?  One of the gerbils you had fed scampered down your throat and you nearly choked to death!”
The crowd chuckles merrily.  Fluttershy hides a slightly frowning face under her pink locks of hair.  “Why do you keep mentioning things you said you never would?”
“Well let's not stand around here wallflowering like a bunch of boring little food spoiling germ carrying house flies!”  Pinkie Pie shimmies around, shouting everyone's ears off.  “We're here tonight to celebrate the glue that binds all of my friends together—and Ponyville as well!”
“Pssst!”  Spike suddenly appears, popping up from behind a bowl of punch.  “Pinkie, this is Ponyville!  Ex-nay on the glue-nay jokes-nay!”
“Wutever—Let's PARRRRR-TEHHHHH!  WOOO!  WOO!  Go Dashie!  It's your Rainboom Day!  Go Dashie!  It's your Rainboom Day!”
People cheer and clamor all over Rainbow Dash, giving her side hugs and nuzzles, inadvertently bumping her around in a sudden crowd surf.  “Ughhh....”  Rainbow barely holds onto her goggles.  “If I live through this to live this day down, I'm so gonna send her toothless lizard pet off to war.”
“Hey!”  A pink-scaled whelp shakes a fist.  “I heard that!”
“I was talking about Pinkie Pie and Gummy, Speck!”
“My name is Sp—Snkkt—Do you even SEE ME next to the PUNCH bowl? Get a clue!”
“Do promise you'll at least enjoy yourself tonight, Rainbow...”  Twilight leans over to her, smiling warmly.  “Pinkie Pie went through a real effort this time—She rarely ever caters at the Town Hall.”
“Yeah, yeah....Just for you guys...”  Rainbow Dash blinks.  “But OH!  What-ever will I do with all this attention!”
“Keep working on the dramatizing, darling.” Rarity trots by.  “But so far, that's three stars at best.”
“Words of wisdom from the expert—Say, why doesn't it smell like hay?”
“Apple J-Jack apologizes in advance.”  Fluttershy plays messenger.  A white bunny hops up out of nowhere and positions her cookie-nibbling self on the yellow Pegasus' mane.  “That's your last one, Angel--”  She looks at Rainbow Dash. “Something about a last second 'issue' she has to work on at the farm.  She should be here shortly.”
“Then that only gives us so much time to have some real fun!”  Rainbow Dash claps and rubs her hooves together.  “Alright all you hoofters!  Who's for Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Scootaloo?”
“H-Hey!”
“Hahahaha!”
“Heeheehee!”
“Hooooooboyo.”
    



> I Remember Rainbow Dash pt 7
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

[SCRKKKK!]
[Static.]
[SCRKKKK!]
[More static, snow.]
[SCRKKKK!]
[Pink curly hair, close up.]
“-is thing worki-?”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A pair of blinking eyes.]
“Oooh!  The red light is on!  That means it's--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A cockeyed, shaky view of the Town Hall interior.]
[Party streamers and confetti.]
“Heeheehee—This makes my head's so heavy!  I wonder if this is what Twilight feels like--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A bobbing, weaving perspective that limps through a sea of chatting, partying ponies.]
[Tilting up—spotting a white banner that reads 'Hooray For Rainbow Dash'.]
[Dipping back down—only to BUMP into a brown colt's hourglass'd flank.]
“Owch!  Watch where you point that thing!”
“Ooops!  Sorry Doc!  Hee hee!  Hey, you're on time for a change--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A light yellow filly with blue-and-pink hair blinks awkwardly.]
“Uhmmm—Pinkie Pie?  What the heck is that on your head?”
“It's a helmet cam, Bon Bon!  And I'm wearing it!”
“Okay---Er....Why?”
“To record everyone at the party giving their best wishes to Rainbow Dash, you silly filly!”
“Oh, well that makes—Wait.  Why is it a wide angle lens--?”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Creeping up on a purple dragon standing on a stack of books to reach the top of a catering table.]
“Snkkkt-hahaha!  Have enough punch—Spike?”
“Huh?  What?  Pinkiiiiie!  Get that thing away!”
“What's the matter?  Will I catch you doing something bad?”
“I mean it!  You're gonna drop the thing in the bowl and get it all wet!”
“Better not go water behind a tree later!  Ponyville can't handle another forest fire!  Hehe--!”
“PINKIE P--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A lopsided view of the various shadowed partygoers clopping about the floor of the Town Hall.]
[SCRKKKK!]
[Pounding music with a deaffening bass beat.]
[Zooming in on a white Unicorn bobbing her blue mane'd head over a turntable.]
“Wooohooo!  Yeah!  Deejay!  Kick it!  Kick it like a stubborn cat!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A close-up, side-scrolling macrolens of several piles of cakes, candies, and pies.]
“Ooooooooooooh!  Be slow my beating insulin....”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A white bunny hoardes a cookie, glances over its shoulder, and nibbles mischievously on the sweet edible.]
[The camera creeps in slowly.]
“Now Angel Bunny—what did your Auntie Fluttershy tell you--?”
[The bunny looks at the camera, hisses, and launches a stack of paper plates—BAP!]
“ACKIES!  When bunnies attack!  Yowsers--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Two colorful fillies stand side by side, blinking, their backs to the DJ Table.]
“What did you say, Pinkie Pie?  We can hardly hear you--”
“Do you have any words to say to the coolest Pegasus ever?”
“Hahah—You're serious?”
“As serious as I'll ever be!”
“That's a tall order, Pinkie Pie.”
“Come on!  Won't you do it for Dashieeeee?”
“Ughhh—FINE.  So what, we just--?”
“I know!  Why don't you introduce yourselves first?”
“Oh, you're going to edit this thi--?”
[SCRKKKK!]
[The same two colorful fillies, smiling picture-perfectly.]
“Heeeeeeeey Rainbow Dasssssh!  It's me, Lyra!”
“And Colgate!”
“And we just wanna say this party rocks—And we can't think of a better reason to be here than for the most dazzling flier in all of Ponyville!”
“The stuff you do to keep our weather in check is totally cool!  We can look forward to sunny skies, thanks to you.”
“So—Uh--Here's the future, and many more awesome moments to come, Rainbow.”
“Yeah—Uh—Cheers.  Ahem.  H-How was that, Pinkie Pie?”
“You forgot to mention how cute Gummy's new hat it!”
“I uh---er....What?”
“Who's Gummy--?”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A doubly pink Earth Pony grins from behind a table, blushing and doing her best to shamefully hide a half-eaten slice of cake atop a paper plate.]
“Ahem—Hello, Ms. Dash.  This is Cherilee, local teacher at Ponyville Elementary.  And I've certainly heard a lot about you.  I can't think of a place I'd rather be than at a celebration of the only recorded pony to perform the Sonic Rainboom—not once, but twice apparently!  Hehhehheh.  If you're up for it, I think you would make a marvelous visiting speaker to tell the young Earth Ponies in my class all about Cloudsdalian life.  Give me a call!--Er--And, uhm—Congratulations on being so....uhh....p-popular?  Heeheehee...”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Rarity walks up from sprucing up a few disorderly banners along the side wall of the Town Hall.]
“Oh, hello Pinkie.  Would you terribly mind if you—Gaaah-Haah-Haaah!  Oh dear—Do get that dreadful thing away from me!”
“Rarity?  What's the matter?  If you're allergic to latex, you should have said something before I ordered all of these balloons, silly filly!”
“No—Not that!  The CAMERA!  This place is so crowded and I am an absolute mess!”
“But you look fine--”
“Not NOW!  Pinkie!  Ohhhh-Must find a mirror!  Must find a--”
“Don't go in the bathroom!  It's slippery!  I think Sweetie Bell ate too much cake--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A light azure Pegasus with a lightning bolt for a cutie mark sips from some punch and raises an eyebrow at the camera.]
“How would you survive without Rainbow Dash, Pinkie?  She's like your main filly?”
“Jee, I dunno—“
[Tilting over to reveal the rainbow colored life of the party walking by.]
“--Hey Dashie!  How would I survive without you?”
“I dunno, I'm like your 'main filly'.”
[SCRKKKK!]
[The white unicorn behind the turntable lifts her blue goggles to reveal a pair of sly red peepers.]
“Hey there, Rainbow Dash.  DJPON3 here, rockin' the tunes like you're rockin' the skies over Equestria daily.  Keep the thunderclouds away and the Sonic Rainbooms coming, girl.  YOU.....Are the True Rhythm of the Night, Pegasistahhh.  PEACE!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A middle aged mare and stallion lean against each other near the back of the Town Hall, where several caterers are restocking a row of tables.]
“Hello, Miss Dash.  I'm Mrs. Cake.”
“And I'm Mr. Cake.”
“And we think you're a swell girl for all the joy you bring to Sugarcube Corner—as well as to the otherwise lonely days of our beloved Pinkamena here.”
“And I.........I th-think I had too much punch.  *HIC*.”
“Confound it, Lemon!  What have I told you about takin' a sip while on the job?”
“I only had one glass, Marble--!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Apple Bloom smiles wide while Sweetie Bell leans against her flank.]
“Ah always figure'd that the Sonic Rainboom was just a legend!  But then mah big sister tells me that she saw the Sonic Rainboom before her very own green peepers in Cloudsdale!  Then, on top of that, I hear that she secretly saw yet ANOTHER Sonic Rainboom when she was just a young filly—and it was because of Rain'bo Dash's cool explosion that my sister found her cutie mark!  Ah mean, how is that even fair?  AJ wasn't even supposed to be in Cloudsdale during the second Rainboom!  Not that Ah'm secretly wantin' her to fall through a cloud and bust a leg or something—But Ah just wish that the Cutie Mark Crusaders could see a Rainboom, if only once—Then maybe we'd all finally find our callin'!  Ain't that right, Sweetie Bell?”
“Unnnnnngh......So....Much.... .... ...Caaaaaake....”
“Er—What she means to say is—We're both happy for Rain'bo Dash!  And we'd think it would be really, really, really awesome if she'd let us take a gander at her super dazzlin' Rainboom!  Then who knows what would happen!  We all know Scootaloo agrees with meh!  Say—Just where is she anyways?  Ah thought she'd be here at the party--”
“Hckkk-BLEEWACKCJKCKKK!”
“Ewwww!  Sweetie Belle!  For Land's Sake!  Not on the floor--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Rarity cradles a twitching Sweetie Belle, holding the young filly's hair as she sticks her head into a bucket and wretches.]
[The young adult Unicorn glances up, then all but collapses—covering her face with a hoof.]
“Good heavens, Pinkie Pie!  Now's even worse timing--!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Twilight Sparkle side-trots in and out of frame, eyeing the camera and squinting.]
[A pair of potted plants are almost perfectly lined up behind the shot.]
“Is.... ...Is...Is everything lined up--?”
“Why do you want some boring plants to be in the background?”
“It's all about symmetry, Pinkie Pie.  I want this to look professional.”
“Why not just have a wide angle of the party behind you?  Then it'll look fun!”
“Pinkieeee.... ...This is from the heart—From me to Rainbow Dash.  You have plenty of other shots of the party by now, I'm sure.”
“It's from the heart from you to Rainbow Dash, then why all the notecards?”
“Hey!  I'm facilitating!  Now be sure my horn isn't dipping out of frame----And you're not recoring right now, are you?”
“Uhhhh---”
“Pinkie Piiiiieee?”
“Okie Dokie Lok--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Twilight Sparkle smiles between two phallic plants mimicking her alicorn extension.]
“Rainbow Dash.  My friend.  My colleague.  My source of--”
(“HEADS UPPPP!”)
[A flock of streamers fly waywardly into the violet Unicorn's face.]
“Aaaugh!  What—ppff—pffft--pleh--PLEH--CUT!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Twilight Sparkle, sitting identically as before, only with a few stray hairs loose and one eybrow twitching.]
“Rainbow Dash.  My friend.  My colleague.  My source of inspiration and loyalty.  If it weren't for you in my life—an explosion of courage and gritty Clousdalian guile—I would not be where I am, I would not be so close to Princess Celestia, and I would not be enjoying such a heavenly life here in Ponyville.  So, from me to you, I just want to say in all sincerity that I really feel--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Heavy static and white streams of snow whip past the image of a pink bathroom.]
[A tiny, googly-eyed alligator blinks in frame from the edge of a frothing bathtub.]
“Oh fiddlesticks!  Gummmmmmy!  Stop playing with the camera!  Auntie Pinkie Pie needs that for Rainbow Dash's SUPER DUPER SECRET SURPRISE PARTY tonight!  Gimme back--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Twilight Sparkle, smiling and breathing confidently.]
“--and I think you can understand that I mean these words from the very depths of my being, and that you will benefit from hearing them as you grow into the beautiful, self-respecting Pegasus you've always been destined to be.  Always your special and loving friend, Twilight Sparkle.  Pinkie Pie—did you get that--?”
[SCRKKKK!]
[A lampshade blurs in and out of focus.]
“Mmmf-Mmmmmff-Hrmmmff!”
[The lampshade rises to reveal a purple baby dragon peering out from beneath.]
“Ahem—You want me to say a few words to Rainbow Dash?”
“Abso-Tap-Dancing-Lutely, Spikey old buddie old pal!”
“Did Rainbow Dash really ask for this—Or was this all your idea?”
“Oh come on!  Play along!  She's gonna love this!”
“Hmmmmm—All right.  But get my good side!”
“Hey, I've got just the thing to help you out—!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Spike poses besides an ice sculpture of a flying Pegasus.]
[He 'handsomely' strokes a pathetically fake mustache sported beneath his nose.]
“And so it was on a cloudy afternoon that Twilight and I stumbled upon the coolest pony ever to grace the skies!  And in ten seconds flat, that afternoon was no longer cloudy—Because the most dependable Pegasus in the history of Ponyville was there to do her job, and do it so well that it left Twilight speechless!  And believe—you—me, that is not an easy task!”
“You can say that again!  Heeheehee--”
“Pinkie Pie!  I thought this was MY turn to speak!”
“Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting you and your mustache!  Please, you may both continue.”
“Ahem.  And when Nightmare Moon first showed her frightening visage upon the balconies of this very building, did Rainbow Dash run away from her?  No!  She chased her out of the building like a burning comet tail, ready to smoke down any and all evil that would threaten Equestria---”
[The camera pans over Spike's head to show a mountain of yellowish dessert.]
“Mmmmmm---Cheesecaaaaaaaake.  So.... ...Gorgeous---”
“Pinkie Pie?”
“Are you even filming me anymore--”
“Say, do you think Princess Luna is an expert on baking cheesecake?  I mean, she did spend nearly a thousand years on the--”
“That's it!  I'm done--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Several ponies are dancing and swaying happily in the foreground as a deep bass beat throbs throughout the Town Hall building.]
[The camera zooms in and tilts from the DJ, to Scootaloo and Apple Bloom excitedly chatting, to several socializing ponies at the catering table, and finally on the image of Rainbow Dash and a little white dot.]
[On an even closer zoom, the little white dot turns out to be a white bunny rabbit.  With a sly look, it pantomimes in front of Rainbow Dash.  After several motions and gestures, the conniving she-bunny smiles and blinks curiously up at the Blue Pegasus.]
[Zooming in on Rainbow Dash; the Sonic Rainboomer grins wickedly, glances over her shoulder, and leans her snout down to whisper something conspiratorially into Angel's ear--]
[Suddenly there is a peach-and-pink blur encompassing the entirety of the camera.]
“HIYA PINKIE PIE!  Whatcha filmin'--?”
“AACKIES!  PINK BATS!  PINK BATS ATTACKING MEEEE!”
“N-N-No!  Pinkie Pie--”
“AAAAH!”
“Pinkie Pie—It's just me!  Scootaloo!  Don't--”
[The entire party flips on its side and rolls back with four fuchsia hooves rising up into view, floundering.]
[SCRKKKK!]
[Scootaloo grins wide, flexing her wings as the party rocks on in the background.]
“Words to give to Rainbow Dash?  Ohhhhh—Where do I begin?  I almost believe that the same Sonic Rainboom that got her and her friends together also affected me!  I-I mean.....I-I know I wasn't foaled yet by the first time she performed it.  But—yanno--circle of life and everything!  I was destined to be here tonight—celebrating the coolest wing'd pony ever!  I just know it!  Yanno—Come to think of it—the first Sonic Rainboom was eight years ago, right?  Well, my parents married a little over eight years ago.  So that means they must have been having their honeymoon right when--”
“Whoops!  Would you look at that?!  Just ran out of tape!”
“Huh?”
“Gotta go switch!  Nice words there, Scootaloo!  Catch ya later!”
“You're lying!  I see the red light and it's still on—”
[SCRKKKKK!]
[Fluttershy hides her face behind her mane and digs at the tile bashfully with a wayward hoof.]
“Come onnnnn, Fluttershy!  Just a few words!  For Dashieeee!”
“Mmmm........ ....hrmmm....”
“Pretty please?  With sugarcubes on top?”
“P-Pinkie.....mrmm.....y-you know how much I hate cameras....”
“Awww—Fluttershy, it's okay!  This is all between friends!  It's not like it's going up on Canterlot Broadcasting or what hoof you!”
“I-I'm just n-not a fan of......of b-being exposed like this....”
“Pfft!  You call this exposure, girl?  Aren't you the one who volunteered to go up on stage later to deliver the most super sweet poem to the crowd in honor of Rainbow Dash?”
“Eeep!....D-Don't remind me.  I'm still scared about that--”
“Auntie Pinkie Pie won't let you look silly!  Come on!  Live a little!”
“Mmmm.....mmmm-All right.......Ermm....Wh-Where do I look?”
“At the red light above my helmet.  Seeeeee?
[SCRKKKK!]
[Fluttershy gently tosses her pink mane back and squirms slightly as she half-faces the camera, her flank to a corner of the Town Hall.]
“H-Hello, Rainbow Dash.  It's m-me....Your friend.  Fl-Fluttershy.  Uhm....I-I'm sorry that I'm so nervous in front of cameras.  B-But it's worth it if it means being able to g-give you this message.  And the message is...uhm... .... ...th-that I'm v-very glad that you are a part of my life.  I-I always have been glad—Ever since the day that you helped me discover my love for animals—My love for everything, actually.  Up in Cloudsdale, I should have felt like I was at h-home.  But I wasn't.  I was too scared to admit it, too sc-scared to show anyone how I really felt.  So I t-tried to fit in.  I tried to be normal—and it didn't work.  And then I saw you—I saw you challenge two mean colts to defend m-me and my feelings.  And I realized that....th-that's okay if you can't be normal.  You can b-be something better than normal.  For you, I guess that's what it means to be 'cool'.  But I don't see myself as cool—Much rather, I think that I'm.....I-I'm unique—er—in my own way.  And I think that makes the t-two of us similar.  It always has....D-Don't you think?  As l-long as we are alive....I-I think we will have that connection—Just like you have a connection with all of the rest of the girls—Twilight, Rarity, Apple Jack, P-Pinkie Pie—And it's so wonderful, Rainbow Dash.  It really is... .... .... ....Whew... ...Mmm....Mmm-Pinkie Pie?  Was th-that fine?”
“Heeeee—It was more than fine, Fluttershy!  I can barely hold this camera up!  I think I want to hug you foreverrrrrrr.”
“Hey.  Uhm.  Uh—H-Have you seen wh-where Angel Bunny went--?”
[The camera suddenly lurches straight into Fluttershy's face as two pink hooves wrap around her neck in a fierce embrace.]
“FOREVAHHHH!”
“Eeeep!  TurnitoffTurnitoffTurnitoffTurnitoff--!”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Rarity stumbles into frame, focusing the camera from the raging party to her panting self.]
[The image of the white Unicorn draws closer as the camerapony gallops towards her.]
“Rarity!  Where'd you go?”
“Nnnnghh—Whew!  Had to carry Sweetie Bell home.  She's an absolute mess!  But she is doing reasonably better than earlier; and that's good, at least.  I daresay, if my parents knew how lactose intolerant she was ahead of time, they would have named her something a little less innocuous.  Pinkie Pie—tell me—did I miss anything?”
“Only your chance of a lifetime to leave a super awesome message on camera for our most bodacious Pegasus friend!”
“Oh darling, are you still going on with that charade? ... ... ... ... ...And did I just hear you utter 'bodacious'?  That is soooooo 'Cherilee'.”
“Come on, Queen Filly of the Frillies!  Don't be a party pooper like your little si--”
“FINE!  I suppose my mane is as orderly as it's going to get after all that's happened tonight.  Ahem.  Alright then.  Let's do this and do this right.”
“Ready when you are--”
[SCRKKKK!]
[Rarity straightens her blue bangs and stands straight and proud. Her blue eyes sparkle as she smiles dashingly into the camera and dramatically murmurs.]
“Rainbow Dash—darling--brave source of support and the sparkling prism of my life—On the evening that we celebrate the impact you've made on all our lives, I would very jubilantly wish to say--”
(“CAN I HAVE EVERYONE'S ATTENTION!”)
[Twilight Sparkle looms in the partying background, raising a pair of ringing bells telekinetically into the air and filling the air with a shrill chime.]
(“I've just cornered this bizarred Pegasus with the most dazzling mane of colors—And I think it's only fitting that we get her to say a few choice words to us before she has a chance to run away!”)
[The camera rocks and shakes as the entire room explodes in cheers and hooves-stomping.]
[An annoyed Rarity tosses her arms, groans, and stomps out of frame as the camera zooms in on a table.]
[A yelping blue Pegasus is fiercely hoisted onto the top of the table as the music dies down and a thick crowd of whistling and whooping ponies close in around her and a victoriously grinning Twilight.]
[The camera zooms in as the whole place throbs with a gathered chant, joined in by the bearer of the helmeted lens.]
“SPEECH!  SPEECH!  SPEECH!  SPEECH!  SPEECH!”
[Rainbow Dash blurs in and out of focus—finally appearing as a blushing, eye rolling pony.  She motions to Twilight Sparkle, murmurs something, and is handed a magically floating glass of punch.]
[The camera pans out slightly as the Pegasus stands up on the table—balancing her bipedal position with two outstretched wings.]
“Dear Ponies of all shapes and colors and horns and feathers!  Welcome to what has to be the most awesome day of my life.  Why is it the most awesome day of my life?  Even more awesome than the day I mesmerized ALL of Cloudsdale with—not my first—but my second ever Sonic Rainboom of cloud kicking glory....?”








“It's because this also so happens to be the most pathetic day of my life!”  Rainbow Dash gives a devil-may-care-grin as she leers above all of the Ponyvilleans gathered below her.  “Because where else can a pony stand unladylike on top of a catering table before all of her admirers and not be the first one drunk at the party!”
A series of chuckles and giggles fill the room.  Twilight Sparkle smiles—strung somewhere between humored and proud.  Pinkie Pie bounces up and down through the crowded sea, the red-blinking camera lurching on her helmet'd skull.  Rarity sashays up from the side, sipping from a dainty glass and smirking gently up at her multi-colored friend.  Fluttershy trots up besides the white Unicorn and grins bashfully.
“So—Let me be the first—and last—pony to declare that this night is not even halfway over!  Because the only person to even bother out-partying me under the table is Pinkie Pie!  And she's on camera duty over there!  Heeeeey—Hey-Hey-Hey let's give her a hoof, everypony!  After all—I may be the dashing and super rad life of the party—but Pinkie Pie is the obvious mastermind of this whole debacle.  So let's hear it for the stupid fuzzhead, yes?  Yes??”
Several fillies and colts clap and pound the floor.  A cyclone of cheers and whoops narrow in on the twice-blushing Earth Pony.
“Heeheehee!”  She hakes her camera-mounted skull.  “After this, I'm gonna take up guerilla journalism in the Zebrahara!”
“Yeah, whatever, ya cotton candy ball of dreams.”  Rainbow Dash drones.  Laughter and chuckles as she raises her glass of punch even higher.  “Yanno, when I did the second Sonic Rainboom—Some say it was to win the Young Flier's Contest at Cloudsdale.  The fact of the matter was—I did it all to save Ponyville's most elegant and eligible bachlorette fashionista!  You know the one I'm talking about—She's the pretty one right over there who looks like a diamond store collided with a box of Blueberry Pop Tarts.  How 'bout a hoof for Rarity—the one responsible for making Town Hall tonight look like anything but the usual boring stale box of dust that it normally is!  Give it up for her, everypony!”
Cheers and cauterwauling.  Rarity merely rolls her eyes, takes another sip of the delicious pink quaff and smiles rosily.  As the applause and enthralled murmurs die down, Rainbow Dash cranes her neck and smirkingly utters:
“Am I embarassing you too hard, Countess Dramacula?”
Rarity gulps and shakes her elegant head.  “I'm about four glasses beyond—urp—that, darling.”  The ring of ponies around her laugh and turn back up to face Rainbow Dash as the Unicorn herself snorts a laugh of her own.  Twilight shakes her head and grins helplessly—until the spotlight suddenly falls on her blinking face.
“And—of course—This night would not be what it is today without everyone's favorite bookmongering neer-do-best of merry sorcery--”  Rainbow Dash goes cross-eyed at her own words.  “The one person responsible for making me dredge up this upside down vocabulary by pen-point-to-the-jugular over the last twenty-four insane hours.”  More chuckles.  “She's the real reason we're all here—Not me.  Fillies and gentlecolts, I give you the wilting violet of elemental harmony, that sparkity spark of...uhm....sparkles--”
“Just say my name and get it over with.”  The Unicorn drones.
“Twilight Sparkle, everypony!  Give her a round of applause before she kills me in front of a Town Hall full of witnesses!  Thanks all around...”
Twilight waves a hoof dismissively, blushing as the crowd roars, cheers, and settles in time for her to playfully frown up at the blue Pegasus.  “You know—If you wanted this to be a roast, it should really be going in the opposite direction.”
“That's an awfully bold statement coming from the main character.”
“The main what now?”  Twilight makes a frazzled face.
“AND!”  Rainbow Dash grins towards the gazing crowd, waving her punch glass high.  “To every pony whom my Sonic Friendboom has impressed, to every Ponyvillean whose skies I clear, to every filly who thinks my hair is unkempt, to every one of those same fillies who goes to the nearest salon the next day and buys six different hair dyes...”  Chuckles and snickers.  Rainbow Dash gazes across the crowd until her violet eyes fall on the image of Fluttershy.  “....to every sweet soul too humble and kind to bother being exposed to the spotlight....”  Fluttershy smiles sweetly.  Rainbow Dash briefly smirks back—a wink, and then she gazes beyond.  “....and to every living soul in this crazy-headed place who was pyschotic enough to come waltzing into this party and celebrating some port-a-potty colored Pegasus whom they hardly know but were pulled here all the same by the smell of Mr. and Mrs. Cake's irresistibly scrumptious baking...”  A few louder laughs from the crowd there.  “.....I thank you all, from the bottom of what Twilight Sparkle says is my heart, but on a long work day without morning oats—I know better what to call it.”  She smirks.  A deep breath.  “As for the rest of you—Eat.  My.  Dust.”
A cackling noise, and then a round of hooves-pounding-to-tile.  Rarity suddenly howls above the raising noise.  “Are you just going to stand there—Drying up the room like some Celestia-forsaken dumb rock?”
“QUIET YOU!”  Rainbow Dash tilts her head straight back and tips her glass ceiling-ward, swiftly and maddeningly emptying the entire contents of the punch chalace down her gullet.  Rarity laughs and claps madly.  The crowd whistles and cheers her on as she tips, tips, tips back—and finally flutters her wings at the end of the massive gulp.  A huge belch, and she raises the empty glass as she flies down from the table, smirking devilishly and pumping a hoof in the re-confetti'd air.  “And THAT—fillies and gentlecolts—is the OFFICIAL start of the PARTY!  BRAAAP!  Unngh—Bring it on, kidneys!  Rghh!”
“YEAHH!  WOOO!”  Pinkie Pie cartwheels, nearly flinging the helmet-cam off her fluffy head with a climactic forward flip.  “You heard her!  DJ—Hit it!  Dance till you can prance no more!”





The following are notes I took for the chapter as whole.  The fic was never written beyond this.  Vimbert snapped this self-absorbed lemur back to reality, and End of Ponies was born "from the ashes" as t'were.

Notes
*Series of videotaped interviews*

Pony:  How would you survive without Rainbow Dash?  She's like your main filly!
Pinkie Pie:  Jee, I dunno.  Hey Dashie—How would I survive without you?
Rainbow Dash:  I dunno, I'm like your main filly.

Fluttershy – Angel cameo / is almost too shy to speak before camera / is reminded about the poem she's going to give on stage and is goaded to speak

*Angel and Rainbow Dash seen chatting, scheming*






-Apple Jack is late, 'tending to some last minute business'
-Angel the bunny communicates something (psst psst psst) with Rainbow, snickering
-Spike gets return letter from Celestia; Rainbow fidgets
-Apple Jack shows up, grumpy, confronts Rainbow about oversaturated crops
-Twilight confronts Rainbow on nature of sent letter / Twilight:  Muffins?  You had me mail Princess Celestia a paid advertisement about muffins? / Twilight:  What gives—I thought she liked crackers. / Twilight:  Who?  / Rainbow:  Ditzyyyyy—errrr--ehheheh / Twilight:  You realize what this means?  / Rainbow:  So what?  Muffins are.....uh.....good.  Gotta be better than what the Princess already eats.  Just what does she eat, anyways?  Solar hay?
-Captain of Flight Team shows up, looking for Rainbow Dash per Rose Heart's request
-Hoity Toity storms in, outraged over gemstone delivery / Rainbow shoves Ditzy Doo his way / “Great party, Mr. Squirrel!”  “Ditzy!  What are you doing here?”  “Oh I put my little filly to bed, all two of her.” / “Pretend he's a flock of Winter birds and guide him WEST”
-Twilight and Apple Jack put on heat, Pinkie is perplexed
-Ditzy Doo delivers message to Rarity; Rarity has nervous breakdown
-At fever pitch, Fluttershy prepares to give a poem in Rainbow Dash's honor / Rainbow waits in giggling anticipation; Pinkie is confused
-Fake Angel loses her head; Fluttershy is shocked—Rainbow Dash and the real Angel snicker / Fluttershy realizes the fake Angel is a stuffed dummy, but is nonetheless moved to tears by the shock of the prank / Angel points guiltily at Rainbow Dash
-Entire party is glaring at Rainbow Dash / Pinkie Pie rushes to shoulder Fluttershy's sobbing (perhaps Rarity's too) / Rainbow Dash:  Come onnnn, Fluttershy!  Didn't you say you loved it when I did pranks?
-Rainbow Dash:  How could this get any worse?
-Stu Leaves is wheeled in—lamed from the race from earlier / “Hey!  I know you!”
-Apple Jack LETS LOOSE on Rainbow Dash
-Zecora and Tetramun cameo(?)
-Rainbow Dash leaves in a huff; Scootaloo follows / Rainbow Dash makes to leave on her own, puts on Scootaloo's goggles backwards, and slams into a tree / Rainbow relents to letting Scootaloo tag along

-Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo on a cloud at night / cuddling under the stars / Rainbow Dash monologues as Scootaloo falls asleep

Rainbow Dash:  My mother died—and when I was born, it was only because she gave everything she could to make sure that I could live.  And I have lived—as well as I could live, as well as anypony could ever hope to live.  Idiots might call me 'half-wing' or wutcrap, but that doesn't bother me like it used to.  I'm the coolest, most awesome, most butt-kickingest Pegasus in all of Equestria.  I'm right as rain in my life, so long as I remember that.  So long as I remember her.

(return to theme)

Princess Celestia:  Even without your friends, isn't it enough that you'll remember all the things that you are proud of?
Rainbow Dash:  No it's not!  (emotionally)  No....It's not.

> End of Ponies - Chapter 5 - Rough Draft - Spike is Treebeard
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


When I first submitted End of Ponies to Vimbert's review thread, he reacted positively to most of it--but he expressed open disapproval of Chapter five. If I recall, candle-stick-head's exact words were "SO VERY BORED."

Well, here's why. The original version was about eleven pages longer, and most of it consists of Spike monologuing like Treebeard.

I went back through and essentially rewrote the whole dayum thing. It's better how I changed it, but in this version you can see me layering the exposition like Victorian lingerie.

There are good ways to do exposition. And then there are bad ways. The bad ways aren't so... bad, but that's assuming your audience is drugged up on dopamine.










The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions

Chapter 5 – Immutable


“I was a mere dragon whelp—wingless and crest-less; I was no older than you, Scootaloo, when the world of Equestria met its end.  It is not a day that I recall with any fondness, as you can well guess.  Everypony that I was ever close to perished horrifically.  Every friend I ever had, every acquaintance and loved one—they all vanished in a blink.  I was on my own, a baby dragon clamoring for resources in the mountains beneath the ruins of Canterlot, attempting to make sense of the end of all things sensible.  But as the Sun-less days bled into perpetual twilight, I began to realize that my fate was not something to be paraphrased by the horrible blight that befell this land.  Much rather, I was to undergo an evolution, a blossoming metamorphosis that transformed me into something greater than my physical self.  If time was satisfied to freeze the world into a miasma of gray limbo, then it would become my life task to transcend time—and with the art of several arcane dragon spells, I was able to do just that.  The mystical arts are an amazing thing—yes?—as they serve their purposes best when the civilization that depends on them no longer exists to judge them in the first place.  I imagine you too, Scootaloo, understand the truth behind this...”

The last pony's ears heard the elder dragon's words, but her eyes were still exploring the mesmerizing sights of the cavernous hovel.  Under the gnarled roots of the late Twilight Sparkle's treehouse library, the basement had been expanded enormously into a subterranean dragon's roost.  Above a sparkling array of multi-colored gemstones was an elaborate assortment of alchemy tables, shelves upon shelves of  magical ingredients in glass jars, sparkling crystal balls, electrified tesla coils, elaborate brass-constructed rotating models of the Equestrian solar system, and then a rhythmic howbeit cacophonous assortment of dozens upon dozens of clocks—clocks of all shapes and sizes, of various copper instruments clicking and clanking and spinning with infinitely complex precision across the wide sparkling lengths of the cave.  A deep purple haze twinkled throughout the earthen interior within the heart of Ponyville, giving the place a spiritual glow that breathed a resurrected spirit of Equestrian sorcery into the air, making the wide-eyed pegasus' heart leap for the millionth time that eventful afternoon.

“Scootaloo?”  An elderly voice deeply vibrated through the laboratory, forcing her to glance up at the warm sight of a purple dragon's face lowering to meet her eyes.  He was applying the last of a series of bandages across her left side with large but gentle clawed hands.  The spot underneath her wing where the bloodthirsty trolls had stabbed her was completely and miraculously healed, but a tight soreness persisted still as her old draconian friend finished his ministrations.  “I can understand quite perfectly the extent to which you must be distracted this very moment, but I do hope my words haven't been too utterly wasted.”  His iron lips curved in a toothed smile; a violet pendant glittered in mana light from where it hung around his neck.

“I-I'm sorry, Spike,” the filly said, trembling slightly from where she sat on a lab table with her legs folded underneath her.  Her leather armor and equipment was deposited neatly on the floor besides the mounds of multicolored gems so that the dragon could properly bandage her.  For the first time in as many years as she could pretend to count, the mare felt naked—exposed—and yet ... not vulnerable.  “It's still so hard for me to ... to believe that this is happening.  I was nearly killed by those horrible monsters, and then not only do I find out that you're alive—but you actually sent me back through time?”

“Hmmm,” he nodded and gently tightened the bandage against her wincing side.  “Your shock is hardly something to apologize for.  If there's anyone who should be apologizing—alas, it must be myself.  Though I dispensed with your attackers, I was anything but graceful immediately afterwards.  Still, you proved to be a much sturdier pony than I had anticipated.”  He chuckled hoarsely and winked an emerald eyeslit at her.  “If I had instead relied on a bow and a 'how-do-you-do', I wouldn't question a rigid survivor like you narrowing the sights of one of your guns on my hapless snout.”

Scootaloo bit her lip, her gaze falling towards the floor.  “I guess that's true.  Funny—yesterday, I would never have thought twice about aiming a weapon at something to survive.  But here and now—in the company of a friend—it all seems so... so...”

“Poetic?”

She made a face at him.  “Barbaric!”

“Ah yes, 'barbarism',” Spike smirked.  On heavy haunches, he slithered massively across the cramped cavern and re-shelved his medicinal ingredients inside an assortment of marble-carved cabinets.  “Now there's a word that had resonance before the Death of Equestria.  I've always believed that when the first dragon who ever lived took a bite out of the delectable flesh of the planet, what separated her from the horrid beasts of this world is that she was the first to pause and ponder over what tiny but undeniable piece of nature she had verily sent to ruin.”

“I'm sorry ...?”  Scootaloo blinked helplessly.

Spike smiled at her over his purple shoulder.  “True barbarism, my little pony, belongs to a creature that devours indescriminately without bothering to digest its sustenance via the invisible organ of the conscience.  Much like those mindless herding trolls that so merciessly assaulted you up above.”

“Heh... Guess you're right,” the filly smirked at him with a calming breath.  “All of this can be 'poetic', can it?”

“With Equestria reduced to a veritable blank slate, I know it's been incalculably hard for you to find a standard against which to judge the nature of your actions—both loathsome and noble.  But if it is of any consolation, Scootaloo...” He strolled towards her and gently tilted her chin up with the base of his claw, smiling.  “...I have long waited for this moment, when I would be blessed by the presence of the last living thing that carries the same breath of purity that Equestria was founded on—and I have not been disappointed.  I could not ask for finer company.”

She swallowed a lump down her throat, gazing up at him.  A suddenly painful breath, and her scarlet eyes curved as she sympathetically murmured:  “You've changed, Spike.  I know that I have been through a lot.  B-But you...?”

He solemnly nodded.  “We both have been transformed by our own respectful trials.  You, as I can very well see, have been righteously hardened by a long life of ingenious adaptation and survivalism.  My experience is analogous in many respects, but it's not quite that simple.”

“How so?”

“Well—For example: as you have lived one hardened life, I suppose it's safe to say that I have lived several.”

“I...I-I don't understand,” she muttered, her brow furrowing.

“You did hear me when I said that I took it upon myself to transcend time, yes?”

“Well, that much is obvious, Spike—Though it's still a big pill to swallow,” she gulped as she said this, gazing at her bandages.  “That spell that you did on me—in the ruins of Sugarcube Corner, when you breathed your dragon fumes on my wound--”

“I doused your flesh with an Accelerated Chrono Spell,” he nodded matter-of-factly.  “It tricked your body ever so briefly to assume that several seconds were actually several weeks.  That's why the wound closed up so quickly.”

“And...” She bit her lip, hesitating slightly before finally coming out with it:  “Your age, Spike...?”

He chuckled, “What of it, girl?”

Scootaloo nervously blushed.  “I-I remember you being a dragon whelp and all when I first saw you in Ponyville—I think even Twilight Sparkle explained to me that you were barely older than I was.  But... B-But I've done a lot of reading over these desolate years--”

“Heheh—I can tell...”

“--and dragons' lifespans dwarf that of ponies by over tenfold.  As a result, the draconian growth period should be way longer than equines'.”  Her eyes narrowed on his grand purple frame.  “You should be a lot younger than how you appear to be right now.”

“Merely the consequence of Intro-Chronomanic Incantation.”

She blinked.  “Intro-Chronic-Wh-What, now?”

Spike's nostrils briefly fumed with passive smoke.  With the violet pendant dangling, he paced over to his bed of gemstones and reclined with a weathered sigh; but then he bore a courageous smile as he nodded and began:  “When I was alone in my half of the same wasteland that was thrust upon you, all I had to go by was the spirit instilled in me by my one and only mentor...”

Scootaloo exhaled in a somber breath, “Twilight.”

He nodded.  “She was the most magnificent unicorn that ever lived,” Spike spoke in a distant voice as his emerald eyes retraced his long and scaled history.  “I do not think it is a simple bias for me to state that fact.  If things had not gone the way they had—and if Equestria had at least one century left to live out its Fourth Age in daylight—I have no doubt that Twilight Sparkle would have become not only the most powerful magician in all of the land, but she would have dwarfed all of the sorceresses that proceeded her—save for those of the Royal Family, of course.”  A slight chuckle, and he continued: “To be able to work with her, to assist her, and to be counted as her very close friend is an honor that I have never forgotten ... and never will.  When she was suddenly ripped savagely from my life, it was a tragedy almost worse than the destruction of all Equestria—to me, naturally.  Living those first few anguished years alone in the Canterlotlian Heights was a purgatory I shudder to relive, but must—at least in my heart—because those bleak days would form the building blocks of a grand magical experiment to put all previous projects in the realm of mysticism to utter shame.

“In my young heart, I felt the only way to bring sense to the apocalyptic world was to see it through my late mentor's eyes.  'What would Twilight do?' I would ask myself.  The world had been stripped of its Sun and Moon.  There were no more days and no more nights.  It was as if the one reason that death came to the world of ponydom was because time itself had abandoned all living things.  I started to see time as an organism—a selfish and slothful creature that suddenly needed to be spurred back into responsibility.  And it was out of that relatively hyperbolic perception that I imagined something too amazing to disregard.

“I remembered immediately a series of experiments that Twilight Sparkle had engaged me in just weeks before the Disaster.  But before I get to that, dear Scootaloo, you must understand the one useful quality I had in the gifted unicorn's employment.  Ever since the first day I began working as the lab assistant to Princess Celestia's star pupil, I was always chiefly used as a messenger boy.  With a basic translocation spell that thrived off the magical aura of purple draconian green flame, I could transport objects across leylines with a simple act of teleportation.  This, of course, we used on a regular basis to send Twilight's priceless letters on friendship to the Goddess of the Sun.  As I grew older and my mastery of green flame improved, we began dabbling in my potential to send different kinds of objects to new and unheard of locations with the simple exhale of a jade breath.

“This led to Twilight's experiments, which were noble in their imaginative scope—howbeit almost too imaginative.  My mentor had been pouring through several tomes regarding cosmology, quantum physics, and the spacial transience of leylines.  She drafted a hypothesis based on the possiblity that—as I had until then transported objects through space—I could also potentially transport objects through time.  Using my physical body and elemental essence as a base, it was theoretically possible to employ my soul as a vessel through which to communicate into the past and future, and my green flame would be the river upon which such chronological messages would drift.

“What followed were several intriguing yet failed attempts to accomplish such a remarkable feat.  I remember staying up all hours of the night, waiting on an adorably disheveled unicorn to finish scribbling the last of several overly-complicated mathematical theorems before sending my green flame through the rinse.  I belched so many infernal letters to ashes that I thought I was going to burn a hole in my nubile fire glands.  But I didn't mind—I was excited about the entire prospect, but not nearly as excited as my mentor.  No, Twilight was positively electrified with anticipation—I don't think I had seen her so focused on a spell since the days she obsessed over the return of Nightmare Moon.  In the end, though, every letter that I sent appeared at the target coordinates at the precise same time that they dissolved in flames at my side of the laboratory.  All except one—in Twilight's slightly delusional observation, at least.  We all chalked it up to her exhaustion at the time, but she swore afterwards that one of the letters we sent made its appearance two milliseconds later than what would be considered 'natural'.  Only now do I look back and realize that—yes—perhaps we were actually making history...

“Well, we gave up on the experiments.  Twilight resumed her normal magical curriculum, her letters on friendship, and her happy days of being the young pony she had every right to be.  And then ... And then when everything was consumed in flames, and I stood alone in the absence of her—what seemed for a brief lapse in logic to be an utter travesty of scientific research suddenly transformed into a golden mean before my mind's desperate eye.  I had to find out if there was truth to the experiment beyond a few failed attempts at meager mathematical propositions.  Twilight was far more gifted than I had ever hoped to be, but the unicorn's resources were limited.  After the Cataclysm, the Equestrian Wasteland opened up to me a grand cornucopia of opportunity, of endless tools to my disposal, of a voluminous backlog of written archives left miraculously in tact at my claw-tips.  Salvaging the Canterlotlian libraries of all that I could find on cosmology, leylines, and magical exploits—I burrowed my way deep into the Eastern Mountains and imprisoned myself within a perpetual state of research and self-introspection.  For countless years I beat my scaled head against the surface of one single confounding quandary—Could I turn back time?  Could I send a message back to myself?  Could I possibly undo the horrible holocaust that had rendered all of my friends to dust and myself to an orphan of desolation?

“You must understand that I thought I was the only living thing—much less only living dragon—in all of Equestria.  I was in Canterlot when the End came—And I still hadn't grown my wings, so there was nowhere else to go.  In the heart of the mountains, I fashioned my own home into a time capsule.  Life between the opaque walls of rock was twice the limbo as the lingering twilight above the Wastes could ever hoped to have been.  It was just what I needed; because the only way I planned to scale my mastery of time was if I felt the chronological currents bending before my will.  It wasn't enough to observe the results of my experiments.  Magic is a science second, but an experience first.  I told myself that I would not leave those mountains—that rocky cage I had forced upon myself—until I could exit them not just through space, but time itself.  I wasn't about to commit suicide, mind you—I had all the rubies and gems I could eat, and all the insulation that a dragon would require.  Hours crept into decades, as I went against the grindstone of the cosmos—And somewhere deep in the mind numbing thick of it all, I succeeded.  I came upon an epiphany.  I found what I was looking for.

“What I discovered was 'Reverse-Time'.  If chronological energy is like waves on the beach, then 'Reverse-Time' is the effect that one sees upon the advent of a huge tsunami when the shoreline briefly and hauntingly recedes back into the body of the ocean, prophecying the huge tidal wave to come.  On that same note, time is also a lot like the ocean; it may appear enormous and infinite, but time—much like space—has its limits.  The key is understanding just how many daunting drops fill that 'ocean', and how cohesive they are with one another.  It wasn't enough for me to discover 'Reverse-Time', but I had to control it somehow.  The solution, I found, was to energize the current of time forward—as if I was instigating the massive tsunami in the first place, and the undercurrents of time would naturally flow back in a variable relationship to the forward surge that was sparked.

“Though I cannot expect you in so short yet verbose a dissertation to understand the intricacies of what I'm trying to convey here, Scootaloo, I think you can very well empathize with the overwhelming euphoria I felt with my discovery.  In the end, all it took was for me to conjure up a burst of green flame strong enough to set off this metaphorical 'tsunami', so that I could kick-start 'Reverse-Time' and hopefully ride it back to a moment that took place before the disaster--”

For the first time in minutes, Scootaloo finally reached a bursting point.  “And did you--?!”  She all but leaped off the table, her eyes wide.  But just as soon as she exclaimed such, her features began deflating.  She didn't even need to hear Spike's next words; his grave face gave the obvious answer.

“No, old friend,” he inevitably said.  “Though I was successful—and I became the first dragon ever to travel back in time—I hit a blockade.  When I came to, I felt the mountains around me crumbling in the tremors of a horrificaly familiar Cataclysm.  The chaos ended, and I broke the surface of the rock for the first time in years.  What I discovered on the outside was the same perpetual twilight and mist that still blankets our world today.  I had indeed traveled back in time—But the furthest I could go was the very moment of Equestria's death.  I could go no further back, no matter how many times I tried.  And I did try, on multiple occasions.  In different niches of the same mountains, I carved myself a new home and laboratory, slaved away over the ensuing years, and sent myself back on Reverse-Time just like I did every moment previously.  And each time, I traveled back to the past only to stop at the horrific punctuation of the one and all-encompassing apocalypse.

“You see, my green flame requires a full circuit upon which I can travel chronologically backwards.  That 'circuit' is none other than my soul, my life essence, that which defines me as an entity beyond all conventional means of physical science.  If we had no souls, Scootaloo, there'd be no reason for magic to exist in the first place.  I know that sounds a bit poetic—but it really is that simple.  As I would discover—there would forever be a schism in my soul, a break in the 'circuit' at the precise point when the Cataclysm happened.  It took me a while to digest this truth; the Cataclysm was as much a magical catastrophe as it was an elemental one.  Whatever destroyed our Sun and Moon—whatever consumed the souls of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna—it also brought death and destruction to all things ... to all souls enchanted, even on the most basic level, with magic.  That is what brought the end to ponies, Scootaloo: a magical blight.  It's what petrified all equine flesh and reduced them to the ashes that forever haunt this world.  And, sadly, there is no way I can travel back in time to precede it.”

Scootaloo leaned her head to the side.  “If that's true, then why are you still around?  You're magical, aren't you?”  She blinked, and her face paled.  “Why am I still around?”

Spike's green crests flickered.  Scootaloo noticed an odd twitch to his eyelids' scales as he nonetheless gravely uttered:  “Dragons are naturally infused with magic—Yes—but they are also very much immune to countless types of mystical energies that might assault the scales.  But that is hardly an ample excuse for why I am still around.  The only real hypothesis that I have is that whatever caused the disaster was fundamentally devastating to the essence of ponies—and not dragons, or any other creatures for that matter.  It would explain why so many things not touched by the Sun or Moon are still alive today—While all of ponydom is deceased.”

“All but me...,” Scootaloo said deflatedly, her eyes wandering in aimless circles across the hundreds of clockfaces ticking unemotionally at her.  “I always thought it was just dumb luck that I survived.  But now--”  She gulped as a wounded expression billowed up to the surface of her face.  “It's so absurd.”

“Is it?”  Spike cocked his head to the side with a curious smirk.  “Where were you when the Cataclysm hit?”

She looked at him.  She knew the answer to this.  She had gone over it so many times in her head—dreaming of a moment, a moment like this, when she might finally tell her tale to someone, when there might finally be a shoulder for her to lean on and share all of her anguish and pain, when there'd be another voice besides her own to judge if she had truly taken advantage of the second life granted her, if she had actually made herself out to be something more than the last Equestrian statistic ever.  But now that the moment had come, and Spike—the tiny annoying boyish whelp—was suddenly a majestic and wise dragon awaiting her testimony, she couldn't manage a single breath.  She felt her limbs buckling, because she had never expected this moment to be so ... so bitter.  She felt guilty, and she wasn't entirely sure why.

It was to Scootaloo's infantile relief that Spike saw straight through her and instantly resumed his monologue as if it had never ended:  “I had, in my manic and desperate experimentation, made a total of eight whole trips in Reverse-Time to the moment of disaster.  Each time, I was occupying a different part of the mountain so as not to run into my past self.  And each time, I was coming closer and closer to understanding the true nature of time—as I was also coming closer to grasping the truth that I could not entirely master it, at least not well enough to achieve my dream of going to a moment in time prior to the Cataclysm.  Settling on the fate dealt to me, I experimented in a different form of chronological manipulation—Intro Chronomanic Incantation.  I was able to persistently slow time down within me, allowing myself to accomplish more in a single year than any other practicing sorceror could in an entire decade.  This became a priceless tool at my disposal, as I could extend my research and perfect my mathematical formulas without having to simply hurl myself back into the past like a badly thrown stone across the lake of reality.”

“So you're telling me that—in one lifetime—you've jumped back in time on over eight separate occasions, and you've even found a way to slow time around you?”  Scootaloo squinted.

“I slowed time within me,” the purple dragon smiled.  “It's about as ridiculous as it sounds, but most assuredly true.”

She stammered, “Spike—Just how old are you?”

He took a weathered breath.  “Taking into account my rate of growth, cross-analyzed by a relativistic calendar that I manufactured for myself long ago—I would say that I am something close to three hundred and forty-two.”

“Spike!”  Her face grimaced.  “That's a long time...”

“To ponder the fate of the only world I've ever loved...,” he gazed deeply at her, “...It's not been long enough.”  His woe-some face aged one reflection at a time across a panorama of ticking clockfaces that flanked his reclining figure.  “Funny—My life as a whelp, frolicking side by side with close friends in the living green of Equestria was a scant nine years.  And I've spent the better part of three centuries constructing a desperate appendix to what's ultimately been a very trite chapter in my life.  But it's the only chapter that holds any merit, that still makes my heart leap to remember the sound of Twilight's voice when she called for quill and ink from across the library, when she patted me on the back for an assistant's job well done, when she tucked me in at night as I gave into nubile draconian slumber, dreaming of the magical morning to follow...”  He sighed thoughtfully, green fumes kicking into the air and brushing past a rotating array of brass planetoids.  A beat, and he turned to smile archaically in the last pony's direction.  “I think that's the real reason why I locked myself inside the sarcophagus of the Eastern Mountains to do my experiments.  I refused to stare at the gray sky until I could somehow bring myself to see the Sun once more.  It's been over three hundred years, and yet I still hear her voice ... and dream of the golden dawn.”

Scootaloo gulped.  “Spike?”  She gazed forlornly.  “Do you know how old I am?”

He squinted at her, rearing his crested neck back in thought.  “If my memory still serves me right, you had to have been eight years old at the time of the Cataclysm.  And at your chronological level, it has been twenty-five and a half Equestrian revolutions since the end of ponies.  So that makes you--”

“Thirty-Three,” Scootaloo exhaled.  She blinked as the words left her in a misty sigh.  “I am thirty-three years of age.”  Her voice wilted as she avoided the gaze of the clockfaces.  “I-I remember when I was a little foal, and Apple Bloom's teacher—Ms. Cheerilee—told us how old she was: 'Thirty-Three'.  And I thought to myself how... how strange it must be—to be over three times as old as I was, to be three decades old, to be an adult.”  She glanced at the many chips and dents in her hooves.  “And here I am—and those years have vanished in an utter bl-blink...”  She gulped, blushed, and gazed apologetically at the purple dragon looming before her.  “I-I'm sorry, Spike.  I know th-that can't possibly compare to three hundred years.”

“You would be surprised, child,” he nodded at her.  “Centuries all blink the same.”

A dizziness slowly wafted up to the center of Scootaloo's adult head.  Between Spike's monologues and the spinning hands on the clockfaces, she suddenly found herself encumbered with an awkward nasuea.  She murmured something unintelligibly and got up onto her wobbling legs—still wincing from the bandaged wound on her left side.  “Gotta t-touch the ground... Feel like I'm in a cyclone--”

“Allow me, old friend,” Spike said and lifted the very tip of his massive tail over to give her something to lean on.  She graciously accepted his help and hobbled down onto the ground like a shivering, newborn foal.  Gathering her senses, she breathed a bit steadier and shuffled across the underground laboratory full of jars, spinning globes, and crystal balls.

“Fuuu... Hrmmm...”  She swallowed her nervousness away and forced herself into taking a severe interest in the sights of the place.  “Well—At least your long life explains the décor.  I've never seen things built so intricately...”

“I said that I imprisoned myself inside a mountain and banged my head against time travel formulas,” Spike smiled.  “I never said I gave up on hobbies.”

“And you obviously never gave up your craving for gemstones,” she briefly smiled at him.

“Guilty as charged, Scootaloo,” he placed a clawed hand over his chest and smirked through a brief curtain of fumes.  “You've done rather well for yourself, if I may say so.  I take it that your appreciation for my equipment comes from an engineer's standpoint?”

“Heh,” she chuckled briefly at him while gazing at an elaborate set of sparkling tesla coils.  “What gave it away?  My gear?”

“Weren't you always something of a tinkerer?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.  “I was?”

“Don't attempt to trick draconian memory, child.  I remember you being quite the inventive sort—What with your scooter and ziplining and other random bits of improvisational transporation.”

“Mmm—I dabbled when I was a little filly,” she stated, bravely unphased at the implications of her own words.  “But honestly, Spike—What I've become since then has merely been a result of trying to stay alive in all the madness.”

“Which your talents aided you in, no doubt.”

“Yeah, well...,” she grunted and took a weathered look at her ever-blank flank.  “My talents have a funny way of being facetious.”

“A curiosity that—even until this day...,” Spike murmured while scratching his green chin crest with a pair of claws.  “...—you never got your imprint.”

“You said it yourself, Spike,” she muttered as she ducked under a revolving brass planet with twin clack-a-clacking moons in orbit of it.  “There was a blight on the magical essence of ponies everywhere when the Cataclysm hit.  Whatever mystical force gave us cutie marks was very likely cut off at the head.”  She sighed, “What's the point in getting a cutie mark when all this is as good as it gets?”

“Perhaps it's because I was born a dragon, but I always felt that ponies allowed their sense of self-importance to hinge far too predominantly on the possession of a cutie mark.”

“Yeah, well,” she chuckled.  “Gilda would say the same.”

Spike raised a scaled eyecrest at that.  “That irascible griffon is still alive?”

“Yup,” she muttered and gazed at her reflection in a crystal ball.  “As alive as she will ever be.  Why?—Does that news thrill you?”

“To be perfectly frank, not entirely.”

“Snkkkkt-Hahahahaha...” Scootaloo broke out in a fit of giggles.

Spike smirked.  “Now there's a pure sign of magic in the bloodline of ponydom if ever there was one.”

“Eheheh—Ahem.  Wh-What was that?”

“You laughed.”

“Why not?  Life is absurd.”

“Keep up that attitude, old friend, and you'll never get your cutie mark.”

“A worry of the past, Spike,” Scootaloo droned as she passed a chemistry set and several jars of ingredients.  “Unless you wanna reverse-time us to the past and brand me with an iron in the shape of a broken heart.”

“The least of my concerns at the moment, I assure you.”

“That makes me feel much better,” she added in a monotone voice, as her mesmerized gaze was caught within the sight of something.  She drifted towards what turned out to be a meter-high hourglass suspended in the center of the laboratory.  Inside the top and bottom glass cases of the thing a bizarre phenomenon was transpiring.  At one moment, there was a brilliant plume of violet-blue flowers in the bottom glass.  Then, in a blink, the flowers withered and faded to ash—while an identical pile of ashes in the top glass coalesced oppositely into another bouquet of violet flowers.  Another beat, and the top bouquet would wither into dead matter as the ashes in the bottom half of the hourglass grew back at fast-forward.  This revolution would proceed infinitely, with opposite jars of the hourglass possessing interchangeably dying and growing flowers in a timely crafted cycle.

“Do you like what you see?” Spike was suddenly standing above and behind her on his haunches.

She jumped slightly, locking a trembling gaze on the hourglass'd cycle.  “I'd pay a hundred thousand bits to understand it before I even contemplated freaking out.”

He smiled.  “I melted the glass out of Green Flame—the two halves at alternating frequencies.  The result is that both are balanced in a flux of time and reverse-time, acting off each other like opposite swings of a pendulum.”  The dragon pointed astutely with a glistening claw.  “The flowers in each jar are experiencing quantum shifts in time—forward and reverse—kept in flux by the equal energy of its sibling.  I could never have possibly conceived of manufacturing this thing when I first set upon my experimentations.  But by the sixth occasion that I rode reverse-time back to the Cataclysm, I felt it was appropriate to artistically express just how far I had come along in my research.  I frankly never expected to show it to anyone.”  A warm smile.  “But then you came along.”

She briefly smiled back—her eyes still locked on the immortal back-and-forth of the flowers and ashes before her.  “They're... Th-They're beautiful, Spike.  Uhm...”  She bit her lip ashamedly.  “What are they?  The flowers, that is...”

“Lavenders,” Spike said.  “Very fragrant—As sweet smelling as they are for gazing at.”

“How on Earth did you stumble upon them?”

“At the end of one of my trips back, I ventured out into the wastelands and found a single patch of ground that hadn't been burned to a crisp.  I salvaged the flowers before they could be consumed by the inevitable blight that would blanket the landscape.”

“Guess it helps to be a time traveler...”

“Mmm.  To an extent.”

“Why lavenders?”

“Oh...,” The immense dragon's jaws curved into a gentle, iron smile.  “They were the favorite of one delightful pony I knew—She was the most resplendent and elegant unicorn in all of Equestria—a filly who set this young whelp's heart a'flutter, long-long ago.”  His aged eyeslits narrowed on the dying-and-sprouting twin bouquets as they cast a faded blue hue across his scales.  “Having them here, in limbo like this, means that I can appreciate them forever, as I still will appreciate her forever.  And, one day, when I am long gone—my ashes will dissolve, but these flowers will outlast me, and perhaps her memory will in turn.”

Something long neglected inside the mare's iron-wrought heart fractured briefly, and she let forth a bursting sigh.  Making up for it, she smiled bravely up at him and murmured in a wavering voice:  “I am most certain she would appreciate that, Spike.”

“Hmmm—She was always an avid appraiser of all things beautiful.”  A long breath, and he smirked down towards her.  “And she would thrash you within an inch of your life for so savagely curtailing your own gifts, child!”

“What?—OH,” she half-giggled and brought a hoof up, rubbing it over the harsh violet stubble that made up her shaved mane.  “You mean this.  A very long time ago, I learned that having a beautiful mane was pointless in the Wastes.  To be honest, I was always something of a tomcolt—I didn't care much for doing my hair up like Sweetie Bell or Silver Spoon or the other girls my age.  But I learned quickly that monsters smelled me easily by the scent on my hair—And my mane did a much better job being woven into insulating materials and rags and—well—anything you can imagine, I-I guess.  There h-haven't been many frickin' beauty pageants since the Cataclysm, and besides—I don't really have..h-have much use in mirrors.”  She took a deep breath, gulped, and smiled up at Spike—but her smile was buckling, and her eyes were turning into moist concave pools as she tried in vain to outstare him.  The mare ultimately failed, allowing her face to fall in a convulsing sob.

The dragon lovingly drifted in and scooped her gently in a strong arm, weathering her helpless cries as she leaned her weight against his thigh.  She covered her face with a hoof and gnashed her teeth, twitching involuntarily as the waves of misery buckled savagely through her.  After several minutes of shuddering, she finally rediscovered the strength to speak:

“I-I'm so sorry, Sp-Spike.  You've done so much for m-me, and I-I st-still can't believe that y-you're even here...”

“It's quite alright, Scootaloo--”

“No, it's not alright!”  She hiccuped and hyperventilated.  “I've been s-so alone for so long, and wh-what have I-I got to show for it?  I'm a p-pathetic crybaby.  I'm b-better than this!  I know I am...!”

“It isn't easy being strong when there isn't anyone else left to be stronger than, child,” he said as he gently stroked her violet-stubbled neck.  “Trust me, I know.  You have to invent your own scale of courage and tenacity.  We're both sides of a horrible coin that fate flipped, Scootaloo.  But we're also a miracle—if you could extend that metaphor to confirm that the coin hasn't landed on either face, but impossibly ended up on its side.”  He winked and smiled.  “If survivors are crybabies, then so be it.  It means they still have a heart to give merit to the miracle of their continued existence.”

“It's j-just so unfair...” She murmured, sniffling.  “Why'd this have to happen to us?  Why were so many destroyed—But the two of us remained?  Certainly you with all of your reverse-time wackiness can at least make an educated guess ...?”

“And then it would only be a guess,” he said.  “Believe me, Scootaloo—What troubles you is a mystery that I too wish to resolve.  And I belive that the time for that is at hand.”

She shuddered as a painful wave of thought flowed through her and manifested out her mouth:  “Just answer me one q-question, Spike...”

“Ask away.”

“In all of your multiple jumps back in time to the moment after the Cataclysm—In all of those years spent living and re-living in the heart of the mountains beneath Canterlot—You had to have been aware of my existence in Equestria.”

“It eventually dawned on me, yes,” he nodded.  “I knew that you were fated to arrive at Ponyville today.  By the end of my eighth revolution, I planned to be here in time for our paths to meet.”  He took a deep breath, expecting what was to come next.

She did too:  “Why d-did you wait until now to meet with me?”  She asked, her eyes suddenly like twin scarlet daggers that surged heatedly through her brimming tears.  “Why did you leave me alone all of those years?”

“Aside from knowing that you wouldn't die during the interim?”

“Yes.”

“Because I knew that if I brought this upon the last pony twenty-five years ago—Whoever she may have been—She would not have been ready for what lies ahead.”

“I-I don't understand,” she sniffled and stared at him with a quivering mouth.  “Bring what upon me?”

He stared steadily at her.  “Have you yet wondered how it is that I cannot myself travel further than the one point in the past when the Cataclysm happened...”  His eyeslits narrowed.  “...and yet I just sent you to Cheerilee's schoolhouse on a beautiful crisp morning in Equestria, twenty-five years ago?”

She gazed breathlessly at him.  In the midst of her numbed heart and mind, she hadn't taken the briefest of seconds to contemplate that.  “Spike, are you meaning to say--?”

“I found a way, Scootaloo,” he smiled.  “I found a solution to breaching the wall brought upon by the magical schism of the Cataclysm.  But where I fail to be the pilot of such a time jump—Somepony like you can succeed.  If you were any younger, your soul wouldn't have survived the trip.  And even if it did—That would not have been a pony equipped with the means to potentially pursue what comes next.”

“...and that is?”

“A chance—the one chance in history—to make a tragedy into a triumph, Scootaloo.”  He took a deep breath and gazed proudly down at her.  “Don't you see?  All this time I had myself locked away in mountains, trying to figure out the universe—and the answer all along has been you.  You're the solution Equestria needs.  And now—with my three centuries of planning and your quarter-century of growing, we can both come to the center of the hourglass and make poetry out of this limbo.  But only if you're willing.”

“I... I don't even know what you're asking me to do.”

“I will tell you, but on one condition,” Spike leaned his head to the side.  “If you would do me the honor of sharing with me just what happened in those twenty-five years.”

She blinked confusedly, wiping the tears away.  “And j-just what would that accomplish?”

“What else?” He grinned warmly.  “It would let me catch up with an old friend.”










Hours later, Scootaloo perched on the one remaining balcony precariously hanging atop an outstretched branch of Twilight Sparkle's former treehouse.  Her front hooves dangled with a youthful playfulness as she motioned with her snout towards the hovering sight of the Harmony, which she had tethered to the top of the tree thirty minutes ago for the purple dragon to see with his naked green eyeslits.  The mist of Ponyville hung gently around them like fog off of a morning snowbank before an upcoming Winter Wrap-up.  The air was briefly bereft of the usual morose gloom brought upon by the gray twilight above.  Two friends gathered, warmed by each other's voices, as the grave village bowed to their gentle shadows.

“She's powered by steam—With a boiler lit with gold flame.  Every twenty storm fronts or so, I have to restock on the burning energy source, but for the most part the vessel's pretty self-sustaining.  There's an auxiliary compartment built into the upper hollows of the dirigible that can levitate the ship on hot-air alone, if the need presents itself.  The propellers are—duh—for propulsion, and they're built out of Cloudsdalian bronze just like the rest of the bulkheads.  The lateral rudders control the climbing or descending.  The exterior shell is insulated and non-conductive, which is nice for when I might end up navigating a lightning storm.  I have four built-in generators for housing electrical power—mostly for interior lighting, a loudspeaker system, and generating energy for when I'm runecrafting.”

“So you are dabbling in runecrafting!”  Spike beamed.  “When I first sensed your magical aura from across Equestria, I almost thought that you were a unicorn.”

“Oh, half of the frickin' ship runs off of runecrafting!  I have several devices keyed in by runestones that respond only to my voice--”

“Spoken in the ancient Lunar Tongue, no doubt.”

“Y-Yeah.  Moonwhinny.  How did you know?”

“I researched more than just time in my days, girl.”

“Well, I've done a lot of research myself,” she nodded.  “It's amazing what you can find from the most hidden libraries in Equestria.  I used to think that since Ponyville rested in the shadow of Canterlot, that this side of the kingdom would be the only place with anything remotely worth reading.  But I was wrong—I've found useful ancient tomes in places as far away as Stalliongrad and Chicacolt.  Half of my knowledge of runescaping comes from the Grand Torontrot Library.”

“I'm rather flabbergasted, girl.  The Scootaloo I remembered was more fond of doing somersaults and bungie jumping than becoming a bookworm—or employing what she's learned from it to boot!”

“Yeah, well—I may not have had three hundred years to get to where I am now, but a filly's gotta make do,” she shrugged, gazing down past her dangling hooves as the shadow of the Harmony hung over her.  “Imagine my 'surprise' when the Wasteland had a lot less ramps to jump a scooter over and a lot more trolls to fly away from.”  She snickered briefly to herself.  “It wasn't enough that I had to teach myself how to fly—But when I finally built my aircraft and really took to the air, I had no idea that so many other creatures of this world were doing the same—From griffons to goblins to frickin' Diamond Dogs.  Can you believe it?—They call themselves 'Dirigible Dogs' and try to keep a straight face.  Heh...they could kiss my butt.  My only alternative was to build my zeppelin better.  I added to it—enchanted it with runestones, added a hangar level so that I could have a portable laboratory with me, began crafting rifles and weapons and leather reinforced armor—The works.  For a while there, it felt like the only reason I lived was to arm myself even further to the teeth.  Then, one day, I realized nobody was outright threatening to me anymore—because I had gone too insanely far.  The Harmony had pretty much become a battleship, and an intimidating one at that.  It was around that time that I realized I was here to stay; I had become the very same scary cloudskipper that I first worked so hard to defend myself against.”

“It still intrigues me—That name.”

“What--'Harmony'?”

“Yes, girl.  Any specific gravity to the title that you haven't told me about?”

Scootaloo paused; she stared at the black branches of the late Twilight's treehouse, the snow falling on them, the creaking chain that tethered the wholesomely named airship to them.  She blinked—and for a brief moment saw Rainbow Dash's smiling face from behind black bars, heard her voice murmuring something, three syllables.

“Nothing special,” she muttered.  “J-Just something that... that I didn't quite yet understand when I was a filly.  I was trying to hammer things together and turn them into tools in a land without grownups, much less a solid prospect for 'tomorrow'.  I needed food, light, fire, and weapons.  But more than anything, I needed hope.  I guess that's where the name fit in—I dunno.”

“I think I do,” Spike smiled.  “Do you realize what the word 'Harmony' meant before the Cataclysm--?”

“Does it matter?” Scootaloo suddenly snapped, frowning at him.

Spike squinted at her.  He was silent.

She sighed, rubbing a hoof over her shaved mane.  “Nnngh—S-Sorry, Spike.  I'm just remembering things that I thought were long forgotten.”  She paused briefly, then blinked at him.  “Rainbow Dash was the last pony I saw alive before everything went to heck...”

“You don't say?”

“She saved my life.  If it wasn't for her, I would have perished along with all of Clousdale,” she murmured into the falling ash around them.  “For all I know—she's the sole reason I'm still around today.  She's the reason that I...”  Her voice trailed off.  She bit her lip, swallowed hard, and looked at her reunited dragon companion.  “It is true, isn't it, Spike?”

“What's true, child?”

“Just so that we're clear—I mean, you obviously know a lot with all of your years stacked up on one another—And I want to sound like a stupid idiot for as briefly as possible.”  She breathed deeply and let it out:  “But I am the last of my kind, right?  You've never... n-never come upon another pony in all of your days--?”  She didn't need to finish the last sentence.

Spike was already shaking his head, his violet pendant swaying.  “You rightly knew what you were before I ever did, Scootaloo.  If that was not the case, and there was a multitude of survivors on the ravaged face of Equestria—I would have done everything in my power to bring you all together as soon as possible.  No lonely fate is worth spending separately--”

“--unless those fates were separated permanently to begin with,” she nodded with a bitter, knowing smile.  “Separated by extinction.  I'm beginning to understand why I had to be alone for so long.  Any other lifestyle, and I wouldn't have been strong enough to face this awful truth.”

Spike's green crests deflated with his ensuing sigh.  “I am sorry, Scootaloo.  I wish things had been different; that you weren't the last specimen of such a noble race.”

“Don't I know the half of it?” She chuckled and flicked a few flakes of snow off the rickety surface of the crumbling balcony.  “You wouldn't believe what I've been doing all this time—All the hours and days I spent working to scrape bits out of the wallets of nefarious sky creatures, just to put together the funds I needed to fire up this silly little beacon of mine—It was absurd then and it's doubly so in hindsight.  Amazing how much a single blinking day in the twilight can change your whole outlook on life.”

“Beacon...?”  Spike squinted curiously.

“Yeah—Uh, powered by glass lenses, multicolored gems, and a really rare thing called a 'flamestone'—probably a spicy treat for you.  Every few stormfronts, I would fly to the east and regularly shine a--”

“The rainbow beacon?”  Spike smiled broadly.  “The one that shines from the Eastern Heights every fifty stormfronts?”

Scootaloo gazed at him, cockeyed.  “That's a noble description coming from a frickin' time-lizard stuck in the heart of a mountain!”

“But you forget—I only traveled through reverse-time on eight occasions.  Since then, I've been living in the surface world—Waiting for today.” The dragon pointed with a smile.  “I always thought that beacon may have been yours.  It warms my heart to realize I was right about my assumption.”

“Heh...,” Scootaloo rolled over and rested with her upper hooves behind her neck and her lower legs propped up playfully.  “I made the dang thing to attract 'surviving ponies'.  All I ever got was a few raccoons, a bunch of trolls, and an empty wallet every so often.  I never thought I'd attract dragons.”

“And if I did suddenly descend from the snowy clouds to greet you at the signal...?”

“Right, I'd probably go 'Oh hey, a motherfluffin' dragon' and hop straight to the Harmony's harpoon gun.”

“You have a harpoon gun?”

“No—But I would have the first second after realizing that I'd have to do horse-tango with the likes of you,” she chuckled briefly to herself, sighed, then murmured:  “It was for the best that I met you here, Spike.  Even as crazily as I reacted, you wouldn't have had a hope of reaching through to me anywhere else.”  Her face tensed up into an iron frown as she gazed across the gray skies.  “It's frightening how heartless this world has made me.  I never expected for a second that I might have friends left.”

“But you thought that you might have kin,” Spike pointed out.  “I think there could be no stronger gesture from the heart than to build that symbol.  Especially since...”

She raised an eyebrow and peaked  up at him.  “Since what?”

“A rainbow symbol, Scootaloo??”  He smiled.  “Unless you truly grasp the ironic significance of 'Harmony', I can only think of one reason why you chose that.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“A source of inspiration, perhaps?”

“Yeah, whatever,” the surviving pegasus waved a hoof and gazed back at the gray sky.  “None of that matters anymore.”

“Doesn't it?”

“Why should it?  Our paths have crossed, you've got your reverse-time green flame thingy, and you've got a flesh-and-blood pony.  So...it's just a matter of moments before you enlist me in your little escapade.”

“And what 'escapade' is that, Scootaloo?”

“You think I'm a dunce?”  She cackled and grinned wildly at him.  “Is that why you keep calling me 'child'?  Cuz I'm three hundred and twenty-something years younger than you?”  She half-raspberried.  “You're gonna tell me that you wish to send me back in time to where you can't go so that we can stop all of this horrible Cataclysm stuff from happening and then all live happily ever after!  And as ridiculously crazy as that idea is, I can't believe how—I dunno—bubbly it's making me feel!  I can just about forgive you for never hunting me down earlier than today, Spike.  Especially when it's all so simple!”  She chuckled drunkenly into the air on a brief cloud of mania.

But Spike was gravely silent...

Scootaloo's ears pricked in the coldly mute air.  “Spike?”  Quiet.  “Spike—It...It is that simple, isn't it?”  Ash and snow.  “Sp-Spike...?”  She sat up and squatted on all fours, blinking her violet eyes deflatedly his way.

He stared at her with dim green eyeslits.  His snout shook from side to side.  “No,” he breathed.  “No, Scootaloo—It is not that simple.”

“But...” Her chest palpitated with a visible pulse from deep within.  She struggled up into a standing position, trembling.  “Y-You said...You said you found a solution!  You can't send yourself back in time past the Cataclysm—but you can send a pony!  You can send me!  Y-You said that earlier in the laboratory, right?”

“I know what I said, Scootaloo--”

“Then do you awfully mind repeating it so that I'll have a friggin' clue whether to bite your scales off or not?!” She snarled, her brown coat writhing in the cold mist.

“I think we should go for a walk--”

“I'm fine standing right here!” She barked.

“Scootaloo,” his smile gently returned.  “If there's anything you will learn from what I'm about to tell you, it's that the only thing we have available to us in abundance is time.  I suggest we use it well.”  That uttered, he spread his wings and offered his backside to the edge of the wooden plank she was on.

She took a few fuming breaths, calmed herself briefly, and dropped down until her bandaged form balanced itself onto the square of his back.  She held on gently as his large body sauntered across the ruined hovels of Ponyville, drowning the two in a panorama of ghostly memories as he walked and talked with her:

“I told you before that time is like an ocean.  It flows and surges as the sum of its polynumerous droplet parts; it has cohesion.  But, as mind-numbingly vast as that ocean is, it too has its limits.  When part of that ocean is evaporated—it does not vanish, but rather it transforms into a different form of energy, much like the energy that I utilize when I propel myself backwards through reverse-time.  There is a reason for this necessary conservation--”

“Is it to make my head spin?”  Scootaloo droned from his backside.

Spike chuckled.  “No, old friend.  What I am attempting to convey is that time is immutable.  We may be able to surf its currents, but we cannot rightly expect to redirect the imprints that time's hands have divinely carved.”

“You speak as if time is a living thing that refuses us to dabble in its job.”

“And could that be far from the truth?  Hmm?”  Spike bobbed his head up in a gesture as he traversed the rows of hollowed-out houses.  “Tell me, Scootaloo, with the knowledge from your years of reading—Who are the Six Holy Sisters?”

“Seriously?  You want me to recite that kindergarten lesson?”

“Humor me, if you would.”

The brown-coated mare sighed long and hard before moaning dully into the ashen air, “The Six Holy Sisters—as everypony knows—are the divine alicorn daughters of the Goddess Epona, who ascended to the stars in the Cosmic Exodus which brought about the end of the First Age.”

“And who were these alicorns specifically...?”

Scootaloo groaned.  She laid herself down atop Spike's bobbing shoulders and monotonously went on:  “The Goddesses of Revolution:  Princess Celestia and Princess Luna—stayed on earth to oversee the rising of the Sun and Moon over the land of Equestria.  The other Four Sisters would leave halfway through the Second Age much like their Cosmic Mother Queen Epona, though their essences remained in the physical world.  The first two were the Goddesses of Elements:  Princess Elektra, the Goddess of the Land, and Princess Nebula, the Goddess of the Firmaments.  The other two were the Goddesses of Law:  Princess Gultophine, the Goddess of Life...”

“And who else...?”

The last pony made a face, but surrendered with a muttering voice:  “Princess Entropa, the Goddess of Time.”

“So not only is time an immutable law—But it's a governed law!  And if I may boldly state the obvious, old friend—You and I are but mere mortals living upon the currents of energy that have been architecturally produced by divine beings far grander than us, long ago, before cataclysms even existed to give birth to or even take away life.”

“That doesn't mean we should resort to a cop-out!”  Scootaloo frowned, almost pounding his draconian skull with a shaking hoof.  “So maybe time was something looked after by Princess Entropa much like the Sun was the responsibility of Princess Celestia!  Since when has that made things set in stone?  Princess Luna was in charge of raising the Moon—and she went on a jealous rampage so that her sister had to take the reins herself over a thousand years!  And don't get me started on Princess Entropa!  She and her three sisters split for the cosmos much like their mother did--”

“--and later aided in Princess Luna's release, bringing things full circle,” Spike smiled back at her as he traversed a ring of demolished apartment buildings.  “You can take the Goddess from her element, but you cannot take the element from the hooves of its Goddess.  The only way to separate the two would be to end the two—in death.”

Scootaloo exhaled gloomily.  “Like how Princess Celestia and Princess Luna died...”

“...and the Sun and Moon perished with them,” Spike nodded.  A somber, fuming breath:  “Alas, we live in a world of endless twilight, the bitter result of the shadows of two dead Goddesses blanketing this landscape forever.  But Entropa—no, she is alive.  She may be in exodus like Queen Epona, but she is very much a presence in this universe.  Could you imagine a reality where time didn't exist?”

“N-Not really, no.”

“Well, thankfully, you and I do not have to,” he smirked.  “For Entropa's essence prevails, and we have her to thank for the persistence of time.  But we also must deign to respect her lawful reign over time—in all of its cohesion.”

“Why couldn't Entropa see what happened to her two sisters...?”  Scootaloo depressingly thought aloud, gesturing towards the dead twilight above with a random hoof.  “Why couldn't she make an exception this one time and undo what time has done to the whole of Equestria—to its legacy?”

“A good question—But you make it sound almost as if time itself is to blame,” Spike said, stopping suddenly in his tracks.  His wings folded on either side of him as he motioned with his snout.  “Look, Scootaloo.  Do you see where we are...?”

Scootaloo crawled up to her hooves and trotted a few meters along his neck.  As soon as her vision rounded the green crests of his skull, she froze.  The mare saw before the two of them an array of dull white stones splotched across a thick black mound of earth in the center of Ponyville.  For all of the cataclysmic horrors that shook the terrain of her home, she was almost as amazed as she was heart-broken to be presently staring at a remarkably well-preserved cemetery, a place that she rarely ventured to in her foalish years.

“There's always been death in Equestria,” she murmured educatedly into the misty air.  “I think I see where you're going with this, Spike.  Why didn't Entropa intervene on their behalf?”

“Perhaps because it was Gultophine's job to monitor the passing of souls into the great beyond,” Spike somberly nodded.  “Or perhaps because Entropa—as a Goddess of Law—necessitated being a princess of neutrality.  Whatever the case, our mutual need to question her reasoning only highlights our mortal nature.  Earth ponies gifted in the knowledge of medicine and unicorns employing various talents in mysticism have struggled for millennia to construct countermeasures for death, but they could never in any fashion prevent it.  Otherwise, all of these stones here would have been replaced with immortals to this very day.”  He turned and gazed over his shoulder at Scootaloo with dim green eyeslits.  “Similarly have I—in three hundred years of optimistic searching—attempted to find a way to change the sway of time.  And like so many other Equestrian physicians before me, I have failed.”

Scootaloo's eyes glazed over the sea of ivory stones.  “Because time is immutable...”

“Like an ocean that you can penetrate, but never replace.”

She squinted at him.  “But would it ever hurt to try, Spike?  What's the harm in experimenting with altering the timeline?”

He chuckled suddenly, breaking the somber air above the nearby graveyard.  “You say that under the presumption that I haven't tried, child!”

She blinked confusedly at him.

He motioned with his head, lumbered around, and strolled liquidly away from the sacred stones.  “Long ago, I was in the same mindset as you.  I very strongly desired to change the past.  As you well know, it was the sole basis of my chronological experimentations that led me to discover Reverse-Time to begin with.  But by the sixth time that I traveled back to the day after the Cataclysm, my mathematical formulas were teaching me a truth that I suddenly refused to accept: The past would always stay the past, even if I was able to breach the wall separating me from going back to before the day when Equestria died.  I was furious—almost driven insane in despondence—I had to have proof that all of my experimentations was for nothing!  I was a scientist, after all.  I could never completely separate myself from the young faithful lab assistant that Twilight Sparkle had once trained me to be.”

“Wh-What did you do...?”  Scootaloo asked, blinking inquisitively.

“I decided to break a sacred oath that I had made to myself—an oath that I thought maintained the safety and untainted nature of my time jumps.”  He turned to glance at her as he passed under a few petrified trees.  “You remember how I told you that I moved to a different part of the Eastern Mountains after each jump in order to avoid my 'past' self?”  After witnessing her nod, he faced forward and continued:  “Well, I decided after my sixth ride on reverse-time that I would go and infiltrate the location of where I was to be after my second trip back.  But instead of going to face my past self directly, I embarked upon a sightly subtler form of interaction—If you could call sabotage 'subtle'.  I always kept notes of what I did and when I did them, and looking at my journals I discovered a date when my past self scavenged for a large supply of Canterlotlian gemstones within the lower spire of the Eastern Mountains.

“I had my lonely self locked away in those mountain caves for ages, Scootaloo.  I needed something to eat.  According to my journal, I had stumbled upon a rather large deposit of gemstones that provided me sustenance for nearly a decade to follow.  So my later self decided to be a trouble-maker; and on the day prior to the excavation, I went in there and ripped out the entire gemstone desposit in a matter of hours, leaving the entire site a virtual hollow hole in the mountain, devoid of any dragon food whatsoever.  I took the gemstones that I stole from my past self to my new niche in the mountains and recorded any information that I could find as evidence that my very own history had been tampered with.

“But nothing happened.  I was still my healthy self.  There was no indication that anything about my life and state of being had changed.  Looking back at the whole 'experiment', I must admit it's all so terribly silly.  Just what did I expect to happen?  Would my wings suddenly droop because my past self had been magically robbed of nourishment a relative century prior to that moment?  Would the journals in my possession that led me to the 'sabotage' suddenly vanish because I would never have had a reason to chronicle the finding of the gemstones in the past?  Or—even more preposterous—would I suddenly blink into nothingness because of the inherent paradox that I had placed myself into?

“Being a scientist, I realized that I was exercising an absurd practice.  Even if there was a result to study, there would be no point in waiting for it to transpire, because all of the experimentation had been in the past.  Anything observational would have to be in the here and now.  So, enraged with an undying curiosity, I bravely revisited the hollow cave where I had gone a week previous to 'sabotage' my past self's food supply.  And would you believe what I found?  The cavern had been refilled with gemstones.  I kid you not—There were twice as many edible rocks this time, as if some divine hand had magically replaced all of the gemstones that I robbed from my past self and then doubled them just to toy with me.  Everything was just as my past self observed it to be, written it to be, and—of course—deliciously benefited from.  I even briefly observed my past self from afar—and indeed, my experiences had been unaltered.  On top of that, I had no memories of anything having gone awry with the food I collected way back when.

“So, what was the answer?  Was this all some form of divine intervention on behalf of Princess Entropa—punishing me for attempting to manipulate the immutability of her essence?  In some fashion, you could potentially interpret that to be the case—But the truth was far subtler and more poetic.  Upon closer observation, I realized that the gemstones I had excavated from the hollow in the mountain were all acting as one massive support strut for an even larger deposit of rubies in a cavern located directly above it.  When I went back in time and robbed all of the scrumptious gemstones from my past self, the structural integrity of the upper cavern failed—and three times as many gemstones fell to take the place of what I had pilfered.  It turns out that that was the immense supply of rocks that I discovered and wrote in my journal about after my second ride on Reverse-Time.  So, in spite of all my work, time itself maintained that the same order of events happened, and in some bizarre way—my future self actually helped my past self in the process, rather than harmed him.”

“That's remarkable, Spike,” Scootaloo nodded, slightly mesmerized, but a trademark frown blemished her features, suspiciously.  “But it was only one experiment.  You could just chalk it up to freak circumstances--”

“Which is why, like a good scientist, I attempted on more occasions to 'sabotage' my past self,” he nodded his scaled head.  “Here and there—weaving my way around my various past selves—I tried many things to interfere with my previous experiments, my previous constructions, and my previous means of self-preservation.  And every time—every single of the many dozens of times—the ritualistic throes of cause and effect undermined every task I did, while at the same time miraculously possessing them—so as to maintain the flow of my past into my present, with my self and memories completely unaltered.”

“Then did you ever—I dunno...,” she hissed in frustration, “...try to actually meet up and talk with your past self?”

“Yes,” he smirked at her.  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

She blinked, her eyes twitching as if something broke in her brain.  “And...erhm...how did that go???”

“Exactly as I expected.”

“What do you mean 'as you expected'?”

He chuckled.  “Meaning, old friend, that after my seventh Reverse-Time trip, I went back to visit my past self from after the sixth.  And it was a very boring conversation.”  He winked.  “Because I remembered everything that was said and responded to, verbatim.  I kid you not.”  He smiled and fumed into the snowy air.  “Trust me, you've never lived until you've played a game of hide-and-seek with yourself.”

“That...,” she blinked, hissed, and rubbed her skull painfully.  “...that is so hard to imagine.  Wh-What if—like—you poked the eye out of your past self?”

“Oh, I could never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never did that,” Spike remarked.  “Not for lack of trying, mind you.  My past self had already conceived of any such notion, quite frankly—And my present self was more than aware of that and his own misgivings.  That's the funny thing about time-travel; a paradox is a paradox, even when it's staring you straight in the snout—in that it's not staring you straight in the snout, because for it to happen—It could never happen, thus the paradox.”

“Unnnnghhh...,” Scootaloo dug her face into Spike's scales and lightly banged her head with her hooves.

“What I calculated, what I tested, and what I experienced, Scootaloo, is something that can be explained, but never shared.  Not directly, at least.  But, suffice it to say, it laid in concrete a truth that I could no longer deny.  The past can be visited, it can be witnessed, and it can even be supported—But no, child, it cannot be changed.  What dies must remain dead.  What lives must remain living.  It has been that way since the twilight years before the First Age, in the blossoming days of creation, when all that was One split into the forces of Harmony and Discord, and everything has remained necessarily dichotomous since.”

“It's just so... so unfair,” the brown-haired mare murmured.  Spike brought the two of them into the skeletal hovel of an old garden behind a hollowed-out restaurant.  He let her down as she trotted forlornly past a cluster of large mushrooms and gazed into a statue of merry foals frozen in mid-gallop.  “Why would you be granted the ability to move back and forth in time when you can't even make a difference from it?”

“Why do things live to dream and desire—But only to have death as their ultimate fate?”  Spike socratically replied.  “These are the tests of mortals—We can only question them as we live them.”

“Like I said,” she sighed and squatted down onto a marble bench partially overrun with vines.  “It's unfair...”

“An apt description.  But if I know you, Scootaloo—You're the last pony on Earth to let an unfair life bog you down.”

“I... I suppose that is true,” she exhaled with a gentle, bitter smile.  “It wasn't just the Cataclysm that taught me how to fend for myself.  I was always alone...in some degree or another.”  She slumped her chin down on her folded hooves and sighed.  “What I wouldn't give to have a taste of what you did, Spike—To talk with my past self, to tell her that the next twenty-odd years in the wasteland would lead to this moment, this numbing blink in the center of this crumbling garden.  I think my past self would still fight to survive—But she would be a lot less anxious about it.  Now there's a peace that you can't buy, no matter how many bits you scrounge from the Wastelands.”

“You may still yet have that chance, Scootaloo,” Spike spoke gently, squatting his hulking purple self besides her with no less grace.  “Howbeit, I promise you—it would have far less grim results.”

“Nnngh...Just what is the point, Spike?”  She gazed up at him.  “Even if you can send me further in the past than you can send yourself—What would it accomplish?  I can't change the past, I can't prevent the Cataclysm—So what's the flippin' use?”

“The use, as you so aptly put it, my little pony, is to observe a world that is long forgotten to you,” he said.  “So that you may discover that which is a mystery to you—That is a mystery even to me, in all of my centuries of study and Chronological Speculation.”

“And that is...?”

“You may be able to find out what caused the Cataclysm.  And furthermore...you may even be able to bring light back to the Wasteland.”

Her ears and eyebrows perked up at that.  She stared up at him in quivering disbelief.  “Bring light back?”

“And kiss the perpetual ash and twilight goodbye.”

“Spike, you're pulling my tail,” she frowned.  “How in the heck would something like that be feasible?”

“If you go back and open your eyes—You may find out.”

“Even for a scientist, that's a stretch.”

“Is it?”  He raised an eyecrest and glanced at her sideways.  “We already know that Princess Celestia and Princess Luna are dead.  And with their deaths—the Sun and Moon also vanished.  What brought about their end had to have been a magical catastrophe of such enormous potential that it slayed the Goddesses at the stems of their very souls.  If this wasn't a divine event—something that would have been prophecied in the arcane books available to ponydom, then that means--”

“--It was a spell,” Scootaloo murmured knowingly.  Her violet eyes narrowed in thought.  “In the tomes that taught me runecrafting, I found that the Lunar Republic had briefly worked on channeling a spell that would bring about the end of Princess Celestia—by cursing her very soul to death.  Before Nightmare Moon's army could discover an incantation, the Elements of Harmony imprisoned their leader into the Mare in the Moon.  If history hadn't gone that way...”

“--Something akin to the Cataclysm could have happened much sooner,” Spike nodded.  “It would have been an entirely different Third Age indeed.”  He pointed at the brown mare with his clawed finger.  “If you utilized your practiced skills in reading into observation, you could return to the days before the death of Equestria and deduce what it was that jump-started this holocaust.  And assuming it was a curse, you and I—here in the present—could feasibly undergo a ritual that would undo the damage that it has done to the Revolution of the Sun and Moon.”

“But...,” Scootaloo gulped and murmured “...even if that did work, Spike—What kind of a world would result?  What would become of the Goddesses?  What would...”  She took a shuddering breath.  “...would there even be a ponydom?”

He slowly, gravely shook his head.  “No, child.  But in such a scenario, we would have painted a gorgeous future for this world, restoring the celestial objects in the sky, bringing back night and day, and doing away with this perpetual nightmare of twilight once and for all.”

“And you and I will die, the last of friends,” Scootaloo breathed numbly.  “Unheralded saviors, buried in a beautiful world, with no ponies around to ever know what we've done.”

He gazed deeply at her.  “Could you think of any greater epithet—for the magical legacy of Equestria?”

“Could I think of anything greater?  Heck yeah, I could,” Scootaloo sighed.  “But could I afford it?  No.  Obviously not,” she ran a hoof over her face, wincing.  “Spike, I really don't know what to say—I mean, how would all of this be accomplished?  How is it that your green flame can send me back into the past beyond a certain point, but not yourself?”

“In truth, I wasn't entirely certain that it would work until I was suddenly able to transport you back to Cheerilee's schoolyard,” he smiled in a mixture of pride and nervousness.  “The Cataclysm severed the magical essence of ponydom when it ripped our world asunder, did it not?”

“So I'm starting to believe, sure.”

“And magic exists because the essences of our souls exist—I know that's a rather plebeian correlation, but do bear with me—My soul has always been the sole conduit of traversing reverse-time, and my green flame has been the fuel for such a trip.  But there's a juncture that I cannot pass beyond—and it's the blockade formed from when my soul was jarred by whatever spell or phenomenon ended the lives of Celestia and Luna.  I soon realized that if there was anything that I could send back beyond that singular juncture, it would have to be something that resonated with the essences of the ponies' souls that were alive beforehand.  I couldn't send myself, I couldn't send physical objects, I couldn't send transcribed messages, but I could possibly be able to send--”

“--a pony,” Scootaloo nodded.  “You could send a pony back.”

“Not so much the pony herself—But her soul essence,” he grinned wide.  “And to do that, I would have to bind her to the essence of another soul.”

“Like wh-whose soul?”  The mare's face contorted nervously.

“The soul of someone who existed only within the limits of my own lifespan,” Spike explained.  “The soul of someone whom I was close to, whom I came into contact with, and—most especially—whom I had formed emotional bonds with.  As a matter of fact, it is no single soul—But quite a few.”

“Your friends,” Scootaloo's eyes brightened slightly.  “You can send me back in the past to the presence of your friends, Spike...?”

“And once your soul-essence has been bound to such a past acquaintance of mine, you would make yourself manifest in the physical, and be restrained to the proximity of that one pony and that one pony alone.  You could interact with her, talk to her, make contact with her—But if you so much as left her side, your link to her soul essence would dissolve, and you would return along the current of green flame to the present—You would return back to me.”

“And back to all of this...,” she pointed flippantly towards the gray decay of the Ponyvillean ruins.  “...back to reality.”

“The past is no less real than the present, Scootaloo,” he smirked.  “As I'm sure you may yet discover.”

“I...,” she shivered with sudden chills and curled deeper into the seat of the marble bench.  “I-I don't know, Spike.  I mean...it makes sense, in a way.  I n-now know what you meant when you said I was the 'solution', but...but...”

“Be as honest as you need to be, child.”

“It's asking a lot, Spike,” she gulped a lump down her throat.  “It's asking a lot of me.  I mean—So what if I go back to visit Cheerilee?  Or Twilight Sparkle?  Or Rarity?  Or any of the other people you obviously knew?  It's just...It's just so much.  I don't know if I can handle it—”

“And you do not have to, Scootaloo.”

She frowned at him.  “Spike, you've obviously mastered reverse-time.  Don't try to pull reverse-psychology on me as well.”

He chuckled.  “But I mean it—In all sincerity,” he gestured a clawed hand over his chest.  “I have reached the limits of my potential, child.  After countless years of repeatedly leaping into the past, of scouring my burning insides for the green flame to make all of this experimentation possible, I have done all I could ever possibly do for Equestria.  What I ask of you—What I propose of you is merely humility on my part.  You have already done your duty for Equestria, Scootaloo.  You have lived.  And you have lived mightily.”

“That's an exaggeration if I ever heard one,” she muttered.

“Is it?”  He leaned his snout to the side and gazed at her sharply.  “You are an intelligent, crafty, responsible, and tender-hearted individual, Scootaloo—Even underneath that rough, shaved exterior, you are everything your race has ever endeared itself through the Ages to be.  Do not let two and a half decades of tragedy and pain disguise the legend that you have become.  You are not only the end of ponies, but the epitome of them.”  A gentle exhale, and his face turned melancholic.  “Do I honestly, truly think that sending you back will absolutely grant us the ability to undo the curse that has robbed night-and-day from the wastes of Equestria?”  He slowly shook his snout.  “No, Scootaloo.  I do not.  But I do know this—You are the last pony.  And before you die—And you will someday die, like all of your friends and kin have done before you—Would any other soul deserve no less a chance to revisit that which gave her breath, that which gave her purpose, that which gave her the memories of hope to become this amazing creature which you so mightily are right now?”

“I can't say, Spike,” her voice choked as she struggled for an answer.  “What you're asking of me is to attend a funeral, for which there will never be a eulogy read—Even if I was the one to write it.  Because no matter what I do, it all ends with me.”

“Which is why I advise this of you instead--”  He stood up on his haunches and paced across the garden.  “Leave Ponyville.”

She blinked wildly.  “Wh-What?”

“Leave,” he said, gazing softly back at her.  “Take off in your splendid airship, spend time inside the womb of Harmony, do what you normally do in the clouds above the wastes—live out your life like you've always lived it out these last two decades.  But most of all—Do not return until the end of the next coming stormfront.  And then...you may come back to me, and—if you wish and only if you wish—I will send you back to the days before dying, and we can write that eulogy together, Scootaloo.”  He grinned warmly.  “What do you say...?”

The last pony stared back up at her old friend—at the purple shades of the past standing like a surreal ghost before her.  And for the briefest of moments, the snow cleared, and in his emerald eyeslits she saw the reflection of a tiny filly, its violet eyes bright and its pink mane fluttering in a draconian twinkle.  Something akin to a foalish smile, and Scootaloo breathed:  “I'm liking this idea.”








Several  hours later, somewhere in the bubbling gray clouds of the Central Heights, the Harmony vibrated with the wilting chords of Octavia's melancholic strings.  The last pony sat at her work bench with her back to the crackling record player.  With her hooves entwined in cylindrical tool braces, she proceeded to fix and tinker the battered copper rifle that she had retrieved from the depths of Ponyville's Town Hall.  As one cello suite bled beautifully into another, she briefly looked up from her diligent engineering and spotted a blurred mirror hanging from a nob below the shelves where she kept her multicolored gems.

Only the barest upper-left hoof'd corner of the mirror provided a decent reflection.  From beyond a rusted fog, a thirty-three year old mare with a brown coat and tired scarlet eyes shyly came out from hiding.  She blinked at her weathered self—noticing the lines beneath her eyes, the knicked and bruised skin that flanked her ears.  Finally, she tilted her snout to the side and studied her neck, squinting at a thin forest of violet stubble that came out coarsely to kiss the lantern-lit air of the airship's cabin.  She ran a tool-braced hoof over the mane, feeling the tiny stalks, briefly imagining them giving birth to a long dead curtain of pink threads wavering gracefully out from her slender form.

But in a final blink, the shadow of Scootaloo disappeared, replaced once more with the last pony, her fine orange coat having bristled into brown ruggedness, her violet eyes having paled to a bitter scarlet—and the rusted air encompassed her like a specimen jar.  She sighed, and as Octavia's record began skipping at the end of its instrumental, she hung her head towards her half built weapon and lingered on the images fluttering across her mind.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Journal Entry # 2,352

Today...something happened.

I have been given a chance to do something so fantastical, so mesmerizingly surreal, that to actually think of it risks all of this being some bizarre dream that I'm not entirely sure I want to wake up from yet.  What is the last pony to do when she's offered the opportunity to go back and visit an Equestria that existed before all of this desolation?  What do I say when I'm propositioned into walking alongside ghosts of the past in a desperate bid to bring light back to this world?

Well, all of these things have been asked of me.  I met Spike—I hugged him, I sobbed against him, I held his hand and he held my hoof.  Spike—Twilight Sparkle's faithful dragon apprentice—is alive.  And what's more, he's three hundred times as old, three hundred times as wise, and three hundred times as big as I ever remembered him.  And after regailing me with mystical discoveries too astonishing to comprehend in this Age—much less any of the living epochs previous—I have been gracefully given time to think of what Spike is willing to provide me with a single exhale of green flame.  He can send me to the past—I can go back into the past, into the days when the two of us were young creatures who knew nothing of misery—and I could find out how all of this holocaust happened to begin with, so that here—in the gray and dismal present—we might ascertain a way to fix the world, even if we can't breathe life back into it.

So, yes, something happened today.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Scootaloo grunted and swung the axe in her teeth's grip one last time.  With a mighty crunching noise, the two-meter tall mushroom fell down into a flurry of powdery ash.  She dropped to her knees to scrape the edible material out of the hollow of the gigantic fungus, when a flurry of tiny insects swarmed over her in a skittering black blanket.  Yelping, she fell back and swung her hooves wildly—fighting a legion of shadowy trolls in her mind.  A gasp; her eyes opened wide to see once more a harmless forest of gigantic mushrooms waiting to be cut down.  The insects had all scattered, and she was once more alone ... forever alone.  Sighing, she gazed into the hollow of the fungus, disdainfully observing the colony of paper husks that had long filled the spoiled stalk.  With a woeful groan, the pony dragged her axe towards the next fungus, and in the shadow of the tethered Harmony she proceeded to hack away at the next structure.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



All of this, of course, I discovered after nearly dying.  Trolls—hundreds of them sprung an ambush on me the soonest I stepped hoof into the Town Hall of Ponyville, adding a gruesome punctuation to my long belated return to my place of foaling.  I never asked Spike if he was the one responsible for the sightings of the green flame that brought me there in the first place.  I had a lot a questions for him which—though he answered—still fester in my mind.  Like: did he really need to wait all this time before making contact with me?  Did he truly suspect from the start that I was the key to sending an observing eye back into the past beyond the Cataclysm?  Did he ever give up hope, when the rest of the wasteland—the monsters that survived the disaster—all hated his guts?

Okay, so I didn't ask him that last question.  I know I want to now, but that's not what's important.  What's important is whether or not I want to take him up on his offer.  The best it could do is end the twilight that hangs above the lengths and widths of Equestria.  The worst it can do—is probably the only thing it can do—and that's reopen so many festering wounds hiding deep underneath my coat that I shudder to even contemplate them.

What would it be like to see Twilight Sparkle again?  Or Apple Jack?  Or Sweetie Belle or Apple Bloom or ... Rainbow Dash ...

In the days after ponies died, I've had my life saved twice  Once by Rainbow, and a second time just now by Spike—as he royally trashed the trolls that had ambushed me in Ponyville.  In many ways, my whole life—twenty-five years in the Wastes, so I've discovered—has been one gigantic service to the one blue pegasus who saved me, the one pony I have always believed in, and in some ways still do.  Does this mean that I owe Spike all the same?  I know he obviously doesn't mean to obligate me in such a manner—But how far is he willing to go compared to how far I am able to go?  Assuming, of course, I am going anywhere at all.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



One day, Scootaloo tore her way through a splintering door.  She pierced the center of an abandoned apartment complex along the downtown stretch of Whinniepeg.  As gray filtered light seeped in through the mildew'd windows, she spotted several equine corpses lying in a tight circle in the center of a living room.  Trotting over to them, she nudged a few bones with her hoof until she finally found what she needed—a unicorn skull.

Squatting down besides the skeleton, she extended a blade from her horseshoe and planted it at the base of the body's horn.  It wasn't until half a minute later that Scootaloo realized she hadn't yet begun carving the dead stub off.  A deep pale glow washed over her, and she swallowed a lump down her throat.

With a shuddering sigh, she lifted her goggles off her head and ran a hoof over her moistening eyes.  She stared miserably past the bodies and at a heap of belongings that had fallen out of a trunk and were spilled over the floor.  She saw scattered utensils, toys, royal stationary, and—finally—a pile of faded photographs, with several smiling and living faces poised eternally, staring back at her as she lingered over the same family's discarded husks a few meters away.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



The legacy of ponydom has given me so much that I have used over the decades.  It is only right that I find a way to give back to it.  But how does that stack up when all that could possibly change is the bright face of Equestria itself—an Equestrian future with no ponies in it?

I only wished to be a survivor, and perhaps to reunite with some other stray members of my own kind.  Now that I know—thanks to Spike—that I am indeed the last pony that will ever breathe; what point is there in trying to bring light to a world with no pure eyes remaining to judge it?  It's like a tree that falls alone in the forest—But how selfish of a presumption is that on my part?  What right do I have—or Spike for that matter—to determine how we memorialize this world, when we've done so much to pilfer from it?  Does the fact that we're the last living things to care about it all excuse us being the last souls to make something of it all?—Even if for the sake of making something?




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Scootaloo yanked on the lever and her signal fired its prismatic beams into the air above the stony plateau.  The multicolored spectrum pierced the cloudy overcast in a burning swath, but the lingering twilight above remained unphased.  The snow and ash was still falling, the mist covering the  circle of metal barricades in an infinite rust.  Under the shadow of the Harmony, a disenchanted Scootaloo marched up towards the signal, propped herself onto two hooves with her shoulder leaning against her rifle—and stuck her left limb into the burning beams of light.

The sky briefly strobed as her hoof floated lazily from red to green to indigo and softly back.  She watched with momentary fascination as the lights bumped and wavered with each other, but ultimately remained rigidly divided into the seven artificial hues, as directed by Scootaloo's flamestone that shot illuminescence into the strategically placed gems.

The last pony tilted her snout up and watched with a sudden boredom, observing the glistening heights of her once-treasured beacon.  It was exactly what it always had been, a message to dead ponies.  Being the only one to read what the signal had to say made Scootaloo feel dead as well; because she knew where this rainbow began, and could spot with her naked eyes the lingering twilight above where it ultimately ended.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



I was sent back in time.  Ever so briefly, I tasted of the past.  I saw a rainbow—And it was real.  I could not see where it began, and I could not see where it ended.  I didn't care.  It gave me hope—like I always knew it would.  But only now do I really understand where that hope stems from.

Hope is a disease—an affliction to all living things.  The only thing sentient creatures such as ponies could ever accomplish is die, and yet we have always clung onto hope.  This perhaps made sense in an Age when Goddesses walked the fields of Equestria—but now?  Princess Celestia's eternal life ran out.  When she and Luna vanished, all that was left was the decaying wasteland of mortality, forever festering in the unburied penumbra of her shadow.

Perhaps that's the way it's always been, and what brought about the explosive end to the Goddesses of Revolution was not an unknown curse—like Spike believes—but a self-destructing realization that the Goddesses themselves discovered when it was too late; that life is absurd, that it's always been absurd, even for them.

And as much as I rationalize to myself the pointlessness of it all—Painting a far bleaker world than I had ever assumed in all of my most bitter of dark-lit scavengings—Why is that I cannot shake the rainbow out of my head, the real rainbow, the real rainbow that I saw with my own eyes?  If hope is a disease, and all it will ever lead me to is misery and self-annihilation, when why do I cling to it so?  Why does it make me excited, like I am starved, and plants me steadily upon the knifing precipice of—dare I say it—joy?




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



“Why so emoquine, Harmony?”

Scootaloo stared listlessly through a green haze of smoke, her violet eyes unwavering.  There was a shuffling movement besides her, and a furred paw waved obligatarily before her face.

“Hello??  Customer of most esteemed appreciation??  Is old Equestrian joke, da?  Vhy so glum, pony friend?”

She snapped out of it.  She pivoted to glance across the merchant vessel and threw a faded smile the flying squirrel's way.  “S-Sorry, Bruce.  I've just got a lot on my mind, that's all.  What were you offering again?”

“Is more than pony's mind.  Brucie thinks it is stomach—Or another organ close to it.  Hopefully not part of pony sensitive to cancer stick, nyet?”  He chuckled, flicked his cigar some, and continued showing off a pair of leather strips as their dual ships bobbed in the air, docked to one another.  “Forty bits each—Dual reinforced dragonskin!  Finest from vhat remains of Zebraharan mountains--”

“No—No!”  The mare briefly snarled, shook a shuddering breath off her, and paced across the racks of wares.  “Thanks, Bruce.  I know that I need new armor, but—Anything but dragon leather, if you don't mind.”

“Pray tell Brucie why?  Date with sky serpent, pony plans?  Bah!”  He tossed the thick strips into a pile of collapsing metal knick-knacks while snapping his tiny fingers.  “Brucie can do something better!”  He kicked off a bulkhead, glided over to a coat of armor, and gruntingly lifted a breastplate in his quivering limbs.  “Nnnghh—Best in ramcraft!  Fashioned out of tempered titanium!  Brucie promises—hckk—no fire breathing snakes harmed in process of metallurgy—Ach!  Nyet, you overgrowned rust heap—Ugh!  Only takes getting used to hauling around!  Like you sporting pretty mane made out of iron, da?”

“I know you're doing your best to help me out, Bruce.  But—seriously—all I need to do is browse for a bit, and I'm sure I'll find the... armor I need,” she murmured, her eyes once again gazing into a grand nothingness beyond the shelves of rattling miscellany.

The copper-goggled squirrel saw it.  Scratching his forehead, he scampered up a metal shelf and perched above her.  “Kind of armor pony needs is something no bits could buy, Brucie thinks.

She did not reply.

He scratched his chin, then brightened.  “Perhaps you are nervous about stormfront?”  He smirked and gestured nonchalantly out a nearby porthole.  The gray clouds were darkening as several deep strobing flashes of lightning started to bubble from within the wispy clusters herding punctually their way.  “Vell, pony should only fear for money bag, for Brucie has greatest lightning rod from homeland—Guaranteed to protect against any storm, but sure is not cheap!”

“It's not that, Bruce—It's...”  She bit her lip, shifted uncomfortably, and finally looked at him—naked eyes to fogged goggles.  “Bruce, let me ask you something—Pilot to pilot.”

“To pony's question Brucie has answer, possibly, maybe—If Harmony needs it.”

She ignored the address and squinted, murmuring:  “Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Selling to favorite customer?  Absolutely!  Brucie is always--”

“No no no—I mean what you do,” Scootaloo emphasized.  “Your life, Bruce.  Do you...—Is this life all you are willing to accept?  Would you be willing to... to change it, into something happier, something brighter—If you had the ability to do so?”

“Hrmm...,” the overgrown rodent merchant rubbed his chin, puffing on his cigar.  “Philosophy is not one of Brucie's strengths; does not earn bits, only headaches, da?”  He smirked wryly and flicked his cigar with emphasis.  “If life vas so terrible, perhaps is reason Brucie smokes it away?  HaHA!”

She sighed heavily.  “But if you could change this—All of this.  Would you be willing to do so?”

“Life is life—Sometimes life is too much life, sometimes too little,” he uttered as he squatted in his pilot's seat and propped a leg up, leaning back casually in the green haze of his cramped vessel.  “But rather than think of things dat need changing, Brucie likes to focus on things he is glad for—And be thankful for them.”  A warm smile under his reflective amber lenses.  “Like pony friend!  If dis life vas changed, vould not have you to look forward to, da?”

She stared sadly at him.  “That's just it, Brucie.  The only thing you're guaranteed to run out of in life—is friends.”  She swallowed sorely.  “The reason I know this is because there's so much magic lost from this world.  And eventually—that too will be gone.”

“Hmm...,” he leaned further back and puffed.  “All better reason pony has to spend time vith friends...”  He smirked.  “Or make new ones...”

“...or old ones,” she added in a low breath.

“Vhat vas that, Harmony?”  No sooner had he asked, but a loud rumble filled the roof of the world, forcing the two ships to rock and weave from the thunderous vibrations.  “Mother Rushnut!  Is getting vorse, the storm!”  He kicked out of the seat and rushed up to a porthole, gazing out with a frown.  “Brucie is afraid that he and pony friend must cut transaction short!  You cannot outrun storm anymore than time itself!”

“Perhaps somepony can,” she once again murmured, then nodded her snout towards a series of brown leather strips along the far end of the gondola.  “I'll take five of those over there.”

“Twenty bits each.”

“That works for me.”

“Then done is deal, Harmony!”

After the exchange of gold for goods, the mare trotted towards the metal bridge between his ship and hers.  She lingered in his windblown doorway.  “Again, Brucie—My name is not Harmony.”

“Da, da!  Ve have been over dis!  Pony is anonymous!  Hilarious irony ensues--!”

“'Scootaloo'.”

He spun around and squinted at her through cockeyed goggles.  “Vhat vas dat?”

“My name is Scootaloo,” she said, fidgeting.  “And...I am glad to have you as a friend too, Brucie.”

The squirrel stared at her.  After a spell, he smirked—and grinded his cigar to death against a bulkhead.  “Another day vorth living, da?”  He waved her off.  “Off vith you, Scootaloo!  Storms of twilight have no friends!”

She took a deep breath as the warmness left her cheeks and she marched outward to her hangar on the other side of the bridge.  “Don't I know it...?”




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



    It has been several invisible gray days since I last saw Spike, and I am no closer to an answer for his proposition than I was the first minute I flew myself away from the strangely inviting sights of Ponyville's ruins.  That place is once more a potential home to me—and yet it pains me to see it the way it is.  I'm reminded of something Bruce said—without quite meaning to put much effort into it:  that life is sometimes 'too much life', sometimes 'too little life'.  But when I look out the portholes of my airship, and when I see the desolation all around, I realize that any creature that attempts to neutrally philosophize like that is only attempting to protect my feelings.  There is no life out here—only ashes.

The fact is—when Equestria exploded, it had to have been ponydom's fault, in some fashion or another.  What Gilda hinted of and what most of the patrons who frequent the Monkey O'Dozen Den believe is at least partially true.  The Sun and Moon would still be here today if something horrible hadn't happened to Princess Celestia and Princess Luna.  Equestria was never a land that belonged to only ponies—and the fact that I'm the last living pegasus means that I, in some fashion, owe it to the world to get a second chance at seeing light once more, so that these perpetual shadows will no longer force otherwise harmless creatures into believing that 'life' is simply quantifiable.

A month before now, the same pony who's writing this would never give this blighted world a second thought.  But as of a few days ago, I now know that I can potentially leave a mark—a very warm, golden, and glowing mark upon what would otherwise remain a world as grave if not even graver than what I now see before me.  For years, I gave my all to maintain a rainbow symbol to spark hope into the souls of ponies who I always hoped were alive—but secretly knew really weren't.  Now that I know what I can do and whom I can do it for—creatures like Bruce, Gilda, and even Pitt—could that change Equestria for the better?  Could it give hope—however absurd—to a new society that might transform it into something beautiful, as opposed to its present ugliness?  Can existence transcend essence, even when the likes of Spike and myself are long gone from this potential future kingdom?

It's always been tough being the end of ponies.  And it's even tougher now.  If this stormfront I'm flying in doesn't kill me, I think my confusion will.  If there should be another entry, it will be by another pony—One who has transcended doubt, as Spike has transcended time.  This I promise—this I hope.

-End of entryyyyyyy---




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



Scootaloo's last penstroke smudged across the page of her journal as the Harmony experienced another jolt.  The boiler at the back of the room flickered as it tried to maintain autopilot in the surmounting turbulence surging all around the craft.  A warning signal bellowed as a couple of sparks flew from a tesla coil on the port side of the cabin.

Cursing mutely, Scootaloo slapped the journal shut, swiveled away from her workbench, and all but pratfalled across the careening gondola, landing awkwardly in the cockpit's seat.  As she harnessed herself into place, a wide panorama of bubbling clouds and random bits of lightning surged from beyond the stretched array of windshields.  The world had become an obsidian mesh of inky fog as a fresh stormfront rumbled across the rooftop of Equestria on the latest of its regular intervals.

Yanking at a few levers to re-orient the bobbing vessel, Scootaloo flashed an angry glare towards her instrument panel.  A red light was flickering as a tiny brass pipe of steam blew through an alarm whistle.  Her elaborate warning system was attempting to convey that part of the zeppelin's lateral support struts had loosened dangerously.

“Frickin' figures—Can't ride a storm these days without it turning into a drunken Wonderbolts performance,” she snarled—then silenced herself by clamping her teeth over a hanging chainlinked handle.  She pulled hard and the boiler towards the rear billowed, pumping steam into the balloons over the gondola.  Slowly, the Harmony lifted above the crashing black promontory of the advancing stormfront, aimed towards the highest point it could go above the dark, lightning-ruptured overcast.  A wayward cloudfront thundered angrily at her.  She snarled back:  “Yeah, well, you look fat and ugly too!”



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



An hour later, safely above the rumbling overcast of stormclouds, the grunting and griping pegasus struggled with a loose set of rivets that she was presently attempting to tighten back into place along the starboard side of the Harmony's zeppelin chassis.  The black roof to the Equestrian Wastes groaned and roared beneath her, briefly flickering phantom illuminations of silver lightning hues across her blank flanks as she struggled to finish her task.  At one point, the wrench she was twisting flew loose—and she inadvertently struck herself in the small of her left forearm.  A loud groan—something that mutated into a furious snarl—and she banged the rivets with an opposite hoof, half-shocked to hear them rattling back into stubborn looseness.

With a huge deflating sigh, Scootaloo leaned her snout against the copper body of the zeppelin and hung there, brown wings fluttering in the brief winds, as the thunderous world gargled beneath her.  She clung to the bosom of the Harmony in a gentle and lonesome sway, for what had to have been the better part of an hour, until she finally opened her scarlet eyes to the ever-lingering twilight overhead.  Distant gloomy stars half-blinked down at her, never living and never dying.  There was no real light in this world—only the half hearted imitation of brightness.  Scootaloo was tired of staring into it—and yet a strange peace was wafting through her with as much electricity as the stormfronts boiled with far below.

Hooking her wrench and other tools along the lateral struts of the airship, Scootaloo took wing, hovered down a few naked decameters below her hovering vessel, and did something that she hadn't done since she was a little foal; She touched down with pegasus hooves onto the wispy surface of the overcast cloudbanks.  Her legs made contact—She was standing upon the dark beds of cloud cover.  What had been nothing more than a permeable mist of disgust for two-and-a-half decades was suddenly a grand wafting plain of opaque fog, like a phantom shadow of the Ponyvillean valley, and the twilight above impersonated a childhood sky.

Peacefully—in a meditative poise—Scootaloo slowly trotted forward across the blackened clouds.  With each shuffling hoof, a patch of dark mist brightened strobingly from the deep lightning below—illuminating Scootaloo randomly during her 'walk'.  She didn't notice, for she had her eyes shut and her snout tilted skyward.  With her brown wings meditatively outstretched, the last pony took several deep breaths, and opened an invisible third eye.

She saw Ms. Cheerilee's schoolhouse—or at least an effluent crimson shade of it.  And beyond the schoolhouse was a misty lake of crystal blue water flanked by ivory mountains.  The world blossomed with green beauty, like hair that had been shaved for years but was suddenly given the chance to grow again—and it bloomed all around her, kissing her with soft blades that swayed in a deep earthen wind.  There were living things in this shady dreamscape—things that fluttered and danced in the breeze instead of slicing mercenary paths through the air.  And the children—the foals flocked to her, smiling, inviting Scootaloo across the playground into a game of Red Rover.  Sweetie Bell's horn glistened in the morning mist, and Apple Bloom's drawling laughter filled the schoolyard with an undercurrent of static excitement, like being at the edge of a waterfall, or prancing along the fringes of the Everfree Forest, or gazing through the window of Sugarcube Corner with the sound of streetside musicians reverberating off the freshly varnished wood of the surrounding storefronts--

--and the thunder swallowed it all once more, with misty black teeth that lurched and hummed dreadfully beneath the twilight expanse.  Scootaloo's scarlet eyes opened—and when they did, they were not brimming with tears—but instead boiling with a steam of a different sort—a frothing burst of burning air that no amount of pressure forced upon the Harmony's boiler could ever hope to produce—a hissing outburst of blood-throttling menace that two and a half decades of levitating imprisonment had forged ever so demoniacally in the iron-wrought heart of the last hoofed creature doomed to aimlessly skim the gray leprous skin of the planet.

And she screamed—all of her hate and all of her pain and all of her regret—she screamed into the gray-on-gray horizons lingering before her, until her wailing voice outroared the great thunder booming from below and scared the strobes of lightning into hiding, until all of the Equestrian Wasteland finally knew what it had taken from her, and that she was the only living thing in the history of time that was capable of giving anything back.

And when the scream was done, and her wings were still heaving as she stood shakily on the womb of the buckling cloudbeds, it was not a sob that graced her face, it was not even a sneer; it was a smirk.








Spike was busying himself with a series of chemical vials in the center of his laboratory when the trap door to Twilight's former treehouse slammed wide open above him.  He turned calmly to see a breathless brown pegasus soaring down and hovering wide-eyed in front of him.

“Send me back, Spike!”  Scootaloo panted.  “Send me back in time!”

“Now Scootaloo--” the sagely dragon pointed with a clawed finger.  “Have you adequately thought about what you're--?”

“There is no thinking,” she glared at him.  “There is only now.  And I am sick to death of now.”

He raised an eyecrest at that.

She frowned and growlingly reiterated:  “I'm ready, Spike.  I'm ready to do this.  Send me to the past.”

Gradually, he smiled.  A gentle nodding of his headcrests.  “As you wish, old friend.”

> End of Ponies - Chapter 9 - Original Applejack Arc Climax
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I've been on the Internet for a long time. I've played Starcraft, DoTA, TF2, and other games. I always wondered if it was possible to reach through the Internet and piss someone off so hard that the earth's poles shift.

I think that's what happened when I forced Vimbert to read this atrocity. Whenever I explain to marsupials how important it is that I use pre-readers, I cite this chapter as an example. The horrible thing is that I didn't see a single thing wrong with it. Vimbert outright *saved* End of Ponies when he tore this thing a new rectum.

Remember that badass fight scene that Harmony has with all of the trolls outside of the Apple Family farm? Replace that with a marshmallow campfire scene. Remove all of the danger, all of the threat, and all of the conflict from the last pony's life. That's the abomination that this "climactic chapter" was.

I took Vimbert's words to heart. I went back through the entire Applejack arc. I tossed in new threads, new themes, new motifs, and new motivations. What came out of the whole procedure was an entire arc that was transformed into something godly. Vimbert even gave the chapter his seal of approval, and I've felt fantastic about EoP ever since.

See? Revisions are a good thing.








The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions

Chapter Nine – A Place That Isn't Empty


Scootaloo immediately regretted every sin she had ever committed the very moment the pitcher of ice cold water came cascading over her backside.  An imploding shriek—her face contorting like she was giving birth to an iceberg—and she clutched her shivering self in the sloshing waves of the ivory bathtub surrounding her.  Applejack paced across the second story bathroom of her house and placed the empty pitcher besides a gently flickering lantern.

“Now don't go makin' faces like a frog left out in a snowstorm!”  Applejack chuckled under her breath.  “You ain't gonna suffer none.  Just relax, and let the cold waters drag the heat of the day clear off ya!  Nothin' finishes a long sore day of apple buckin' like a traditional Apple Family dip in the tub!  Cleans your pores right out!  Bet you were wonderin' how come I've worked in the Sun all these here years and yet I don't look like a raisin-coated mule!”

“A-A-Actually I-I-I was wondering if bl-bl-blood freezes at the s-s-same temperature as w-w-water,” Scootaloo hissed through clattering teeth.

“Pfft—Go soak yer head—”  Applejack blinked at her own words.  “Uh... Eh, y'all know what I mean.”  She winked and motioned with an orange hoof.  “Soap's over yonder.  And I got some of the finest shampoo from Aloe and Lotus' Day Spa in downtown ponyville.  Normally I don't subscribe to none of them froo-froo mane conditioners, but it was donated by Lady Rarity—now there's a pony who knows how to come out of a day's work lookin' as sparkly as Princess Celestia's lookin' glass!”

“Th-Th-Thanks, Miss Applejack,” Scootaloo shivered to produce a smile.  “S-Sincerely... Y-Y-You are t-t-too kind.”

“Call me 'AJ',” the farmfilly smirked and backtrotted out of the bathroom door.  “Just be sure to dry yer hooves after yer done.  And if you smell somethin' a wee bit spicy, that's just Granny Smith makin' her one-of-a-kind daffodil alfredo!  She only fixes it up once in a blue moon—on account of havin' a special guest and all.”  She smiled.

“That... uhm...”  Scootaloo blushed to the core of her projected self's being.  “That's r-really sweet.”

“No it ain't!”  Applejack blinked.  “It's spicy—”  She caught herself.  “Oh, heeheehee—Right.  Enjoy!”  She closed the door behind her, the mare's hoofsteps creaking straight through the wooden foundations of the old farmhouse.

The copper-coated pegasus sloshed back in the tub, her shivers waning to a stillness under the gentle lull of the amber lanternlight.  She brushed a few slick black strands from her forehead and gazed at her own hoof up close.  Scootaloo knew that she was merely occupying the projection of her soul self.  Those were not her limbs dripping with moisture and those were not her senses shivering under the frantic thrill of the cold liquid.  And yet, she couldn't remember feeling more at ease, more royally pampered, more in tune with herself than she did at that moment—and it was nothing more than a humble bath.

Scootaloo knew that in her lonely days before her lonelier days, she would have reveled in experiencing something half as wholesome as this.  In all the twilight eons of navigating the Wastelands, she would never have foreseen a moment when she would feel this... clean.  It only took her a twenty-five-year ride on the back of reverse-time to experience it.  The surreality of the moment should have been suffocating, but with each centimeter that she allowed her soaking self to descend into the waters, she suddenly didn't care.

The last pony closed her eyes, her body floating suddenly in a weightless pool of lucid cold.  Like always when her eyelids were shut, she saw the gray ash and snow stretching on into the horizon of her bitter consciousness.  But as her Entropan body settled warmly into the waters, the freezing mists faded away, and there bubbled to her mind's surface the wispy vistas of Cloudsdale, its blue beds and ivory buildings glistening under the gold bands of a lively Sun.  Hundreds upon hundreds of pegasi floated gaily in the electric air, their eyes as bright as their souls, and they all parted ways as Scootaloo floated through them, gently hovering to a stop before a wide bed of fog.  There was laughter, a deep chant of daily joy, and out from the blue-on-blue there soared a figure into crisp clarity, her mane and tail shimmering with every shade of the rainbow as she gazed down at the young foal and gave a devil-may-care grin.  But just as Rainbow Dash turned to fly away—a spicy smell filled the air, like a great valley of trees burning far below.  Thick iron bars suddenly obscured the flight of the prismatic pegasus, and then the great ashen explosion roared through the sky on burning moonrocks that slammed into Scootaloo's face with the force of millions of screaming ponies.

A loud splash.  The filly was clasping hard to the side of the tub, hyperventilating.  The flickering light around her wasn't Equestria in flames—but the gentle dance of a lantern in the corner.  The spicy smell in the air wasn't ash, but a delicious meal waiting for her and the Apple Family downstairs.  She was in the past, and the past was the here and now—but it all seemed so fake to her once again.  In the fading trails of a reborn epiphany, Scootaloo reminded herself that the only real things in this world were those that left fossils behind.

It didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy the moment—like the fleeting phantom that she was—soaked from head to tail in an exiled Goddess' skin.  A mute curse floated towards the ceiling, seeking the forehead of a three hundred year old Spike.  Then there was the softest of smiles.  With a gentleness and grace that she only knew from reading books, Scootaloo reached for the soap and conditioner and bathed like a princess.










Scootaloo couldn't take her eyes off the portraits.  There were dozens of them—black silhouettes of rural ponies, framed in dark ovals that swarmed gently past her one generation at a time as she sauntered slowly, pensively down the creaking stairs of the Apple Family residence.  She emerged upon a warm toasty world.  A fireplace crackled lazily at the far end of a den furnished with plush love seats and afghans.  As a blurred Apple Bloom scampered across the living room—giggling in a fit over one thing or another—Scootaloo glanced around the corner to see a brightly lit dining room, flanked by a kitchen where Granny Smith was currently growling at Apple Bloom to settle down.  The old mare wobblingly navigated her lime-wrinkled self around an eating table before placing down a steamy plate full of straw and daffodils, sprinkled deliciously with peppery oats.

A barking nose.  The last pony briefly jolted, but relaxed as she saw Winona scampering up and running circles around her, a gleeful Apple Bloom hot on the collie's fluffy tail.  The two went cantering off towards another section of the house as Scootaloo's attention was drawn towards a wide portrait lining a distant hearth.  Within the wooden frame the happy image of six ponies stood in a familial pose.  Granny Smith was seated in the center, flanked by a red coated stallion with sharp green eyes and a mare of silken orange complexion.  The mare was cradling an infant foal with a light bush of red hair, while two adorable ponies—one crimson and the other orange—hugged her legs and faced the invisible portraitist.

The pegasus was so engrossed with the calm faces hovering in the shadows across from her that she barely registered a porch door opening and slamming shut.  A hulking red form clopped on tired limbs as a sisterly shadow called in from the adjacent hallway:

“Macky, didja finish barricadin' the barn?  That's where they're likely to go bangin' them bony heads of theirs first!”

“Eeeyup,” Macintosh strolled past Scootaloo.  He politely nodded his head—then jolted with a double-take at her mane.  A blink, and he suppressed a snickering smirk as he swaggered his way into the dining room.

Scootaloo blushed slightly, her face awash in copper confusion.  Just in time, Applejack pattered up, tossing her hat onto a nearby wrack.

“Whew-Wee!  I swear, sometimes I feel like Epona invented 'work' first and 'ponies' second to make an excuse for the former—”  She took one glance at Scootaloo.  “Oh, you're done, Copper-Bottom—”  She too jolted.  “Whoah Nelly!  Eheheh—Ya do know, sugarcube, that we've got a mirror in the bathroom, don'tcha?”

“I-I don't read you, Miss Appleja—er—AJ,” Scootaloo's eyes narrowed.  “I almost passed out in the tub.  Did the trolls beat me with an ugly stick before I came down here or something?”

“Nothin' of the sort,” Applejack pointed with an amused hoof.  “Didn't yer Momma ever teach ya how to brush yer mane proper?”

“H-Huh?”  Scootaloo stupidly blinked and ran a hoof over her neck, only to feel a certifiable mountain of fuzzy tangles spreading upwards towards the ceiling.  “Holy cow!  Eheh—Oh yeah, th-that's right...”

“There's a brush over yonder on the table.  Be my guest.”

“Hmmm?”  Scootaloo only barely registered Applejack's offering.  “Oh—Uhm—To be perfectly frank, I've never... uh... Eheh.... How do I put this...?”  She bit her lip.  The only time the last pony had ever toyed with her hair after the Cataclysm was when she weaved the shaved pink strands into various rags, bindings, and insulators for use on board the Harmony.  There was a time, in her Ponyvillean childhood, when she once experimented with a rainbow assortment of dye... which ended with relatively hilarious results, not that she had anypony to share it with.

“Pfft!”  Applejack rolled her eyes.  “What's this world comin' to?  I bet yer Canterlotlian citizens would just die without one of them servants waitin' on yer manes night and day!  C'mere—” She gently tugged on the pegasus' shoulder and planted her down on a plush stool in the center of the den.  Seating herself on the edge of a couch, the earth pony snatched the brush from the table and proceeded diving into Scootaloo's forest of amber-streaked black threads.  “Now sit tight.  With the way y'all left it, this might smart a bit.” 

“This might what?—Ackies!”  Scootaloo winced, one eye tightly shut as several tangles were yanked clear, tugging at her roots.  She felt like a hundred thousand nooses were pulling at every inch of her neck.  “Snkkt—Y-You mistaking my skull for a tree you forgot to buck, AJ?”

“Quit yer whinin', Harmony,” the farmfilly murmured, squinting at her work as she straightened the curls out into long onyx threads.  “I'm only doin' this cuz you got some really fine hair, if I do say so myself.  It's an utter shame to see it all in shambles like this.  The only other pegasus pony I've seen with a 'do this long is my good friend Fluttershy.  It perplexes me why she never flies.  She practically trips on her bangs everytime she so much as breaks into a canter—Tilt yer head down.”

Scootaloo obeyed, her bobbing vision scanning the plush rugs of the den under the flickering fireplace.  “You seem to have a close knit group of friends,” the pegasus spoke through the lips of 'Harmony'.    “So far I've heard about Twilight Sparkle, Lady Rarity, and now Fluttershy?”

“Oh, we're a tight bunch—Us gals,” Harmony smirked as she threaded the amber streaks together and then shifted her concentration on Scootaloo's ends.  “Anypony who knows a thang or two about our brush-in with Nightmare Moon will say it's all on account of the Elements of Harmony—heh, now there's a smatterin' of irony for ya.  But I always liked to think that it was a great deal more heartfelt than that.  I was always well acquainted with Pinkie Pie and the Cake families over at Sugarcube Corner before fate flung the whole lot of us together.  And everypony in Ponyville knew about Fluttershy—well, relatively speakin'.  The pegasus has always lived in a lonely cottage outside of town.  She never really showed her face much until she became part of our little circle of friends—the 'Mane Six' as some gabberin' townsfolk like to call our little pow-wow.”

“'Mane Six',” Scootaloo chuckled—wincing a bit as another tangle bit the dust.  “That's original.”

“Nah.  Not really,” Applejack briefly droned.  “But still, there's something about my friends and I that is just so...”  She paused for a moment and chuckled.  “Oh shucks, I do sound like a braggin' fool, don't I?”

“No, it's alright,” Scootaloo gulped, suddenly feeling her heartbeat.  “Do go on.”

“Well,” Applejack spoke and resumed brushing from behind.  “We all found out one day that we had a special connection.  As a matter of fact, we were destined to all find each other at some point or another—On account that when we were all little foals, one single event echoed across the whole of Equestria.  In some manner or another, it was responsible for all of us gettin' our cutie marks at precisely the same time.  Now what are the odds of that happenin'?”

Scootaloo tried to steady her breath.  A warm sensation was blossoming deep inside her gut as she sat upon the precipice of a legendary story that the pegasus knew all too well.  Over several lonesome years spent in an ashen sky, the last pony often did all she could to bury the bitterly ironic implications of the memory.  But she wasn't sitting there in the past and having her hair brushed for her own benefit.  She tilted hear ears back towards Applejack as she dutifully asked:  “What was it?  What caused all your cutie marks?”

“You ever heard of a Sonic Rainboom?”

“Educate me.”

“Yer a pegasus and you don't know about the--?”

“What's in a name?”  Scootaloo retorted.  She tried not to sound short; she was slightly successful.  “It's all in the experience, isn't it?”

“Darn tootin'.  This Sonic Rainboom was what resulted in all of us getting' our cutie marks.  And on top of that, we learned that it was caused by none other than one of us gals in the first place!”

“Who?”  Scootaloo secretly smiled.  “Fluttershy?”

“Snkkkt—Hahaha—Heavens, no!  But a certain blue pegasus by the name of Rainbow Dash.  You better memorize that name, cuz I swear it's gonna be a legend someday.”

“Yes,” Scootaloo murmured, her hooves kneading the rug beneath her.  “I-I'm sure it will be...”

“Y'know, in a lot of ways—You kind of remind me of her.”

Scootaloo's eyes dilated.  She hadn't expected to hear that.  Ever.  She bit her lip and nearly whimpered, “R-Really...?”

“In less than two days, I've considered you to be both a pest and a blessing.  No two words better describe Rainbow Dash in a heartbeat.”  A slight drawlish chuckle, and she playfully nudged the copper pony's shoulder.  “I'm joshin', of course.  Yer as sweet as candy rain in my book, Harmony, which is the least I can say about Rainbow Dash.  That tomcolt can be a regular thorn in the hoof from time to time, but I love her all the same.”

“I...” Scootaloo exhaled, smiled warmly into the shadows, and said, “I'm sure she loves us too.”  A blink, and she winced slightly at how that came out.

“Heh—If you say so, copper-bottom.  Maybe once we get this Apple Harvest taken care of, I could introduce you to the gals.  I like celebratin' with my friends after a long week of apple buckin'.  Yer free to come with!”

“I-I'll think about it,” Scootaloo said.  Gazing forward, she fidgeted slightly—fought to scale the opportunity of the moment—and eventually seized it.  “Hey, AJ?”

“Yes, Harmony?”

“What...” she cleared her throat.  “Wh-What would it take, d-do you think, for a pony to seek audience with Princess Celestia?”

“You mean the Princess Celestia?”  Scootaloo could positively feel the weight of Applejack's dumb blink from behind.  “Yer a Servant of the Court of Canterlot and yer askin' me about meetin' up with the Princess?”

Scootaloo winced at that—all of that.  She should have seen it coming from twenty-five years of reverse-time away.  Still, she painted her tongue silver and persisted, “I know how much you dislike bureaucracy, Miss Applejack.  It's only natural to hate the process of red tape.  Even a pony of my stature and service has to go through several layers of offices before I can so much as submit a letter to Her Highness.”

“Like when you plan on reportin' on this Sweet Apple Acres?”

“Yes—NO,”  Scootaloo tugged briefly on the end of her hairs and sat up straight.  “Ahem—This isn't about my inspection of the farm.  Not this.”

“Then what is it about, Harmony?”

“It's... It's...” Scootaloo bit her lip.  A thousand dying faces flicked in and out of a blink.  She calmed herself and managed, “It's a personal matter.  That's all.  I-I know it's rather foolhardy for a pony—anypony—to think that she can easily make contact with the Princess, somehow circumnavigating the waiting list of so many other concerned citizens who write to her on a daily basis.  But... B-But in my service to Her Highness—in all of my travels—I have... how can I say this... I've uncovered some findings about the lands of Equestria that I think need a close review, and there're no offices in my Court that can properly filter—uhm—what I have to report on.”

“I see.  And you call that a personal matter?”

“I... Er...” Scootaloo inhaled.  Then a brief smile.  “What's more personal than the safety and future of Equestria?  You may hold a great deal of faith in this land, Miss Applejack.  And that's all well and fine for you.  You're an earth pony.  You live here.  But me?  I don't live entirely in Canterlot—Not like you think.”

“Just where do you live, Harmony?”

Scootaloo lingered.  She closed her eyes, returning briefly to the ashes.  “I live in the skies, AJ.  It's not just a part of my pegasus nature—It's all about what I do, what I believe in, and who I am.”  She reopened her amber orbs, and the rich warm flicker of the den seemed muted suddenly.  It brought a chill up her spine.  “Someday—maybe eons from now—the skies will be all that's left of Equestria.  Those who have spent so much time traveling—those like me—can see things that other ponies can't, all ponies except Her Highness.  Princess Celestia sees all.”  A gulp, then a murmur:  “Or at least I certainly hope she does...”

“I can't pretend to know the texture of yer words as much as yer tryin' to paint them to me.  But you've been awfully polite to my words.  With the way the days have unfolded, I see every reason to respect yers all the same.”  There was a gentle clapping sound of the brush being placed onto a table top.  Two hooves rested on Scootaloo's shoulders.  “There ya go.  It ain't no prima donna hogwash—but I reckon you look mighty elegant.”

Scootaloo shuffled, standing up from her stool.  She trotted across the room and glanced into the reflective surface of a grandfather clock.  The reflection sported a gorgeous black mane blossoming from her scalp, and the one amber streak swam steadily down the centerpiece of the thickly forested threads.

“It looks... pretty,” the pegasus blushed slightly.

An orange reflection sauntered up next to her, smirking.  “Yes, you do,” Applejack patted her shoulder as the two's complexion hovered numbly against the rotating hands of time.  “Don't sell yerself short, girl.  All them wisecracks I made yesterday about you bein' dainty and all; they're true in a way.  But it's a darlin' truth.  I'm sure you'd drive the colts back at Canterlot into a faintin' spell if you ever took the moment to come down from them skies you love.”

Scootaloo exhaled, her breath incidentally fogging the clockface briefly as her eyes fell past the sloping length of the hour hand.  “I'm not sure if I can ever afford to come down...”

“Good thang we stumbled into each other,” Applejack winked.  “I reckon it gave you a chance to get better acquainted with the Earth.  I'm sure the Earth was missin' you mighty fierce too.”

“Y-Yeah.  Maybe so...”

Applejack rubbed her own chin with a hoof.  “Y'know, it ain't that much of a stretch to get in contact with the Princess—Now that I think of it.”

Scootaloo flashed a hyper glance Applejack's way.  “It 'ain't'?”  She blinked.

“Well, on account of my friend Twilight,” the orange mare mused.  “She's always writin' letters on friendship and Ponyvillean life to Celestia.  She's her magical apprentice, you see.”

Scootaloo shifted where she stood.  “You don't say...?”

“At first I was a bit miffed that every little thang I did or said around Twilight could very well have made it onto the pages of a letter that her lil dragon friend sent to Her Highness.  But then I came to trust Twilight Sparkle for whom she really is—a gentle, endearing, and good-mannered pony.  And—heck!—I'm all about tellin' the truth, most of the time at least.  So I figured—'What the hay's the big deal'?  And it's never bothered me since.”  She smiled proudly.  “I have no doubt that what's happenin' right here on this here farm could come to the Princess' attention, thanks to Twilight—in some way or 'nother.”

“And th-then the Princess would want to sp-speak with me?”  Scootaloo stammered, her wings briefly fluttering.

“Pfft—One hoof at a time, sugarcube.  But it's certainly a start, isn't it?”

“Where in tarnation is everyone—AJ!  Miss Harmony!”  Granny Smith wobbled out from the brightly lit kitchen and gawked at the two ponies.  “There you are—Elektra Alive, ladies!  Food's-a-gettin' cold!  Bring yer flanks in here and take a bite before them nasty critters stop hidin' in the forest!”  She hobbled back under the gathering shadows of Macintosh and Apple Bloom at the table.

Scootaloo winced slightly.  “Where are my m-manners?  I'm not used to a regular eating schedule.  I didn't mean to hold up supper, honest.”

“Don't worry yer sweet head about it,” Applejack winked and motioned with her snout as she trotted over to join her family.  “How about you put that mouth of yers into munchin' instead of mopin'?” she said with a chuckle.

The copper pegasus nervously trotted after her, dipping her head humbly into the warm aura wafting off of the dinner table.  Granny Smith was already serving heaps of the steamy daffodil alfredo onto each of the five plates while Macintosh, Apple Bloom, and Applejack were shuffling padded stools into place and taking their seats.  Scootaloo was so mesmerized by the scents of the well-cooked meal that she took little notice of the seat she was shuffling up towards.  She heard someone's throat clearing.  Glancing up, she saw Macintosh gazing deadpan at her, shaking his head, and waving a hoof negatively.  With a blink, Scootaloo took a second look at the spot that she was about to sit in.  Its place at the table was dusty, plain, with the only thing adorning it being a vase full of well preserved orange blossoms.  The spot directly next to the seat had a pair of antique colt's horseshoes criss-crossing in memory.  She blushed deeply and winced apologetically Macintosh's way, watching as the crimson stallion gladly motioned her towards a guest stool on the other side of the table, which she quickly took—shuffling up until she was suddenly at chest level within the conjoined breath of the family and with no means of escape.

She had felt this cramped and caged before.  The Harmony's cabin left little room for anypony to shuffle around.  Inside her airship Scootaloo was either piloting, runecrafting, reading journals, or lying in the hammock.  There was nothing necessarily uncomfortable about the claustrophobic lifestyle; she was the only living thing who would ever need to use the cabin.  But this—this dinner table full of breaths and smells—this was like being cornered by vicious harpies from all sides, only they wanted to bless her rather than eviscerate her.  The last pony was not accustomed to being the recipient of anything other than her own cold shoulder throughout the years.  It was positively suffocating.

She also wasn't accustomed to traditional eating habits.  With forlorn eyes, Scootaloo watched as the family exchanged smiles and polite phrases of gratitude before offensively dipping the entire weight of their snouts directly into the spiced plates of straw and flowers.  Scrumptious oats and delicious white petals dribbled off their delighted maws as they treated their table like one large trough.  If Scootaloo had lost all of her faint memories from foalhood, she might even have been disgusted.  She realized that she was the source of her own confusion.  For decades, her diet consisted entirely of mushroom stew and meat broth, and very early into her zeppelin lifestyle the pegasus had crafted for herself metal braces attached with eating utensils so that she could fish her meals out of a collapsible container that could be discarded in a heartbeat for if she needed to jump into her cockpit and steer clear of a sudden obstacle or air pirate attack.  Scootaloo had been alone for so long, she had forgotten what it meant to eat like a pony.  Strangely enough, it was the first incongruity that didn't make her feel shameful.

She cleared her throat, wrenched her eyes off of the ungainly eating habits of her hosts, and gazed at the food on the plate before her.  She knew the daffodil alfredo had to be delicious; her senses told her that it smelled delicious, but there was no convincing the supposed 'gut' of her projected soul self that she needed to be hungry for it.  Her need to eat was the same as her need to sleep, and it was all related to the unnatural stamina that aided 'Harmony' so well in her endless apple bucking that day.  In fact, the only reason she took a bath was because Applejack insisted.

She didn't want to wait until the four blessed ponies in front of her insisted that she join in the meal.  So, leaning her snout down awkwardly, she opened her lips like a giant copper crane and snapped a rattling bite of the heap of flowers and straw.

The soonest that the oats entered her mouth—they melted around the crunching contours of the flower stalks until a grand cornucopia of home-brewed tastes gathered into a frothing ball against her tongue and exploded endorphins directly into her brain.  Her eyes almost rolled back in her head.  This wasn't quite like the apple she had bitten into the day before; there were no bitter sweet emotions attached to this.  This was quite simply an onslaught of pleasure, something she hadn't gotten from food in a while.  She remembered suddenly what it meant to consume something simply for the sake of the experience and not for the sake of survival.  It was a joyously awkward shimmer that danced up and down her spine, like having waltzed in on a muffin buffet at Sugarcube Corner.  She pondered a little too heavily on this, so that she was blind to her avid devouring until she blinked her eyes up with a mouthful to see four amused faces staring at her.

“My my, they certainly starve you in the Royal Court of Canterlot, don't they?”  the lime coated mare snickered.

“Don't go pickin' on her, Granny,” Applejack winked between munches.  “She done deserved a good scarfin'.  Besides—Who can resist yer wonderful alfredo?”

“Yeah!  Can Miss Harmony visit us some more?”  Apple Bloom stifled a belch and beamed.  “I wouldn't mind chowin' down on this every week!”

“Oh Sugarcube.  What would make this a special occasion if we did that, then?”

“We should let ponies visit us more often, AJ!  When's all yer Apple Buckin' gonna be finished, huh?  I feel like we've been a bunch of lonely rock farmers, what with all this work and no play!”

“The soonest we get this here harvest done, I reckon we're in for a heapin' load of celebration.  I mean it; this year's been a real doozy.”

“You can say that again, child.”

“Eeeyup.”

“Why—If I had a bit for every basket of apples I've filled this year alone, I'd fancy myself being nearly as rich as Rarity.”

“That reminds me, AJ.  Where has that most resplendent pony been lately?  It seems like Lady Rarity is a no-show everytime I go to visit the Ponyvillean Market.”

“Oh, she's just bein' her normal fabric fussin' self, Granny.  No doubt she's workin' on the latest task for that fabulous fashion critic from Canterlot, Hoity Toity.”

“Now AJ—If yer don't know a pony's name, it ain't polite to go on fillin' the blank, now is it?”

“No, Granny.  I mean that is his name.  He's 'Hoity Toity'.”

“A name like that in the Canterlotlian elite?  Preposterous!  Next thing y'know, Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Ponies will be passin' out doctorates to colts named 'Mister Whooves'!”

“Er... Ahem... So, Harmony,” Applejack took another bite of alfredo and smiled down the family table.  “Tell us a little bit about the sorts of things that a Royal Servant of Canterlot gets to see in her travels, why don't ya?”

“Oh, uhm...” Scootaloo fidgeted, swallowing down another scrumptious lump of oats and smiling nervously.  “It's not necessarily good dinner conversation.”

“Are you kiddin'?”  Apple Bloom nearly bounced out of her stool, her hairbow twitching atop a grinning head.  “I've never met a pegasus working for the Princess before!  I bet you see all kinds of cool and amazin' things in your work!”

“Where I go isn't nearly as important as what I do,” Scootaloo said.  A clearing of the throat and she half-murmured aside:  “Or whom I do it for.”

“Do you ever see any sea serpents?”

“Uhh,” Scootaloo blinked.  “I beg your pardon, kid?”

“Sweetie Bell says that there are tons of sea serpents out beyond the mountains bordering the Equestrian Valley!  She says they're called 'leviathans', on account that they're so big that they can't fit their big 'ol selves into normal lakes and rivers!”

Scootaloo didn't bother stifling a knowing smirk.  “This 'Sweetie Bell' sounds like a walking dictionary.”

“Nah, she just tries really hard to impress other ponies.  I think it's because she's tryin' to look as classy as her sister, Lady Rarity.  She's not nearly as confident about thangs as my other friend—”

Scootaloo's heart briefly dropped when Applejack interrupted her little sister:  “That's quite enough jabberin' about yer Crusaders, Apple Bloom.  Y'all can talk about that another day.”

“Awww—But Sis!  The whole point of being a Cutie Mark Crusader is wantin' to go out into the world and do everythang to get a cutie mark!  I bet Miss Harmony here has done just that!”

Before Applejack could interject again, the copper pegasus spoke, “It's true.  I've been to many places.  And it sounds like you've got a noble thing going with these 'crusader' friends of your, Apple Bloom.  But I don't think you should be so obsessed with the outside world, kid.  Especially when you've got so much that's awesome right here.”

“What do ya mean, Miss Harmony?”  Apple Bloom blinked widely at her.  Applejack raised an eyebrow.  A mute Macintosh and Granny Smith gazed over half-munched alfredo.

Under the spotlight of so many warm pairs of eyes, Scootaloo crossed her hooves atop the table and breathed soundly.  “I've seen many things in my flight,” she said, plucking the words from the gray fields of her mind with caution.  “I've seen deep granite chasms etched into the earth from millennia ago, when things that were done to this world were performed by the whim of a Goddess with absolute permanence in mind.  I've flown under the shadows of mountains too high for any Canterlotlian chronicler to measure; they are natural monstrosities so large that to simply comprehend them reminds a pony of just how tiny a speck she is in the mere twinkle of Epona's eyes.  I have seen... I have seen wastelands, Apple Bloom—Wastelands that stretch on for hundreds upon hundreds of kilometers, where the only sign of life that could possibly exist is the indestructible spirit of ponydom.  The world is a huge place, and when it's stripped bare of all of the pretty things that make it recognizable, it becomes clear really quick that the only hoofprint you can ever hope to make is the sort of mark you can etch upon the souls of each other, of the ones that you love, and the ones that you would forever... forever miss if they were to fly off along the wild winds of what lies beyond the mountains and never ever return.  The world is huge, and it is amazing—But, personally, I have found so much of it to be...to be empty.”

Scootaloo's lips lingered.  She gazed up with a brief fear.  The warmth in the eyes of the living ponies had faded slightly.  As they regarded her, their faces seemed a little... paler.  She knew exactly how to change that.

With a smile, the pegasus finished, “But here—No, there is no emptiness here.  You can dream and wonder about the outside world all you want, Apple Bloom.  But let me save you the trouble when I say that there's nothing better than a home.  You can go on a thousand exoduses and cover a million miles—by land or by air—but having a home is all that matters.  And this home, Apple Bloom, this gorgeous and beautiful home where your family lives; it is a good home.  And I am willing to bet that if you too were to see the many sights of Equestria and beyond, only here would you feel complete.  Anywhere else would just be empty.”  She glanced up at a sisterly orange mare.  “Where else would the Earth so generously give back for you simply being you?”

Applejack smiled sweetly.

“Well, I hope I get to see some leviathans someday!”

“Apple Bloom!  Heavens to Betsy!”  Granny Smith rolled her eyes and then smiled at the guest.  “Would you like seconds, dear?”

“I would love some, Ms. Smith.”

“I rightly share Apple Bloom's melancholy over the vittles,” Applejack mused while the elder scooped Scootaloo another heap of straw and daffodils.  “Tomorrow night, we're likely back to me cookin' the same old boring meals like I do every week.  It's nothin' for you to fancy, Harmony.  I don't quite have Granny's gift of spicin' here.  But I reckon my meals are decently healthy!”

“And borin'!”  Apple Bloom made a wretching face.

“Mmm... Eeeyup.”

“Oh hush, you two!”  Applejack briefly frowned, folding her hooves in a pout.  “So what's wrong with a little bit of spinach and celery here and there?”

Scootaloo suddenly snorted.  She cleared her throat and did her best to hide a smile.

Applejack blinked curiously across the table at her.  “What?  You have something against spinach and celery?”

Again, Scootaloo jerked.  Avoiding Applejack's gaze, she blushed slightly and shrugged.  “No.  No ma'am.  That sounds absolutely delicious—”

“What's so cotton-pickin' funny, then?”  Applejack confusedly raised an eyebrow.  “You look like yer about to spill yer liver all over the table!”

“Ugh—AJ, darlin', please!”  Granny Smith groaned.

“It's nothing—Just...” Scootaloo gestured with a hoof, hesitated, then let loose another busting smirk.  “Hmm... Your voice—”

“What about it?  Huh?!?”

“The way it sounds when you say the word... ahem... 'celery'.  Just—I dunno—makes me feel all g-giddy inside,” Scootaloo let loose a flock of giggles and coughed it down before taking a ladylike bite out of fresh alfredo.

Macintosh blinked.  Apple Bloom's cheeks exploded as she tried to hide a snicker.

Applejack's frown was only overwhelmed by an ever thick curtain of perplexity.  “I don't get it!  What's so fancy about the way I say 'celery'?”

Apple Bloom broke into uncontrollable foalish giggles.  A distinguished pegasus gently joined her.  Even Big Mac's lips started curving.

“Say it again, sis!  Heeheehee!”  Apple Bloom was red-faced.

“Nuh uh!  My supposedly 'humble guest' has outright turned the whole family table against me!”  Applejack turned her snout up.  “I don't get what the big deal is!  I swear, her Canterlotlian sophistication is pollutin' the whole household!”

“Come on!  Say it again!  Say it again!”

“You say it, blast yer yellow hide!  This ain't the sort of dinner I washed my hooves for!”

“Awwww!”

Silence, save for the random clattering of plates.  Granny Smith chewed long and hard on a few strips of straw.  Macintosh dabbed himself with a napkin.  Apple Bloom hovered on the edge of her seat.  Scootaloo's eyes were locked onto a suddenly interesting spot on the ceiling.

Applejack frowned, frowned, snarled, then let loose spastically, “'Celery'?!?”  She shrugged.

Apple Bloom, Scootaloo, and Macintosh immediately curled over in laughing fits.  Applejack facehoofed and sighed while Granny Smith smirked quietly to herself.









An hour later, most of the lights in the house had been put out—save for the blaze in the fireplace, which was still crackling and sparking with a heated sigh over the soft shapes of embroidered furniture.  Nestled in the sofa upon Granny Smith's lap, washed up and socked-up and ready for bed, Apple Bloom blinked smilingly as the lime-coated elder embraced her with a book in her hooves, rattling off a bedtime story to the dancing shadows of the room.

“'But the baby yellow birdie didn't mind none when the other songbirds tried to make fun of him.  'I'll get my own tree!' he said.  'Then I can sing big and strong just like the others!'  So he flew and he flew and he flew and he flew, but all of the large trees were all filled with birdies already.  He knew it was impolite to hop into another family's nest, besides it wouldn't help his singing none to share the branches with other birdies.  He needed to practice on his own!  Finally—one cool and crisp mornin'—the baby yellow birdie found a tinnnnnnny sprout of an apple tree just over the hill yonder where the rising Sun first appeared.  She was such a teeny tiny thing that none of the other songbirds wanted to nest in her—but for the little yellow birdie, she was just right.  'Finally, I have a tree and she's just the size that I can learn to sing in!'  So he made his nest and practiced every mornin', but his singin' wasn't gettin' any prettier.  He wanted nothin' else but to sing big and strong—But it wasn't comin' out right!  Finally, one mornin', he left the tiny sprout of a tree, but not without saying, 'Don't fret, Miss Apple Tree!  I know just the thing that will make you grow.  All of the other birdies live in big trees because they have families!  Maybe if I had a family of my own, then you would become big too'!”

From the bottom of the farmhouse's stairs, Scootaloo listened in on the tale.  She sat on the bottom step, covered in shadows, as her ears pricked foalishly to take in Granny Smith's recital.  From the toasty look across Apple Bloom's firelit features, the pegasus could tell that she was well familiar with this bedtime story.  It was Scootaloo's first.

As Granny Smith continued her gentle tale, the copper time traveler glanced aside to see Big Macintosh propped up on a stool before the screened porch door.  With hard green eyes, he stared out into the darkness shrouding the orchards, watching for any sign of the nightmarish creatures that were lurking beyond.  He had a spade balanced across his forelegs, and if he was teetering on the brink of exhaustion, he heroically didn't show any sign of such.

A shuffling of hooves, and Applejack sauntered down from the top of the stairs and sat down next to Scootaloo with a groaning sigh.  “Any sign of them varmints?”

Scootaloo slowly shook her head.  “No.  By the way, I thought it was Macintosh's turn to keep watch first.  Shouldn't you be asleep?”  Her voice was stealthily hushed beyond the ranges of Apple Bloom's hearing.

Applejack's was too:  “I would say the same about you, but looks like I'm not the only restless one.”  Nevertheless she yawned and leaned against the nearby wall with bloodshot green eyes.  “Here's my family, havin' a gentle moment, and yet there are such horribly nasty creatures just beyond the fences.”

“And what a nice moment it is,” Applejack murmured towards the cozy fireplace and the old and young bodies curled before it.  Something Spike had said about the past brushed the surface of her mind.  She suddenly felt like a foreign virus, infecting a pure Equestria with eyes that had seen ash and misery.  “What I wouldn't give for a whole lifetime of moments like this...”

Applejack turned towards her, and a soft voice came out of her that soothed the pegasus ears.  “All of those thangs that yer were goin' on about at the dinner table, about you seein' so many sights in the world and it all bein' so incredibly empty...”  She leaned her head to the side.  “Is that how you feel about life in general, Harmony?”

Scootaloo tried to reassure her with a smile.  The result was akin to handling balloons with rusted gauntlets.  “Life is never empty, AJ.  It's the stuff that life tries to fill.”

“I reckon yer one of them trough-is-half-empty kind of ponies.”

“Not really.  I like to drink out of a cantene.”

“Pfft—Cop out!”

“Heheheh,” Scootaloo giggled lightly.  Then, with a returning sigh, she hugged her forelegs to herself and lowered her head, gazing at the firelight and the unraveling bedtime story beyond.

“The years went by, but the yellow birdie didn't notice,” Granny Smith went on as Apple Bloom yawned and curled tighter against her.  “Because he was so enamored with the family he made.  He had no idea that he would be so happy to have a wife and two little chickies.  He found he practiced his singin' simply by treatin' his kids to some lullabies.  He forgot all about little Miss Apple tree back home, because his whole life had become one big beautiful song, and his family had become the chorus.  And without even knowing it, he had become big and strong, just the kind of daddy that his chickies needed.  It was a total surprise to him when one day they moved back to the west side of the orchards, and there the yellow birdie found himself stumbling on an enormous apple tree that was just the right size for his family!  But he was scared at first, because every other bird who tried to live inside her branches was thrown out—as if the tree had come alive and refused to be nested in!  'That tree!  She ain't no good!' the other songbirds said.  'She doesn't like no birds no-how!'  But the yellow birdie wasn't scared.  He needed a tree for his family, and she was just the right size.  'Please let me build a nest in you, Miss Apple Tree!'  He begged with folded wings.  'I swear that I'm big and strong and my family needs the room!'.”

Scootaloo's wings absent-mindedly flexed and unflexed.  A pit formed in her stomach as she thought about all of the skies she had flown in during her life; and none of them were golden.  A dismal hum broke the tranquility of the room, so that she finally forced herself to glance aside and murmur Applejack's way:

“Hey, AJ...”

“Mmm—Yes, Harmony?”  Applejack leaned away from the precipice of drowsiness.

“Have you—That is...” the pegasus fidgeted, fumbled, then proceeded, “as an earth pony, have you noticed anything strange about the land?”

“You mean other than nasty little trolls poppin' out of it and wantin' to kill all of us?”

“Ahem.  Yes, besides that,” Scootaloo bit her lip, but continued uttering, “Have you felt... I don't know... any tremors or strange earthquakes or... or just about anything that would seem really out of place in the land of Equestria?”

“Can't reckon I have.  This here is pretty sound land.  Only tremors we get is when cattle stampede from time to time.  I had to save Ponyville all by myself from such a mess one time.  Well, heheh, Winona helped, but that's besides the point.”

“You haven't noticed any bizarre things in the sky?  Any... er... eclipses or other strange phenomena happening for no reason?”

Applejack squinted sideways at the pegasus.  “Does this have anythang to do with that report you've been dyin' to share with the Princess?”

Scootaloo instantly blushed, glancing away.  “Guess nothing gets past you, AJ.”

“Guilty,” she smirked.  “Sugarcube, my family and I are very grateful for all the things you've done for us over the last day and a half.  It was because of your foresight that Mac and I didn't get chomped to bits by trolls.  And it was because of your smarts that we've gotten so much apple buckin' done at a record rate.  But I'm beginning to think that you're awful worrisome about a lot of things.”

“I-I guess it is in my nature,” Scootaloo smiled nervously.  A gulp.  “But—There are strange things ahoof in Equestria.  I really, really must get in contact with the Princess somehow.”

“Like what kind of strange things?”

“I-I really don't want to cloud your head with it, Applejack,” Scootaloo smiled plastically.  “Let's just say that there are... th-there are worse things in this world than trolls.”

“Whew—If you say so,” Applejack ran a hoof through some night-tosseled threads and shrugged.  “Cuz I can't imagine anything worse than creatures who just wanna hate on a humble family of farm ponies.  It's almost as if they want to bring out the worst in us.  Those traps that Macky and I made?—Plus them farm tools we were fixin' to smack against them varmints' heads...?”  A chill ran down the mare's spine as she shamefully glanced into the shadows.  “I shudder to think how downright dirty we were plannin' on gettin'.  You were right with what you said at sundown, Miss Harmony.  Ponies are creatures of life.  We should know nothin' about bouncin' back the misery of monsters.”

“Bouncing back misery...” Scootaloo nodded in suddenly deep thought.  “Right...”  She listened intently as Granny Smith finished her story.

“And the moment he built a nest inside her branches, the leaves started shakin' something fierce.  At first the yellow birdie thought he was gonna be thrown out like all the others.  But then he realized that there was somethin' musical to the way them leaves were rustling.  And sure enough, he started singin' to the beat, and what came out of him was the most beautiful song that there ever was sung in all of the orchards.  To his joy, he realized that she was the same apple tree he tried to build a nest in so many years ago, before he flew away to find himself such a happy family.  She had waited for him all that time, so that she was big enough for the whole family and all of their happy songs.  And that's when the yellow birdie thought to himself, 'Hmm, my favorite little tree isn't such a little tree anymore'.  So she sang her song, big and strong, and they all lived in that great big tree happily ever after.  The end.”

Granny Smith very, very quietly folded the book shut, for the little foal nestled in her lap had fallen into a soft slumber, her tiny form rising and falling with gentle breaths.  The lime coated elder smiled and lovingly nuzzled the child's crimson mane as the firelight dwindled into shadows across their warm embrace.

The gentleness spread lightly across the room and lit something brightly in Scootaloo's center.  Her breath left her, and when it did—it was like the echo of a manabullet ricocheting dead off a target.  With suddenly bright eyes, she bounded up to her feet with a grin.

“That's it!” she hoarsely whispered.

“Wh-What's it?”  Applejack blinked up at her with tired eyes.  “Harmony, did you just suffer an aneurysm or somethin'?”

“Almost as good as that!” she beamed down at the orange mare.  “I got an idea!  I know how we can get rid of the trolls!”

“What?!”  Applejack stumbled up to her feet.  “H-How?”

“Got any marshmallows?”

“Uhhh...What the hay?”

“Well do you or don't you, girl?  This is frickin' important!”

“I reckon I still do from the last time one of Apple Bloom's friends visited--”

“Good!  Get them, get Macintosh, and follow me!”  Scootaloo brushed past a startled stallion, making him fall out of his stool as she darted out the front porch, all the while staying within anchorage.  “But most of all—Bring a smile!”









It was late into the morning hours when a wave of leathery bodies finally pierced the dark wall of the forest bordering Sweet Apple Acres' southeast border.  There was a reason for why they didn't begin their march until then.  In the glinting moonlight, many recently hewn bludgeons of sharp rock and gnarled branches manifested in the creatures' grips.  They hissed and drooled with a bloodthirst that tugged them—clamoring—over the rickety wooden fence and through row after row of night-shrouded apple trees.

Flashes of loud teeth marked many drooling snouts as the trolls regarded the fruitless trees with disgust.  Obviously put off by the extent to which the harvest had been gathered in their absence, they pressed themselves forward in a bounding canter, their mangy limbs kicking up clumps of dirt and grass as they began a nocturnal charge towards the center of the farm—towards the household of the equine who resided on the landscape.

A mutual hunger growled through their acidic stomachs as they pierced the last rows of orchards, closing in like one massive snake of leathery torsos onto the apex of the Acres.  They expected to see a lone farmhouse sleeping under the curtain of darkness, unprotected on all sides by flimsy windows that their fresh weapons could mash through in a single hissing heartbeat.

What they found instead was a billowing pulse of hot orange light.  Growling in disdain, the leathery line of trolls flinched at the edge of a dirt clearing, shading their squinting eyes and wretching maws with a forest of pointy bludgeons.  In one hateful glare, they refocused their vision on what turned out to be a brilliant bonfire, and seated in a soft circle around the blaze were three ponies.  Something was roasting in between them on a trio of sharp sticks... and they were laughing and smiling...

“Hahahaha!” Applejack beamed with curved green eyes as she waved a toasted marshmallow over a lick of flames.  “Did I ever tell y'all about the one time that Twilight Sparkle squared off against a hydra at Froggy Bottom Bog?”

“No!”  Scootaloo munched on the end of a puffy white treat, gulped, and smiled.  “Do tell us, AJ.”

“My pleasure, Harmony!”  Applejack smirked slyly at the copper pegasus and a certain red stallion.  “It was me, Fluttershy, Pinkie Pie, Twilight Sparkle, and Twilight's dragon apprentice Spike—and we was all flounderin' with this whole row over Pinkie Sense that brought us there to begin with.  When all of the sudden, this huge hulkin' thang with four heads came surgin' up out of the swampwater!  It had the lower body and tail of a dragon, but the quadrupled head of a snake!  And it was comin' straight for us!”

“Why, Applejack...!”  Scootaloo gasped widely and stabbed another marshmallow onto her stick.  “What ever did you do?!?”

“Sit tight, listen—And I'll tell y'all!”

The trolls blinked their beady white eyes.  A rubbing of their scalps and several exchanged glances; the monsters frowned and marched thuddingly across the dirt clearing, closing in on the three helpless victims in their marshmallow reverie.

The orange farmfilly continued, undaunted by the peripheral sight of the leather forms shuffling out of the treeline towards them.  “So we immediately broke into a panicked gallop up the hill all quick-like.  But there was this cliff we had run our stupid selves into, and the only way to safety was to jump across a bunch of dangerous rock pillars to get to a mountain on the other side of a gargantuan canyon!”  Applejack grinned mischievously as she related this harrowing tale with extreme guile.  “The hydra was closin' in fast!  And we could only hop across the dang pillars one at a time!  So Twilight Sparkle took it upon herself to distract the four-headed monster, even if it meant sacrificin' her own precious life!”

The trolls' strench filled the flickering air as they shuffled their way up towards the flanks of the three ponies.  Applejack continued storytelling like they weren't there.  Scootaloo was gazing only at her, nodding her head with childish interest.  The only noticeable sign of nervousness was from the large red stallion.  Macintosh shifted with brief discomfort atop the log where he was seated, but soon he too was thoroughly engrossed in the story, insomuch that he completely and utterly ignored the trolls and the violent looking weapons hanging in their gnarled hands.

“First, she got it in her head to try and outsmart them—by 'them', I mean the one huge hydra.  But she figured she didn't have the courage.  So—and I even heard her from afar—she goes 'What would a brave pony like Rainbow Dash do'?  And in seconds flat, she's runnin' plum towards the hydra at full gallop, screamin' her head off like her horn had sunk into her brain overnight!”

“Wow, that was either extremely noble or extremely stupid!”

“A little of both, I reckon.  But wouldn't you know it?!  It worked!!  The hydra was so dumbstruck by the unicorn's movement that it just about tangled its heads together while trying to take a bite at her!”  Applejack chomped onto a mushroom and stuck a few more onto her stick while mumbling with a full mouth.  “The morale of the story is that sometimes bein' a complete moron in the heat of panic can save yer skin a lot longer than it takes to second guess bein' a moron to begin with!”

“Hahahah,” Scootaloo grinned, seemingly oblivious to a trio of trolls that stood in a pyramid behind her, leering and waving their spiked clubs to impale her from above.  “Well, y'know, there's a reason why hydras are so territorial!  It's a common habit across Equestria for poachers to hunt bogs for hydra claws.  You see, hydra blood is tempered at an extremely high temperature on account of a thermal-powered circulatory system.”

Applejack briefly winced as her eyes darted frightfully, motioning behind Scootaloo's shoulders.

Scootaloo merely winked at her and continued on with her rambling, “If you slice the toenails off of hydras, you can expose some of their bloodstream while it's still raw and harness a special energy known as orange flame—which has many useful properties, such as operating steam-powered machines and attracting various forms of metal with a highly charged magnetism.”  The trolls behind Scootaloo, confounded by her utterly still and unafraid stance, stopped waving the weapons over her skull.  They glanced at each other in mute confusion, their beady eyes losing all menace with each blink.

“I wouldn't rightly know much about hydras—But I know a brave unicorn when I see one,” Applejack mused.  A pair of trolls dustily ran up to her, hissed, and barred their claws directly in her face.  She slyly reached a hoof past them and snatched another marshmallow from a bag before flippantly stabbing it with her roasting stick.  “I knew from then on never to underestimate Twilight's courage in the line of danger.  Not that you'd think much of danger on such a pretty night as this.”

“I know, right?”  Scootaloo leaned back, inhaled long and hard, and breathed out in a drunken grin.  A troll leered over her, roared with several serrated teeth looming quite obviously in her eyesight.  She made no note of it.  “It's like Epona blanketed the night with her own hooves.  What I wouldn't give for every night to be as delightful as this one—Especially when spent in the company of friends.”

“You would call us friends?  Awwwww shucks,” Applejack blushed and smiled Macintosh's way.  “And here I thought we was just sharin' scary stories!”

“Scary stories?  Perish the thought!”  Scootaloo raspberried and yawned as another pair of trolls waved their splintery weapons before her.  “These are merely tales of Equestrian intrigue and silly unicorn bravery!”

“Well, it was a recount of somethin' I myself experienced.”

“And you wove the recollection so well, AJ.”

“I bet I could be bested!”  She winked and glanced over at her brother, ignoring a pair of fist-shaking trolls in between them.  “Macky?  I bet you've got a doozy of a story to share with Harmony and me!”

Macintosh shrugged.  He opened his mouth to talk—

“I've got one!”  Scootaloo interjected, gulping down another marshmallow as she leaned forward with wagging eyebrows.  “There was once this ugly talking baboon named 'Pitt', who had a bunch of monkey brothers who he treated like crap.  One day he got the bright idea to build a rest stop at the top of really tall mountain.”

“On the top of a mountain??”  Applejack campily slapped her knee with a hoof and guffawed, “That's so cooky!”

“So he and his twelve brothers build this giant wooden shack on the top of the frickin' thing.  But they built it too close to the edge, you see,” Scootaloo grinned as several trolls sat on their haunches, banging their heads and re-blinking as if it could somehow rearrange the scene into something with more carnage.  It didn't work.  “Next thing Pitt knew, he and his brothers' building was starting to fall one meter at a time over the mountain's cliff.  So they built all of these vertical support beams nailed into the mountain's side to keep the thing from plunging into the abyss beneath the clouds.  But it was still a horrible location.  Everyone who came by the 'Thirteen's Den' drank themselves silly and fell to their deaths in a drunken stupor.  Pitt was losing customers faster than he could earn them!”

“What a pity,” Applejack grabbed another marshmallow as a troll strolled straight past her, frowning at Macintosh.  “What happened next?”

The one troll marched straight towards the red stallion and bravely snapped the pony's marshmallow stick in half with barred teeth.  When the stallion didn't flinch, the troll whooped, howled, then jumped mightily onto a nearby wooden cart, tossing the thing onto its side before snapping one of its wheels loose and smashing it to splintery bits just a few centimeters before the colt's hooves.  Macintosh was beginning to shake as his brow creased angrily.  His glaring eyes almost wandered the troll's way, almost—when he heard a whistling sound.

Glancing over, Macintosh saw Scootaloo glancing at him, her campy smile briefly faded as she shook her head gently at him.  He calmed down as the pegasus' grin swiftly returned and she continued with the tale, “Well, turns out it was all the fault of Pitt's oldest brother.  The orangutan was color blind, you see—And he thought that in Pitt's sketch of the 'Thirteen's Den' the baboon wanted the thing built on the edge of a lake.  So, all that time, he had designed the rest stop to have a pier on its side—Hence why it was built too close to the edge of the mountain.”

“Oh, what a heapin' pile of absurd!”  Applejack smirked.  “Did the brother learn his lesson?”

“I guess you could say that,” Scootaloo swallowed a marshmallow in one gulp and smirked.  “Pitt kicked him off the mountain and renamed the place to 'Monkey O'Dozen Den', which was a heck of a lot more marketable and increased the living patrons over the dying ones just enough to stay in business.”

“Is there a morale to this here story that involves brave unicorns?”  Applejack blinked dumbly as a pair of bored trolls drooled behind her.

“When it comes to brass tactics, monkeys never spank each other.  They go straight for the gullet.”

“That has nothing to do with unicorns.”

“Did I mention that the orangutan's skull was impaled by a stalagmite on the way down?”

“HA!  Heheh—Well, sounds like monkeys could sure use a hug where you come from!”

“And how!”  Scootaloo giggled.  “If only all creatures in Equestria could be as happy as ponies.”

“Tis a shame!  Because once yer a pony, there ain't no goin' back to doom and gloom, y'all reckon?”

“Yeah, I reckon!”

“Heeheehee—!”

Finally, the largest and ugliest of the trolls stomped directly over to Scootaloo, hissed from deep within his throat, and spit straight into her face.  Macintosh and Applejack only slightly winced, attempting to maintain their airs.  The circle of leathery creatures craned their necks in bloodthirsty anticipation of Scootaloo's reaction.

With the slimy saliva still cascading down her snout, the last pony grinned angelically and cooed the two farm ponies' way.  “Have I ever mentioned I absolutely love pony music?”

“Oh yeah?  What flavor caters to y'all?”

“Strings.  Sometimes violins—But mostly the cello,”  Scootaloo smirked.  With a toss of her mane, she flippantly flung the foreign moisture off her face and stared into the fire.  “It's so beautiful.  It's a little mournful, and yet jubilant in its own rights.”

“Yer don't say?  I'm a fan of the dulcimer myself.”

“Imagine that!”

“And Big Macintosh here fancies himself a lyre when he pays the village a visit from time to time, ain't that right, Macky?”

“Heh heh heh,” the stallion blushed deeply.  “Eeeyup.”

The two fillies giggled at him as the trolls slumped in an air of boredom and defeat.  With each liquid second that bled into minutes that bled into an hour, the monsters positively wilted under the happy chorus of the equines' stories, jokes, anecdotes, and even a campfire song or two.  The invading force of clawed creatures paced about in slumped duldrums, resorting to smacking each other unenthusiastically every now and then with their suddenly useless weapons.  This could very easily have carried on for a purgatorial eon, when suddenly one of the trolls lurched where he stood.

All of the trolls glanced at him—then gasped.  From the top of his head, pouring down towards the bottom of his pointed toes, the creature was glazing over with white granite.  He was turning into stone.  With several gurgling gasps, the trolls spun eastward in horror—only to instantly freeze as the rays of the rising sun caught them stupidly unaware of the passage of time.  The anticlimax of that night's raid had ensnared them, and soon they would all be as useless as they were before they were dug up.

A great panic filled the ranks of the leathery monstrosities.  Many of them bolted towards the shadowy cover of orchard trees—only to have the reflection of sunlight off the dewy leaves catch their skin and transform them to rock in mid-dive.  Others ran towards the overturned body of the wooden cart, ultimately slamming into the wooden finish with stony thuds.  As every leathery body turned into a concrete effigy, the last and largest of the trolls shrieked like a terrified infant, leaped over the bonfire, and scampered in desperation towards the shadowed interior of the barn.

Applejack very swiftly stood up, hoisting a length of rope in her teeth.  “Whoah there, partner!”  She flung a lasso across the morning-kissed farm and wrapped a coil of yellow fiber around the scampering cretin's waist.  With a mighty tug, she dragged him back over towards her side and unceremoniously hugged the twitching troll like a teddy bear.  “No need to be rude!  It's just a simple campfire and roastin' of sweets among friends!  Take a seat!  Let us love and tolerate the stuffing outta y'all!”

The troll kicked, screamed, and fought to get out of her grasp.  The burning line of golden sunlight swam over him—And soon he too was just as still and solid as the rest of his granite companions.

“Hmmph,” Applejack mocked a frown and dropped him like an ivory paperweight before dusting off her hooves.  “No reason to go all stiff on me!”

Macintosh whistled, standing up before the dwindling campfire as he proudly observed the three dozen stone bodies blanketing the edges of the dirt clearing in the center of the farm.  Every troll was now a pale white facsimile of its former self.  Their weapons lay in tattered piles between them.  Glancing over at his sibling,  Macintosh smirked and saluted with a hoof.

“Well, I gotsta admit,” Applejack tilted the brim of her hat and smiled Scootaloo's way.  “That was a sightlier better result than I was expectin'.  Harmony, just how did you know they wouldn't rip us straight down the mane on the spot?”

“There's an old saying from Canterlot,” Scootaloo leisurely nibbled on a marshmallow and smirked up at the two ponies standing before her in the halo of frozen trolls.  “'Don't feed the parasprites'.  It means that there's no point in humoring creatures who only serve the purpose of spreading misery and multiplying it.  Trolls are just that, Miss Applejack.  It isn't enough that they exist to inflict pain, but they must feed off of the hate and malice of others or else their very instinctual nature would yield no effect to begin with!”

“And I reckon that being the opposite of mean and angry around 'em only quadruples the 'poison' to their system,” the orange mare smirked.  “Well, I'll be.  Sometimes the best way to deal with monsters is simply to be a pony.”

Scootaloo nodded.  “History has taken advantage of trolls' weakness in the past too.  Several millennia ago, the entity Discord had hired them as the chief grunts of his army.  For centuries, trolls ruthlessly sacked and pillaged ponydom, until the Alicorn Sisters... simply ignored them.  That's how the Chaos Wars ended.”

“And our war too, it would seem,” Applejack rubbed her scalp underneath her hat and glanced forlornly at the many, many statues.  “Thanks to the Sun, at least.  But I reckon this victory won't last that long.  What do we do with them??”

“Heh!  Are you kidding?”  Scootaloo finished a marshmallow, dusted her hooves off, and stood up on all fours.  “The way I see it, the Earth gave these to you, even if you didn't ask for them.  There's only one thing to give the Earth back.”

Macintosh and Applejack blinked the pegasus' way.  The siblings shared a glance, a thought... and then a smile.









“This is the last one, Macky!  Give it all yer got!”

Macintosh grunted, growled, and finished shoving the last of the three dozen white troll statues into the deep well dug into the north end of the orchards.  The stony creature gave way to gravity.  Macintosh slumped over the edge of the hole, panting, and waited until he heard the loud thud of the last statue landing atop the pile of all its companions that had collected at the bottom of the hole.  The red stallion exhaled, wiped the sweat from his brow, and winked at the two fillies behind him.

They nodded back, and together shoved a huge wooden cart filled to the brim with topsoil.  On the count of 'three', the two heaved the wagon on the hinge of its back wheels and dumped a thick clump of dirt so that it filled the bottom end of the hole, opaquely sealing it from the shimmering morning light overhead.

Together, all three ponies shoveled dirt into the rest of the well until there was no chance of light filtering in or out of the obscured 'tomb'.  After half-an-hour or so, Macintosh punctuated the task with a large wooden marker stamped into the soft earth that was piled above the abominable seal.

“Once Apple Buck Season is over, we'll place somethin' more permanent over it,” Applejack said under a curtain of early morning sweat.  “We'll make sure them varmints are never dug up again.”

“Very good,” Scootaloo nodded, shaking flakes of topsoil off her hooves.  “This way, they'll never be exposed to twilight.  All this time they were sitting under the bowels of your family's very land.  And in such beautiful irony,”  the pegasus smirked the farmfilly's way, “the Earth is doing you the favor of covering them up again.”

“As they should have been all along,” Applejack gulped.  “Well, I for one am glad they're back.”  She bit her lip momentarily and glanced forlornly Scootaloo's way.  “You do reckon that is all of them?”

“I'm pretty sure,” Scootaloo nodded.  “Trolls are either all out or all in.  Your night terrors are over, Miss Applejack.”  She patted her shoulder with a smile.

“So, Harmony, expert on trolls,” Applejack smirked.  “Think you have enough of that there gumption in you to be an expert on apple buckin' once more?”

Scootaloo grinned wide.  “So long as I have my galloping marker on the ground.”

“Yer sure do!”  Applejack motioned with her snout.  “Macky!  Wake up Granny and Apple Bloom!  We're gonna need the whole family on this one!”








The morning was electric.

Under buzzing cicadas and melodic birdsong, five ponies threaded the apple orchards with agile precision akin to a steam engine.  Big Macintosh pulled a large wooden cart full of empty baskets.  On a pattering of hooves, Apple Bloom moved the light containers off the wagon and onto the grass where she and Granny Smith gently laid them underneath the branches of multiple fruit trees.  Then, once all of the baskets were lined up, Applejack spotted them and gave 'Harmony' a whistle.  The copper pegasus extended her wings, galloped, and took to the air.  With a sharp inhale, she twisted sideways and bounced from tree trunk to tree trunk as Applejack ran beneath her, calling out whenever she missed a few apples in one or two of the targets.  Even when Scootaloo did have to make a return flight, the entire process was lightning quick.  Before the noonday Sun rose, a good half of the western orchards had already been shaken free of fruit.

The whole procedure was a rapid exercise—but no single pony bore an unnatural brunt of legwork.  Applejack, of course, sweated a great deal from having to guide the pegasus in mid gallop, but she had plenty of time to rest in between apple bucking.  The process of loading and unloading baskets between rows of trees consumed enough moments for breathing, and when it was time for another row of fruit to be shaken, Applejack was clearly as energized and unstoppable as her helpful pegasus companion.

Scootaloo reveled in the process.  The victory of the previous night's 'campfire session' had lifted an indescribable weight off of her projected wings.  A foalish sensation fluttered in her heart, and she felt for a brief moment as if she had just launched the Harmony on its maiden voyage all over again.  With every blink and every gasp of her twisted flight against the rows upon rows of trees, it was easy to forget that there was a horrible future awaiting everything that was.  It was easy to forget that she was a citizen of twilight, and not of the glorious rays of the Sun glinting off her copper feathers.  And yet, at the same time, the last pony realized that as much as she could not salvage the future, she could very easily salvage this... and savor it.

This day, this moment, this heated breath amongst ponies in the gentle green sway of leaves and grass; it wasn't just a memory that festered in an unsavory corner of Scootaloo's lonesome mind.  It wasn't some fabrication, a dream that the last pony had concocted for herself in an effort to lend credence to the lighting of a rainbow signal after every other stormfront.  This moment was dynamic; this moment was new.  This was a moment filled with sweat and hope and joy, and for once the pegasus could find an excuse to live in it—as the earth ponies did so naturally.  For the first and only episode in the history of time, the fossils of the past and a ghost of the future were sharing an event, and there was no need for shame, not even a whiff of it.

As the farming family got more and more acquainted with the unorthodox apple bucking process, they decided to try something more ambitious.  With Scootaloo's approval, they doubled the number of baskets and fashioned a runway of apple tree rows three times as long as what the pegasus had been ricocheting her hooves against previously.  Applejack took a deep breath and got an extra running start.  When Scootaloo took off this time, she mentally counted an entire three minutes before landing back on the ground—upon which her projected self teetered in monumental dizziness.  Applejack was quick to catch her, and in a shared glance both fillies giggled ridiculously.  Gazing back at Scootaloo's handiwork, she was mesmerized to find a previous half-an-hour's work done in a single stride.  After they gathered the apple baskets, they returned with an even greater vigor, and soon Scootaloo would be sky-bucking longer and longer distances, spilling the air with the cascade of glistening apples.

The noonday Sun burned like a hot rock skipping across a green lake.  For a brief respite, Granny Smith wheeled out a cart covered in glasses filled with apple juice.  Applejack and Macintosh were relieved to have something to quench their thirsts.  Apple Bloom sipped happily in between childish ramblings about one crusade or another.  Scootaloo... was positively intoxicated with her first sampling of fruit drink in a quarter of a century.  It took several chuckling sets of hooves to wrench her away from the table so as to start the next row of apple bucking.

The five ponies' harvest stampeded clockwise into the hilly northern section of the Acres.  Scootaloo bounced so hard against the wobbling apple trees that she almost feared hurdling herself into a tunnel of green flames without warning.  She kept her ears and eyes on Applejack.  The orange mare was her center, the fulcrum upon which her entire day of winged bucking hinged.  And every time she looked at her—even in a passing blurred glance from branch level—the orange pony was always smiling, always supportive, always faithful... and strong.

Scootaloo started to understand why the Apple Family never crumbled immediately after the tragic loss of Apple Shine and Orange Blossom.  The freckle-faced farmfilly—the one outstanding middle child that could—was the very epitome of earth ponydom.  She lived in complete service to the world, and to those who lived on the face of Elektra's hoofcarving.  It no longer bothered Scootaloo that Applejack had been so viciously spiteful to her when she first landed upside down in one of the apple trees two days prior.  A self-righteous pony could easily be forgiven, so long as her heart had been hardened by pure sincerity rather than bitter pride.

When the hundreds of rows of orchards whittled down to dozens of rows of orchards, Applejack insisted that Scootaloo 'take a breather'.  The three divided the work as they proceeded to buck the trees in a more conventional style.  As an afternoon Sun began its melting slide towards the western horizon, Granny Smith wheeled something else out.  But instead of glasses of apple juice, the lime-coated elder provided a record player.  With a liberal cranking, the sounds of Stallionivarius warbled through the air, lathering a cushion of melodic softness on an already cooling day.  Scootaloo beamed, feeling her projected self become more energized—if that was even possible.  Applejack for once found herself humming to her grandmother's 'old-fashioned' tunes, using it as a cadence for every tree she shot her rear hooves into.  Macintosh shoved aside the large baskets being filled by the minute, smirking amusedly as a giggling Apple Bloom stood on his backside and attempted an awkward dance to the darting strings coming from the record.

The Sun drifted further West, and the five roaming ponies dwindled to three.  The blue sky turned into a copper haze, matching the dirt-flecked coat of the pegasus as she soared her way down one last row of trees, kicking them methodically and watching as the last of several apples fell.  By then, even her projection's 'invulnerable' lungs were panting.  The joys and jolts of the long hard working day had pulled at all the corners of her mind, so that everytime she closed her eyes she was seeing blurring orchards instead of blinding ash.  For what it was worth, she counted that as her greatest blessing yet.








“Nnngh!”  Scootaloo breathlessly rammed her rear hooves up into the millionth green apple tree.  Several familiar thuds kissed the air as the baskets beneath her were filled.  She took a long, meditative breath, and backtrotted to take a look at her work.  Her flank bumped into a large wooden object.  Without thinking, the pegasus instinctually spun and kicked the bark behind her.  A dull, hollow noise rang into the air, and Scootaloo blinked to see a dead husk of a tree wobbling torturously behind her.

“Watch it, copper-bottom!”  Applejack chirped as she and Macintosh were suddenly trotting up over a hill in the crimson sunset.  They balanced a large basket full of bright apples between them.  “No sense in yer kickin' Old Betsy like that!  She ain't done nothing to you!”

Scootaloo flashed cock-eyed glances between Applejack and the aptly titled tree.  “'Old Betsy'?  AJ, are you for real?”

“She's the oldest tree on the farm!”  Applejack motioned towards the precariously leaning black trunk.  “I reckon most outsiders think it should have been felled long ago.  And they might be a touch right about that—But Old Betsy's been around for a lot longer than the whole lot of us combined.  And it'd be a blasted shame to let something so ancient go collapsin' like it was a condemned building in the way of viewin' a lake, ya savvy?”

“Do all earth ponies hold value in old things?”  Scootaloo smirked.

“So long as they have character, darn tootin'!”  Applejack winked.  She nudged her brother, and the two of them coordinatedly lowered the large basket of red fruit.  “Say, Harmony, why don't you have a look-see beyond that hill over yonder?”

“What?  Do we finally get to buck the last of the orchards?”

“Did I or did I not tell ya to take a gander?”

Scootaloo gulped.  She pattered lightly up the hill and glanced over the huge expanse of Sweet Apple Acres stretching beyond the crest of the northernmost rise.  Her amber eyes twitched to see an entire field full of green leaves, brown bark... and not a single red flash of fruity skin to be had.  A hot breath filled her lungs, and she exhaled all her doubt into the scarlet bands of the bowing Sun.

“Well, I guess that means I can stop being a living pinball.”

“It means you can stop, period!  We all can stop!”  Applejack leaned against the basket of apples, smirking.  “We did it, Harmony.  Another crazy year, another crazy harvest, and another crazy last-second miracle.  I swear by all that is holy, I am not going to let next year's Apple Buck Season go to the dogs again!”

“Miss Applejack,” Scootaloo looked at her, smiling.  But after a few blinks, something cold and deathly pulled the edges of her lips down.  “I-I'm sure you won't have to... to w-worry about Apple Buck Season next year...”

“No reason to be lookin' all glum, girl!”  Applejack smirked.  “If you wanna show up for the next harvest—I seriously doubt that any of us would turn down your assistance.”  She cleared her throat.  “And that is by no means a proposal, ya hear?”

“R-Right...” Scootaloo gulped.  Chasing away the melancholy breath, she glanced at the baskets.  Her eyes narrowed.  “Say—What's going on with the fruit you've got there?”

Applejack and Macintosh exchanged amused glances.  “Oh, this?  We done finished the harvest in time for the delivery, didn't we?  We here Apple Family ponies have a tradition which we save the last basket of bucked apples for.”

“And that is—”  Scootaloo shrieked girlishly as two hooves-fulls of fruit were suddenly bulleted her way like a swarm of sweet tasting comets.

“Apple fight!”  Applejack laughed and giggled mischievously as she and her brother flung a cornacupia of apples, filling the air with a red blur that surged in Scootaloo's direction.  The pegasus gasped, shielding herself with copper wings while chuckling profusely.  With a daring glint in her eyes, the pony survivor pivoted her body and reverse kicked a few of the collapsed apples back, forcing Macintosh and the orange mare to duck low and hide behind the basket from the expertly aimed bucks.  After two long minutes of flung apples, the air sang with a fruity sweetness, corraled by the panting breaths of laughing ponies.

“Pfftt!”  Scootaloo raspberried through a face splashed with applebits.  “So much for the 'test of preservation'!”

“Oh, that hogwash?”  Applejack rolled through a lasting wave of red-faced chuckles and finally rose up from hiding behind the basket.  “Darlin', I only conjured that so-called 'preservation rule' just to see if I could rid my farm of one persistent bureaucrat—”  An apple slammed the orange mare directly in the face, splattering fruit mesh and seedlings all across her snout.

“HAH!”  Scootaloo shouted at the end of her throw.  “Who's 'chicken' now, sassafras?!?”

Macintosh laughed heartily at his messied sister and trotted away to catch his breath.  Shaking her face to fling off the top layer of apple bits, the farmfilly smirked sloppily at the pegasus and sighed in gentle defeat.

“Yes, yes.  I reckon you got me.  Ya happy now?”

“Heeheehee—Oh, Miss Applejack,” Scootaloo wandered over and extended a wing of bristled feathers.  “Here, allow me.”  She gently scraped the mush clean from the orange mare's freckled face.

“I done told you—Call me 'AJ',” the hatted pony replied, gazing at her companion with sudden clarity.  “Yer a blessin' from heaven above, y'know that, right?”

“Hmmmmm,” Scootaloo smirked lightly as she then brushed her wing clean on the grass.  “Depends on how you define 'heaven'.  I'm just doing my job—for the Court n'all.”

“Now who's shovelin' around hogwash??”

Scootaloo blinked awkwardly at Applejack.  “H-Huh?”

The farm pony was staring at the pegasus with gentle yet firm eyes, eyes that dragged Scootaloo's soul in like a haunting black hollow from a gray future.  “There's no more need in pretendin', sugarcube.  I know why yer really here.  I know why y'all have been stickin' to my stubborn hide like a frog to a lilly pad.”

“Uhm...” Scootaloo bit her lip nervously, feeling a rise in trembles.  “Y-You do?”

“Mmmhmmm,” Applejack gently nodded.  Her gaze was piercing, but a loving glint cascaded across her emerald pupils.  “This was never about doin' some investigation for the Princess, was it?  Nopony ever does as much as you have—with such inspirin' selflessness—out of duty.  Yer kind of generosity can only come from the heart, especially when there's so much more important things yer kind can be doin', I reckon.”

Scootaloo gulped and glanced towards the floor.  “You're r-right about one thing, AJ.  There... is so much more stuff I can be doing.  There's always a bigger picture—and it's not necessarily a bright one.  But when I-I came here, and I saw you and your brother about to crumble to bits over your stressed selves, and I envisioned this beautiful farm stumbling into one gigantic hole or another—be it with trolls or with a missed harvest date—I just couldn't let all of that awful stuff happen.  Even if I flew off somewhere far far away where there's nothing colorful or lively to match the warmth of this place, I know that I could never rip the gorgeous green land you've got here from my eyelids.  I was compelled, AJ.  But I don't think that's something that comes from the heart.”

“Sure it is, Sugarcube,” Applejack trotted over and nudged her face to look into hers.  She smiled sweetly.  “You're obviously a very brave pegasus.  I know it may not be my place, but I reckon you have seen none too many pretty things in yer life.  A lot of ponies pass by Sweet Apple Acres, and I'm quick to take a decent survey of them.  Some of them ponies—their coats are laced with happy memories, others with a lifetime of trials, and even others with a dark shade of ignorance.  You, darlin'?  I see a lot of sadness cloudin' you.  Ain't nothin' to be ashamed of.  We all take to our own kinds of moods—like blankets that you switch with the season.  I only hope that you take a deep look at the world around you and realize that maybe it's high time yer season changed as well, into somethin' brighter mayhaps?  Because yer heart is most certainly one of the brightest I've seen in years.”

“That's just it, AJ,” Scootaloo murmured, gulping a lump down her throat and gazing past her.  “Where I come from... the season never changes.  It's a lot easier to say that there are no seasons at all.  There's only... me.”

“You say that as if it's an empty prison, Harmony.  I only wish you would take a gander at yerself and realize that you have so much to be proud for... and happy, even,” Applejack grinned.  “Yer bright, yer resourceful, you don't take horse hockey from no-pony, and you can buck trees like there's no tomorrow.”  A chuckling breath, then a wink.  “Why, if I had all of yer qualities—even if the only season I had to look forward to was colored with the shades of myself—well, I reckon I'd feel right at home.”

Scootaloo sharply inhaled.  As her eyes cascaded over the horizon, she cursed herself a thousand times over.  She cursed herself because she had every impulse right then and there to tell Applejack that Equestria was ending and there was nothing anypony could do about it.  She cursed herself because with one simple breath, she could very easily explain that the only season left to the world would be one covered in endless ash and twilight.  She cursed herself... because suddenly all of those horrible things didn't scale in importance to what she was about to say.  She cursed Spike too, fought the tears, and smiled Applejack's way, saying, “Thank you.  From the bottom of my heart—For it's taken you to show me that it's still there.”

“My pleasure, sugarcube,” Applejack nodded with a smile.  She then read further into Scootaloo's moist eyes and added, “And I promise—on my family's honor—that I'll do what I can to get Princess Celestia's attention for you.  Perhaps Twilight Sparkle can make herself useful for more than just loudly chargin' at hydras.”

“Oh, Applejack, that is most appreciated--”  Scootaloo began, but her ears pricked at the sound of a happily giggling voice cresting up the southside of the hill.

“AJ!  Miss Harmony!”  Apple Bloom pattered up into view, her crimson sprout of hair matching the burning horizon as she trucked a saddlebag full of records and beamed.  “Look at what Granny Smith found in the attic!  It's a bunch of songs that Lady Rarity lent us months ago!  Somethin' about a cello player that Miss Harmony fancies!”

“Octavia???”  Scootaloo grinned wide.  “This day just keeps getting better and better already!”

“Apple Bloom, darlin', watch where yer trottin'—”  Applejack called out.

“Watch where I what-now?”  Apple Bloom balked too late, for her hoof had caught in an unearthed root of the ancient tree aptly named 'Old Betsy'.  The little foal fell flat on her chest with a grunt, and the tiny vibrations from her collapse was just enough to add insult to Harmony's bucking injury earlier.  With a groan of somber fate, the heavy gnarled tree wobbled, teetered, and fell directly on top of Apple Bloom.  “Aaahh—!”

“Apple Bloom!”  Applejack shouted, her eyes wide as emerald saucers.

Something scarlet billowed underneath Scootaloo's projected amber eyes.  Not even the coldest winds of the dying world could snuff out her snarling voice.  “NO.”  In a copper blur, she soared on bright wings and rocketed towards the falling tree.  Blades of grass and flakes of apple skin lifted into the air as she converged on the hapless foal.

A thunderous crash vapored outward from the scene.  Applejack flinched against the blast wave, blinking in horror to discern the outcome of the debacle.  As the dust and earthen bits settled, an equine form was lying on its side next to the tree.  After half-a-second of stirring... Apple Bloom rose up to her tiny legs, dizzily reeling.  “Nnnngh...  Wh-What happened?”

In a galloping roar, the older sister skidded over to the tiny filly's side.  “Darlin'!  Are you okay?  Oh thank goodness!  Let me hold you!”  Applejack squatted down and nuzzled the foal dear to her.  “Apple Bloom, sugarcube—Watch where yer canterin' next time!  I almost lost you, girl!”

“My saddlebag!”  Apple Bloom dazedly glanced at the fallen baggage that was still rolling down the hillside.  “All of Lady Rarity's records are probably shattered now!  I don't get it!  What happened?  Where's—”  The foal glanced aside, and her amber eyes exploded.  “—Miss Harmony!”

Applejack blurredly looked down.  She gasped.  The heavy weight of fallen Old Betsy had formed a veritable crater in the soft earth.  Where a brave pegasus had flown herself to shove Apple Bloom heroically out of the way... there was now only gnarled bark and mulch.

“Oh Dear Celestia alive!”  Applejack cried and shoved, shoved, shoved at the hulking body of the collapsed tree.  As her every muscle strained and heaved, the wooden monstrosity refused to budge.  “No no no no!”  She tilted her snout towards the rows of orchards and shouted:  “Macky!  Macky, for the love of Elektra, get yer flank over here and help me!”

The red stallion was already galloping towards them, spurred on by the desperate shouts of his distressed sister.  With wide eyes, he regarded the visiting pegasus' horrific fate.

“We can't waste any time!  We gotta get this off of her!  Grab some rope!  Hurry!”

Apple Bloom was a sobbing mess, the reality of the situation cascading from her eyes in silver tears.  “Oh sis—I'm so sorry!  I'm so, so very sorry!  This is all my fault—”

“None of that, y'hear?!?”  Applejack snarled, forcefully shoving against the trunk from all angles while Macintosh galloped towards the barn.  “You did nothin' wrong, Apple Bloom!  But t'ain't the issue right now!  Run yer hooves into town and fetch Nurse Red Heart!  Tell her it's an emergency, and while yer at it we could use all the extra ponies we can get!”

“R-Right away, sis!”  Apple Bloom scampered off on pale yellow hooves, panting breathlessly.

“Oh dear Epona, give me strength!”  Applejack hissed as she put her entire back into pushing the length of the gnarled tree.  It barely budged.  There was nothing but dead silence from beneath its gigantic weight.  She bit her lips in the strain until blood flowed.

Then Macintosh returned.  With mute coordination, the two siblings fixed the rope around the largest branch sticking out the top of the collapsed tree and harnessed it to the wooden yoke on Macintosh's back.  With a combined effort, they pulled and tugged and hoisted with all of their combined might.  Finally, under the bleeding red kiss of the sunset, they rolled Old Betsy over and kicked it down the hillside where it joined Octavia's records with a somber series of muffled thuds.  Macintosh tossed his yoke off before he could be dragged to a pitiful death and galloped back up the hill alongside Applejack.

Both ponies gasped—frozen in mid lurch.

There was nopony in the crater, not even the outline of one...

“Wh-What in tarnation...?”  Applejack breathlessly murmured.  She gulped as the first tear in years rolled down the strong pony's cheek.  “M-Miss Harmony...?  Macky, wh-where did she go...?”








A mane of short violet stubble wilted under purple manalight.  Muscles stirred liquidly under a brown coat as a pair of scarlet eyes fluttered moistly open.  Her snout resting on the stone floor, Scootaloo gazed shakily upwards, blinking.

Spike was lying on his mountain of gemstones, gazing calmly down at her.  A fuming breath, and his emerald eyeslits twinkled at the sight of her.  “Welcome back to the future, child.  The green flame has ended.”

The last pony gulped, shuddered:  “It's so cold...”

“I know, old friend,” he reached a scaled hand out and stroked the back of her shaved mane.  “I know.”

Her limbs achily shuffled against the stone floor of the cavernous laboratory.  She wobbled and struggled to sit up, her face wretching at the gray staleness around her.  “I was th-there for over two days.  We bucked apples.  I ate daffodil alfredo.  There were trolls.”

Spike raised an eyecrest curiously.  “Trolls?”

“G-Granny Smith—She loves Stallionivarius.  She tells a beautiful bedtime story.  And Apple Bloom—”  Scootaloo's scarlet eyes widened.  With a gasp, she jumped up onto all fours and nearly collapsed into a table.  “Apple Bloom!  She's... She's...”

“Calm down, Scootaloo—You've just been through your first lengthy trip.  Take a deep breath.”

Scootaloo conceded, but not on Spike's behalf.  She gazed shakily into the bright green effigy of the past that was dissipating before her once-violet eyes.  Her ears flickered and she said in a stronger tone, “She's alive.  I-I saved her.  Apple Bloom's alive.  And then the tree... This large tree fell on me, Spike.  But... I-I don't get it.”  She looked at her ordinary brown self with her ordinary hooves and the worn metal shoes nailed into them.  “I could do so many amazing things in my Entropan body.  I could kick trees off their roots.  I could fly loops around the orchards without breaking a sweat!”  She spun and gazed confusedly up at Spike.  “I-I thought I was invulnerable!  Why am I here?”

“Nopony is invulnerable, Scootaloo.  Especially one who is so bravely projected into the past by the mere sails of her soul essence.  With enough calamity and duress, your Entropan body will surely buckle—And the result is identical to leaving the range of your anchorage.  You're inevitably drawn back to the present.”

“Then that's what happened...” Scootaloo gulped.  “The tree slammed into me, and I was sent back here.”  She gritted her teeth, hissed, and jolted.  “Spike!  You gotta send me back!  I-I had about two or three days left to that green flame, didn't I?  There's still so much to do!  I only barely scratched the surface of accomplishing our task!  Applejack was only starting to suggest we get Twilight to contact Princess Celestia for me and—... Spike?”

The dragon was slowly shaking his head.  “No, Scootaloo.  I cannot send you back.  Not right now.  Not after I've concentrated so much of the green flame on Applejack—”

“—you've lost your magical cohesion, and you must bind me to another pony instead,” Scootaloo finished somberly for him.  She gazed forlornly into the floor and sighed.  “Will I ever be able to go back to Applejack again?”

“On another occasion?”  Spike nodded his scaled head.  “Absolutely—if it permits.”

“You mean if there's hope for me coming closer to finding an answer to the Cataclysm, which there isn't,” Scootaloo trotted lonesomely towards the rows upon rows of clockfaces.  “Not with Applejack, there isn't.”

“You are certain of that?”

“I did nothing, Spike!”  The last pony spun and frowned bitterly.  “I didn't see a single eclipse, didn't smell one burning cinder, didn't feel any tremors—I found nothing to point me in any direction that might paint a picture of what killed Celestia and Luna and all of the ponies in turn!  Two days of bucking apples, mooching off the Apple Family's bathtub and kitchen and I didn't learn diddly squat!  Don't you see?  I've wasted your green flame!  And for what?!  Nnngh... I swear... You should have just left me to the danged trolls in Ponyville's town square.”

“I see,” Spike nodded regally.  A slight cough, and the violet pendant around his neck spun as the dragon slowly marched on iron haunches around the pony.  “So, you mean to suggest that in all of that time spent in the past on Applejack's humble farm, you accomplished nothing whatsoever?”

“Well, I—!”  Scootaloo started, blinked, and then sank down onto folded hooves.  Her nostrils flared one last time as she gave up the fight, then softly murmured, “I saved them from suffering a tragic Apple Buck Season.  I discovered a way to help them get rid of ancient trolls that had been resurrected on their land.  I got Granny Smith to share her music, so that she began happily trotting around without her walker in a renewed spirit.  I... saved Apple Bloom from 'Old Betsy'.  I got licked by a dog.  Heh—I think I even got Big Macintosh to laugh a few times.”  The brown pegasus blushed slightly at the last recollection.

“That certainly doesn't seem like nothing,” Spike's scaled jaw curved.

“Spike, in less than three months—The whole Apple Family will be dead,” she suddenly spat.

“And those are three months that, thanks to you, they shall now experience alive—And if I may dare say so—They shall do it happily.”  Spike stood up on his lower legs and gestured his sharp arms wide.  “Death surrounds us for endless fathoms, Scootaloo.  That can never be changed about the Wasteland, even if you and I succeed in bringing the Sun and Moon back.  But in a time of life—in an era of peace that only you, the last pony, can visit—you have gone out of your element and maintained equilibrium.  I remember seeing Applejack in the last days of Equestria.  I remember how stressed she was, keeping to herself during an Apple Buck Season during which her friends rarely saw her.  But then I also remember—in the blink of a single weekend—her returning to Ponyville with a smile.  And now, thanks to you, Scootaloo, I know why that is the case.  I can't tell you how immensely happy it makes me to know that she and her family were capable of smiling—Up until the end of all smiles.”

“She...” Scootaloo stammered, her eyes growing concave.  “A-After I was done helping her with the apple bucking, Applejack told me she knew I wasn't working for the Royal Court of Canterlot.  She told me I did everything from the heart.”

Spike reached down and gently tilted the pegasus' chin up.  “When you're projected into the past, Scootaloo, you are merely an extension of your soul self.  All things considered, you are all heart.”

Scootaloo bit her lip.  She choked to say:  “That's hardly s-something invulnerable, Sp-Spike.”

“But it's something special,” he smiled back down at her.  “And I'm glad Applejack was capable of showing you that.”

“B-But I'm not going back into the past for myself,” Scootaloo murmured, then planted her hooves emphatically around Spike's clawed hand.  “Am I, Spike?”

He stood back up, nostrils fuming in emerald thought.  “You may have given Applejack and her family smiles, Scootaloo.  But we have the one thing in our quest for the Cataclysmic truth that none of our pony friends will ever receive more of—And that's time.  I suspect that soon, in your journeys, you will find the answers we both seek.  That is...if you are willing to continue your journeys?”

Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, gazing at the far end of the laboratory.  “Your green flame isn't the only thing that needs to maintain cohesion, Spike.”

“Perfectly understood.  I will only send you when you're ready, child,” he smiled with an emerald wink.

Scootaloo barely registered it.  She was sauntering over towards a lab table, atop which a very familiar skull rested.  The scarlet in her eyes grayed a little further as she navigated the hollow in the bony center—no longer afraid of the vacuum within.  “Spike, tell me something.”

“Anything, old friend,” he stood behind her.

She raised a hand towards the dusty skull, eyeing several scars where the three hundred year old dragon had flaked off necessary samples.  “Have you collected enough of Applejack's ashes for any future occasions of binding me to her?”

“Absolutely.  More than enough, as a matter of fact.  We no longer have any use for her brittle remains—I suspect.  Why, Scootaloo?  What are you thinking of?”

“A gift, Spike,” she smiled gently, brushing her hoof across where Applejack's soft freckles would have been.  “I'm thinking of a g-gift.”










Below the shadow of the moored Harmony, a barren plot of Sweet Apple Acres miraculously remained unswallowed by the Cataclysmic sinkhole that lingered just beyond the ash-laden trees.  A bent rusted arch flanked a plateau of gray soil that was bespeckled with white stones, stained by acid rain and soot over the past twenty-five years.  Towards the front of this arrangement of rocks, just beyond a glistening pair that marked the previous generation, the last pony finished piling the last bit of dirt atop four fresh graves, atop of which she had erected brilliant obelisks of moonrock—the type of stone that could never stain.

With a sagging breath, Scootaloo stabbed a self-crafted spade into the ground and slumped down to her curled legs; she was a sweaty and dirty mess, and she reveled in it.  She hoisted a hoof up and peeled a pair of amber goggles off her forehead, so that she stared naked down at the four mounds of earth covering the skeletal remains she had gracefully carried—one after another from the ruins of the storm cellar—into their respectful resting places.

A few flakes of ash fell to her fluttering ears.  She ignored them, engrossing herself in the reflective sheen of her scarlet eyes against the four moonrocks—like four equine spirits staring up at her from the earth.  A gentle smile, and then she shut her eyes and lowered her snout until she was a few centimeters away from kissing the ground.

She spoke into the shattered bosom of the world, “I know it has been forever since anypony returned to you.  But, I suppose it's better late than never—Because I've never met anyponies that deserved to be put to rest anymore than these four right here.  And though I don't expect you to give me anything, I hope that you give them peace.  For they have given so generously and lovingly to you, up until the end of time—All of them.”  She shuddered as she tilted her face up and gazed at the stones upon stones upon stones.  And though she almost forced herself to, she couldn't cry.  She was too intensely serene, too strong.  “And it is a good thing, a beautiful thing—This land.  Because now it is anything but empty.  A home forevermore.  Perfect h-harmony.”

Scootaloo's brown face forged a painful smile, reminding herself—like a ghostly pair of green eyes once did—that she had a heart to produce it with.  Shutting her lids, she raised her hoof to her lips, kissed it, and pressed it to Applejack's moonrock tombstone before getting up, flexing her wings, and returning to her airship.








Hours later, in the growling mists of the snowy Wasteland skies, Scootaloo sat calmly at her workbench along the Harmony's port side.  A flickering lantern illuminated a disc spinning on the record player, but it was not Octavia's name that twirled around the spindle, but rather a lone sample that Scootaloo was able to scrounge from the den room of the Apple Family's dilapidated farmhouse.  And like so many other miracles that graced the pegasus' soul in so many projected days, Stallionivarius still played perfectly.

Several metal instruments graced the cramped cabin's air, instruments which Scootaloo hadn't used since she was a little foal.  Before getting to work on her latest tinkering, she squinted through goggled eyes at the waves of ash billowing outside the cockpit windows.  The last pony was a shivering waif of a body, with a shaved mane and gangly brown limbs that resembled a pathetic insect rattling inside a rusted iron jar.  But as cramped and claustrophobic as the womb of the Harmony always was—it suddenly seemed different to her, a little less cold, and a little less... empty.

“Maybe I can't fix all of dead Equestria overnight,” she murmured to an orange farmfilly who wasn't there, and yet was.  She breathed gently to herself amidst the rocking of the cabin.  “But small things... I've always been able to tinker small things.  One at a time, I guess.”

That said, she delightfully returned her attention to a tiny banged-up scooter resting on the workbench before her.  She replaced parts, polished parts, and restored parts—anything and everything that was directly in front of her, all the while relishing in the warm moment.  She maybe even smiled.


> End of Ponies - Chapter 24.5 - Original Dredgemane Ending
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

I did not want to write the Dredgemane arc of End of Ponies.  As a matter of fact, I don't remember ever wanting to do so in the first place.  It was Pinkie Pie's story, and Pinkie Pie is worst pony.  She is.  She totally is.  Look at yourself in the mirror tonight, long after sunfall, when all of the shadows of your life fall lonesomely around you, and try and tell yourself--just try--that life lasts forever and Pinkie Pie is worth saying anything good about without suffering a nervous twitch to your brain muscles.

For those of you who are still subscribed to me after that, keep in mind that I enjoy a good challenge in writing crap.  And with Pinkie Pie being the crappiest cream of the crap, I knew I had to deliver in spite of myself.  So, I decided that I would write an arc that would do two things:

1.  Present a decidedly "un-Pinky" scenario

2.  Make the story analyze Harmony instead of Pinkie.

As part of that analysis, I thought of approaching all sorts of pretentious subject matter, such as Nietzschean ideas, existentialism, fatalism, and a whole bunch of other boring shiznet.  Since Pinkie wasn't a good character to spout out humanistic psuedo-philosophy, I felt the need to have Harmony be the source of the story's thematic thought processes.  To do that, I had her writing to the personification of death in her journal entries.  But, like all attempts at quasi-awesome fiction, I needed to mix and mingle a bunch more themes in order to add to the orgy sponge of literature.  One of those motifs was the idea of "falling," which was spouted a lot by the character of Brevis.  The simplistic message was that to embrace death in pure lucidity and come out affirmative, a philosopher had to be mad, and that madness could be represented through "falling."  I suppose you could say the piece of the lunatic moon shard carrying Ponymonium to earth was the first symbol of that... blah blah blah... but I knew--MONTHS in advance of even embarking upon the dreaded Pinkie Pie arc--I knew what I wanted to have as the blasted arc's last few lines.

And towards the end of that year, after I had gathered attention, pre-readers, and a modicum of fans.... nobody got it.

Nobody thought the ending was poignant.  If anything, they found it confusing, redundant, and unnecessary.  The one single reason I wrote 200,000+ words of Pinkie Pie annoying the utter crap out of the protagonist had fallen flat on its face.

Needless to say, I was less than enthused.  However, history had proven that listening to my editors had saved the integrity of the fic.  So, in good faith, I removed most of the "falling" motif references.  I then re-did the ending and forced a "bookends" structure with Scootaloo burying Fluttershy at the beginning of the arc and Fluttershy ripping off an Alan Moore joke before Pinkie Pie's grave to cap off the ending.

I've had many people tell me since that the Dredgemane arc is the sparkling diamond of awesome in the rough boredom that is the entirety of End of Ponies.  I wish I could share their appreciation for the arc, but the whole thing kind of leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.  I almost wish I could rewrite the ending back, but, y'know... marsupials are righteous for a reason.

The lemur bows.








The sunrise was indeed like a song, though Harmony was powerless to hear it.  She sat at the dining table of the Pie Family household, clutching her head in two pained hooves, fighting yet another cloud of green flame like a fountain of acid surging through her Entropan frame.  If she just stopped fighting, if she just gave in to the currents of reverse-time, she wouldn't be experiencing this agony.  Still, she clung tightly to that blistering moment, hugging cohesion with as much fervor as she wished to be embracing a tiny golden filly etched forever into her bleeding memory.

A bouncing of hooves awoke her to that wincing moment in time.  She opened her eyes to a veritable sea of Blinkaphine's bright and colorful landscapes.  A wall-eyed alligator was lying in the center of the table, curling into the crook of its stubby little tail.  A bright pink shade was coming to a stop in front of Harmony, lying a tray full of sweets onto the table.

“How would you like a cupcake, Har-Har?”  Her anchor produced a bright, white smile.  In just one blink, the time traveler could sum up the entire legacy of Pinkamena Diane Pie.  “You must have built quite an appetite overnight!  What, with all of that healing and speech-giving and tossing Alex into a burning pile of bits, but I totally forgive you for that last part!  I think I'll get the rams to help me build a new Alex!  Alex 2.0!  This time, he’ll be backwards-compatible to yellow flame, that way I can roast marshmallows over him while healing ponies in the field!  Heeheehee!”

“Miss Pie...”  Harmony glanced away from the cupcakes.  Her copper ears twitched to hear a distant roar.  The exultant night of Dredgemane had, as a matter of fact, never ended.  Even with the advent of the bright morning, the citizens could still be heard celebrating the burning horizon of tomorrow, regardless of whether or not they knew what it was.  They only knew what it wasn't.  “Miss Pie, why do you always live in the present?  Even now, you act as if... you act as if last night was just like any other night.”

“Heeheehee!  Isn't that the way it always is, Har-Har?”  Pinkie smiled and smiled in jubilant intoxication.  “Every day and every night is a blessed thing.  All I've ever wanted to do, all Brevis has ever wanted, all the Bivs or Inkie or Blinkie or Mommy or Daddy or Gummy have ever wanted to do is wake up to just how happy and super another day spent alive is.”

“Miss Pie...”  Harmony fought the flames away to produce a somber face before her anchor.  “You cried last night.”

“And I laughed and I giggled and I danced—”

“You...”  The last pony softly reached a hoof across the table of bright drawings and rested it on her companion's limb.  She gazed earnestly into her blue eyes.  “You cried, Miss Pie.  You cried like... like I've never seen anypony cry before, not even myself.”

Pinkie Pie stared calmly at Harmony's hoof on hers.  Something in the contact ushered a grave silence over her.  Deep beneath it all, her smile never ended, though it certainly had become a soft, satin thing.

“I...”  Harmony bit her lip, tongued the inside of her copper cheek, and said, “I-I'm not going to give you some really depressing speech or something.  I'm not saying that you should or shouldn't show sad emotions or what-crap.  But... I-I was wondering if you could tell me...”  She gulped and gazed painfully at the candy-colored filly.  “C-Could you tell me what it felt like?”

“Hmmm?”  Pinkie's blue eyes blinked curiously.

“Could you tell me what it felt like to cry?”

“Heeheehee...”  Pinkie Pie brought her other hoof up and patted the top of Harmony's limb.  “Silly filly, of course you would know what it feels like.”

“No.”  Harmony shook her head.  Her voice was a brief whimper in the blessed morning light that pierced the once-tomb of the Pie Family household.  “No, I don't.  I've done it so much for so long that I don't know what it feels like anymore.  You and Brevis are always preaching about what it means to fall.”  She shuddered.  “I'm still waiting for my turn, Miss Pie, to transcend by descending, to madly open up the precious pieces of myself and let the doves fly out.  It is something that I've yet to experience... and probably never will.  But you?  You have.  So please, tell me.  What was it like for you to cry?”  She smiled painfully.  “Because it must be just like laughing for me.”

Pinkie's blue eyes fell back to the furthest recesses of her sockets.  She gulped hard and murmured, “Well, Har-Har, I wish I could explain it.  What's the reverse of a hiccup?  What does it mean to sneeze with your eyes open?  What's the sound of one hoof clapping...?”  She paused after that last sentence, snorted, and broke into fresh giggles.  “Snkkkt-hahaha.”  She waved a pink hoof.  “I'm... I-I'm sorry.  I can't help myself.”

Harmony exhaled long and hard.  “No...”  She smiled gently.  “I suppose that you can't, Miss Pie.”

“Could I... Uhm...”  Pinkie Pie suddenly bit her lip and fidgeted where she stood in front of the table.  “Could I ask you something, Har-Har?  Though, I guess it really isn't a question.  It's... Well...”

“What is it?”  Harmony leaned back, enjoying a brief spell from the mind-bending emerald flames.  “I'm all ears.”

“Well...”  Pinkie gulped and gazed at her with glistening blue eyes.  Her voice was suddenly a placid pond in the middle of the Grave of Consus.  “Last night, when you were healing Suntrot...”  She winced slightly.  “Erm... when you almost lost her.”  Another fidgeting, but then she bravely leaned forward.  “You said something.  You talked to someone.”

Harmony stared back.  She was silent as stone.

“You said 'I friggin' hate you so much'.  It... it kind of came out of nowhere, Har-Har.  Even now, I can't get it out of my fluffy head...”

The last pony looked away.  Even if she wanted to clarify the previous night's outburst, she wasn't sure if her suddenly pounding heart would allow her.

“You know... Uhm... I-I used to hate him too.”

Harmony glanced up at that, her lips pursing.

Pinkie Pie looked off into the far corners of the house and smiled bitter-sweetly, as if she was consoling a little foal immediately after chastising him.  “But... But th-then I figured that he's... well, that's he's really lonely.  He always has been.  Lonely: that's all.”  She looked up at Harmony, and when she did her eyes were piercing sapphires.  “Death is the biggest invitation of all.  Every pony receives the telegram, and we all have no choice but to RSVP.”  She gently stroked the edges of the time traveler's hoof like a mother rubbing a bruise away.  “I... I don't really know what is waiting for each and everyone of us when it is our time to die, where it is that we go, or if we'll ever see the ones we love and make promises to again.”  She took a brave breath as she glanced lovingly at the space where Clyde used to sit.  In a bold move, she brushed her limb across it and wiped a swath of dust away forever.  “But wherever it is that death takes us, whenever he decides to do it...”  She tilted her head aside with the softest of smiles.  “...I intend to go there partying.”

The last pony stared back, exhaling sharply.  Scootaloo briefly wondered how she could make a eulogy for a funeral consisting entirely of dancing.

“Now...”  Pinkie smirked and slid the tray of frosted treats across the table to the copper pegasus.  “How about putting some sugar in you, Harmony?”  Her teeth glistened at the trail end of that address.  “It might not make you laugh, but I promise it'll keep you from frowning.”

Harmony's voice squeaked beneath a feather-soft grin.  “Yes, Pinkie Pie.  I would very much like to have one of your cupcakes.”







I write to you not just because you're all I've ever had for a friend all these years.  I write to you with faith—no—a hope, that you aren't nearly as cruel as I've envisioned you to be.  Somewhere beyond the veil of your obsidian girth are all of my loved ones of the past.  Though I've pierced the curtains of time to briefly visit them, it will be after piercing you that I finally join them.  Maybe then they will tell me what happened after the fall of Dredgemane.  Maybe then, in the warmth of all who've come and gone before me, my spirit will know of the legacy of smiles that filled the grave of that somber town where before there was nothing but shadow and darkness.








Days after Harmony vanished from Dredgemane, the naked and bright townsponies were wasting no time.  With buckets full of paint and mouths brimming with cheerful conversation, they scaled the glass panes behind the pulpit inside the Cathedral of Gultophine.  One plate at a time, they re-stained the wings of the Alicorn Sister of life, returning the rainbow to her majesty.

Far away, in the center of Town Square, Nurse Angel Cake smiled brightly and directed a gaggle of young foals as they climbed the wings of an alicorn statue and painted the granite lengths of it with no less an energetic ambition.  They splotched their tiny faces and limbs with errant brushstrokes—sometimes by accident, at other times on purpose, accompanied by mischievous giggles, as hour by hour they returned a kaleidoscope of joy and warmth to the lengths of the town.

The streets hustled and bustled not with cold clopping sounds, but instead with bright discussion, chortling gossip, and bright afternoon plans of levity and joy.  Teenagers scampered down tight alleyways, the former guards having converted anet gun into a ball launcher as they played an outlandish rendition of “keepaway” through the many serpentine trenches and hiding places of the town.

At streetsides and bricklaid corners, old bearded ponies communed with youthful equines as the elders taught the next generation how to play beautiful violin music—one string at a time—with an energetic tempo that chased away the melancholic ballads of yesteryear.

At the far reaches of town, where the cobblestone met the granite stretches of the plateau, random citizens knelt down low with chisels and proceeded with removing the bricks, piece by piece, along with the names etched on them.







One such brick was placed gently on the hearth of the Pie Family household.  The name that was on it read “Clyde Sesame Pie”.  Stepping back from lowering the scant memorial into place, Quarrington took a deep breath.  The brick had a perceivable mahogany richness to it that complemented the cornucopia of colors that filled the light-drenched lengths of that room.

Pearl Fleece Pie trotted up and nuzzled Quarrington.  With a painful but toasty smile, Quarrington stroked her in return.  After sharing a kiss, both parents stared lovingly at the name that had rejoined their home, basking in the warmth of the soul's memory and not in the bitter cold gap of its absence.






What Dredgemane gave me was more than just a glimpse at the stars, more than just a way to close the chapter on my memories of Pinkie Pie.  Dredgemane showed me what my existence means, for it brims with the essence of all of those ponies, including all of their imperfections, singing and screaming all their hopes and fears.  There was no way that the legacy of ponydom could have been solely encompassed by my fitful and subjective little hammock-swaying dreams of the past.  For several mesmerizing days, I trotted with them, frowned with them, smiled with them, suffered with them, and ultimately healed with them.  Dredgemane has given me so much, and I can only hope—after I'm gone, in both the past and the future—that I have given them back as much as I could, for I will not be able to give all of Equestria the same extent of my blessings, no matter how much I try.






Surrounded by a circle of deadpan rams in the center of a stone hut, Mister Irontail waved a complex blueprint.  Gesturing toward his own tools, he began describing a magnificent obelisk made out of arcanium and affixed with a glistening jar of orange flame.  He grinned long and hard, entreating the inner engineers within each and every one of them.

The rams shared glances as they shared a unified voice.  They murmured and ambivalently spun chanting circles of discourse upon the nature of Irontail's inquisition.

Shuffling up in an obese wobble, Marble Cake suddenly stood at Irontail's bushy-tailed side.  With a fluttering of her eyelashes, she not-so-shyly raised a gigantic white box full of bright pink taffy.

In one fluid motion, the rams immediately snatched a chuckling Irontail's blueprint and set themselves to work.







Deep in the mines of the Dredgemane quarry, a remarkable device had been embedded in the rocky flesh of a lantern-lit tunnel.  It was a black obelisk fashioned out of arcanium.  Two thunderpearls sparked at the top of its structure, and in the center was a grand fishbowl-shaped container of orange flame.  Several miners worked and labored steadily around the device, piercing the earth deeper and deeper for valuable resources.

Suddenly, the orange flame burned with a brighter strobe than normal.  This triggered the two thunderpearls which immediately sparked life into a pair of rattling bells.  At the sound of the shrill alarm, the ponies immediately stopped what they were doing.  Infernite was nearby.

Under the cries of a monitoring overseer, the workers filed off in an orderly fashion.  Every single one of them made it to the elevator long before the deadly dust even breached the walls of the abandoned shaft.






Above the quarry, there were no longer shuffling lines of lifeless, soot-stained workers.  Where solid trains of ponies once slaved under heavy loads of dredged rock like swarming ants, off-duty laborers chatted and waited for their turn to enter the mines.  The air above the wounded land coalesced into an atmosphere of levity, punctuated by random laughs and riveting stories while young teenagers hired by Marble Cake's bakery navigated the steep landscape, offering refreshments to the Dredgemaners in-between their breaks.

Atop the scaffold overlooking the continuous industry, several overseers—instead of just one—unanimously directed the current leg of mining operations.  As they flipped through the latest spreadsheets of profit earnings, their progress was dwarfed by the legacy of Sladeburn before them, but the casualties had reached an all-time low, in that there was nothing joyously lower than “zero”.






Several lanterns were lit brightly, filling the Council chamber with an illumination the likes of which the place had never witnessed in years.  A former guard and his little brother shuffled from lantern to lantern, brightening the place even further as a nodding Quarrington mouthed his approval.

Turning, bearing a grin, Pinkie's father sauntered over towards the table of fellow Council members.  Taking his seat, Quarrington proceeded to carry the topic of the meeting into the latest of the town's many necessities.  As the city’s representatives deliberated, they paused and swiveled to face the rest of the building's interior where a large audience of Dredgemaners from all walks of life had gathered.  The townsponies asked to share their input, as well as their smiles.






It is so daring, so brash, so fitfully frightening to be alive.  It means smiling in the face of oblivion.  It means galloping at full force when you know that a cliff is waiting for you at the end of of the next bend in the road.  It takes a mad euphoria—an insane whimsy to be so courageous when all of the darkness around us begs that we accept defeat.  To do anything but roll over is to be absurd, like chasing the rainbow, or performing the “running of the leaves” in July... in a town that has no living trees..






“On your mark, get set, go!”  Vedic Dawnhoof shouted, his horn telekinetically firing a confetti cannon at his side.

Under an explosive wave of squealing giggles, dozens upon dozens of brightly-coated foals stampeded down the longest trench in Dredgemane, skirting past Town Square, curving around to brush past Marble End.  On all sides of them, lining the curbs and street corners of town, happy parents and shouting teenagers cheered and whistled and urged the racing little children on.

“Remember!”  Dawnhoof chuckled and waved a hoof towards the stampeding herd of healed youth.  “It's only a race!  'Competition is the spice of life, so long as it remains a spice'.  So it is written in Gultophine's holy Chronicles!”

A low, squeaking noise rolled up to the young cleric-in-training's mark-less flank.  “G-Good Vedic...?”

Dawnhoof spun about.  He blinked his chestnut eyes and smiled while murmuring under the roar of cheering citizens.  “I wouldn't exactly call myself a 'good vedic', Mayor, sir.  But, like everyone, I intend to improve myself.”

Haymane smiled gently, gazing in a soft exhale towards the many bright and scampering youngsters filling the streets beyond.  “Such is the aim of progress... of true progress.  It's remarkable how easily one can forget what's important to him after every piece of his heart has convinced him that it's worth discarding like the ashes of yesterday.”  His nostrils flared.  “I am tired of living in yesterday...”

“Mayor Haymane...?”  Vedic Dawnhoof narrowed his eyes curiously.

“I was wondering...”  Haymane gulped hard and humbly murmured, “If you can help me learn to embrace tomorrow.”  He stared up with glistening eyes.  “If you could teach me something about... the joy of Gultophine's Spirit, dear Counselor...”  The elder's lips curved with something resembling hope.

The young unicorn smiled gently.  “I would be honored, sir, to learn about joy with you.”






Several hoots and whistles lit the air of the saloon as Pepper Plots emerged from behind the stage's velvet curtains, one saucy leg at a time.  When she finally came out onto the naked lengths of the platform, she was covered in a burlap recreation of a pale unicorn's priestly robes.  She wagged her eyebrows goofily.

The room broke into roaring laughter, then into a playful meteor shower of boos and hisses.  A mustached bartender briefly worked a piano at the edge of the establishment and rattled a series of high notes to punctuate the sight gag.

“Did you handsome boys really think that this was Ravishing Pepper Plot's new summer fashion choice?”  She bucked a gartered hoof backwards from under the burlap sack and winked.  “Puhhhh-lease!  I've been a Biv!  I know a thing or two about flair!”

She sashayed up to the edge of the stage in a dancing canter as the piano music accompanied her playful hoofsteps before the locked gazes of everypony in the crowd.

“An adorable hunk of a stallion who may or may not be called Nicky-Wicky once asked me if I was going to leave for the City of Equestrian Love.”  She giggled like a schoolfilly.  “You wanna know what I told him?  I said, 'Well, sugah, it may be sunny in Fillydelphia...'”

With one shrug of her shoulders, the burlap bag unfurled, and she struck a saucy pose in a flamboyant gown laced from top to bottom with all the colors of the spectrum, accentuating enough curves to send several inebriated patrons fainting to the floor with smiles plastered across their drunken faces.

In answer to many whistles and cat-calls, Pepper winked a painted eyelash as she stuck a hoof into her scarlet mane.  “'...but Dredgemane is the one happening town where the rainbow both begins and ends.'”





“That's right, young ones,” a strong voice echoed across the sun-kissed lengths of a concrete schoolyard.  Several dozen teenage Dredgemaners sat out in the open with pen and parchment as an orange unicorn paced in front of them.  Wearing three prismatic ribbons across the breast pocket of his black jacket—where an alcohol canteen had once rested—Vimbert shuffled to a stop and smirked sharply at them.  “Today, we're going to learn about the Siege of Whinniepeg, one of my most favorite topics of the Celestial Civil War.”

One filly raised her hand.

“Yes, you in the fancy see-through dress.”

Giggles lit the air.  The filly blushed, her naked coat just as gloriously exposed as all the other young ponies around her.  “Ahem, Mister Vimbert, sir—”

“That's Professor Vimbert, young lady,” he said, pointing a hoof.  His orange face brightened under a shattered horn as he smirked at her.  “Don't worry, when you yourself finally go through eight years of doctorate courses, you can try to be as pretentiously awesome and handsome as me.  I wish you luck with one of those more than the other.”

More chuckles.  The filly smiled and nodded.  “Very well, Professor Vimbert.  Ahem.  But could we talk a bit about what just happened here a few weeks ago?  I mean, Dredgemane is gonna make history too, right?”  Several more teens around her murmured and nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

“Mmm... But that's just the thing.  The Siege of Whinniepeg was very similar to what happened in this very town.  It was a night that tried the souls of ponies—both those swearing allegiance to Luna as well as those fighting for Celestia.  Nopony was the same the day after the siege as they were the night before.  It's amazing how swiftly a single event can transform an entire city—if not an entire nation, practically overnight.”

“B-But didn't most if not all the Lunar Republicans die during the Siege of Whinniepeg?” a teenage colt exclaimed out of turn.

“Yeesh, am I or am I not the teacher here?!”  Vimbert shrugged.  Under a cadence of chuckles, he paced, pointed, and spoke, “And it's 'Lunar Imperialists' from here on out, got it?  Ahem.  Yes, most of the defenders of Whinniepeg perished.  But tell me, oh young and infinitely invincible youths... what pony soul doesn't perish in the end?”  He paused and smiled warmly.  “Who among them is lucky enough to be present, if even for a burning second, at an infinitesimally righteous and soul-cleansing moment in time, the likes of which history may reenact but can never exactly reproduce the beauty of?  Written records exist to remind us of the glories of the past, but they also exist to remind us that...”  A happy breath escaped the former janitor's lips.  “...That even more glorious nights are to come and surprise us, like the Fall of Dredgemane, a song fit for the ages.”

The teenagers murmured and smiled excitedly amongst one another.  They leaned forward with sudden anticipation of the lecture about to transpire.

“Yes... The Siege of Whinniepeg...”  Vimbert leaned back and folded his forelimbs.  “It all started with the execution of Starswirl the Bearded, Sorceror of Equestrian Legend, who spouted the famous words...”  He stared off into the colorful lengths of Dredgemane, like the prismatic refraction of tomorrow's horizon, and it was a beautiful thing.  “'So it is the world began, and so it is the world shall end.'”






“Why?!  Goodly Brevis will tell you why!”

The naked blue mule limped and half-danced his way across a cobblestone expanse at the edge of town.  This time, Brevis' rambling words weren't falling on deaf ears.  A thick crowd of citizens had gathered before him—even in the middle of their wagon-pulling business—to grace him with curiosity and wonder.

He reveled in the faces of the living and breathing audience.

“She would not let it end!  She smiled and smiled on forever!  It was what she only ever tried to do!  It was what she was born to do!”

He jumped with his one good leg, grabbed a lamppost, spun around the length of it, and hung an upside-down grin full of yellow teeth and silver fillings.

“And soon Dredgemane would be born again under the cadence of her giggles, rowing oars of blind and daring faith across the churning rapids of a frothy, frightening tomorrow!  It was hope that brought us to such chaotic tributaries, hope that we too might transcend as she had!  For she found the rainbow when it was but a speck in a power hungry miscreant's frown!  She gave birth to the Royal Grand Biv when the militia planted armor on so many children like funeral veils!  She was a mother to all smiles, a harbinger of all happiness, and I am not even fit to wear her horseshoes!  Why?!  The truth is simple, my good Equestrians!”

He dismounted from the lamppost, backflipped, and landed with a slide before tossing a mad grin over his smelly shoulder.

“She saw the bright shinies!”





I was not the messiah of Dredgemane.  Far from it.  I was an observer, a chronicler.  It is not Gultophine's scripture that I write, but the record of a pony who's too busy bouncing, too busy laughing, too busy enjoying life to slow it down by putting hoof to pen.  I might be able to bring the Sun and Moon back to the Wasteland.  I will never be lucky enough to bring back Pinkie Pie, like she had brought herself back to Dredgemane so many times on her lonesome, like she had raptured them all faithfully with the mere curve of her lips, rendering them numb and impressionable before an eternity of bright opportunity... and sugar...




It was halfway through biting into a cupcake when a shadow stretched over Harmony.  She and her anchor glanced up from the dining room table of the farmhouse.

Quarrington and Pearl Pie stood side by side, bathed in the light of morning.  Their voices were laced with humble breaths as they spoke to the Canterlotlian in Entropan skin.

“Miss Harmony, you have... you have been a dear blessing to this household, in ways that we can't even pretend to describe.”

“We hardly know where you come from, or what brought you here to begin with.  After all that's happened in Dredgemane, there's just as much confusion as there is joy.”

“All we know, Miss Harmony, is that we owe you... This entire family owes you so much, and we forever offer our grace and love to you, if it can somehow properly thank you for entering our lives...”

The time traveler took a deep breath.  She fought a frothing wave of green flame to give the two parents the smile they deserved.  “I don't think I can explain myself any more than you can guess...”  She winced at her own words, shrugged, and murmured on, “But I'm glad that I somehow did something that helped you smile...”  She glanced at her anchor.  “Though I think you would have had no problem finding that smile on your own.”

“Miss Harmony, I mean this with supreme conviction.”  Quarrington shuffled over and rested a hoof on her copper shoulder.  “I am dearly sorry for the words I said to you in my anger and blindness.  If there is something—anything I can do, as a favor to you or the Court of Canterlot—I wish to do whatever it takes.”

“That's quite nice of you, Mister Pie.  But I wouldn't worry about it.  Seriously—”

A pink hoof suddenly kicked Harmony viciously from under the table.

“Ow.”  The avatar of Princess Entropa hissed through clenched teeth.  “What the frig?”  She frowned across the table.

Pinkie Pie hissed, made a face, and charaded a “telescope” with two hooves stretched above one squinting eye.

Harmony blinked.  Her amber eyes fell to a series of crayon-dotted constellations lying on a pile of sheets in the corner of the table.  A smile slowly crept across her features.  “Ahem... Come to think of it...”  She glanced up at the two adults.  “There is a favor you can do for me.  But... be warned, it's a tad bit kaizo.”

“'Kaizo?'”






Harmony fluttered in mid-air.  Squinting through one eye, she held a “frame” before her vision with a pair of perpendicular hooves.  “Hmmm... Alright!”  She grinned wickedly and lowered herself to the rocky earth.  “I think that's about perfect.”

“Do you think we've gone too far?”  Zecora asked, lowering a pair of dusty chisels in her grasp.  “Or does it deserve at least one more star?”

“It's the night's sky, Miss Zecora.”  Harmony smirked in response.  “Let the heavens decide what needs or doesn't need to be added.”

She stood before a wide stretch of mountainous stone that rose above the northwestern reaches of the Pie Family's rock fields.  With the utilization of a plethora of metal tools and several wooden lattices, Zecora, Pinkie, Inkessa, Blinkaphine, and Quarrington finished chiseling a basic layer of constellation designs across the smooth rock face, using the pegasus' many crayon star charts as one grand blueprint.

“Whew...” Inkessa brushed the dust out of her mane as she stood back from the sculpted masterpiece.  “Now I know why I really chose a nursing career.  I'm not built with traditional Dredgemane mining blood.”

“Where will you go now that Stonehaven is being mothballed?”

“It isn't being mothballed.”  Inkessa slyly smirked.  “This town is always going to need a hospital.  Besides, Nurse Angel Cake is still going to need my assistance with helping the foals you healed find new homes—the orphans, at least.”

“I'm already writing a letter to Rarity back home in Ponyville!  Heehee!”  Pinkie Pie bounced cheerfully before the fresh granite mural of cosmic proportion.  “She's good at all of that awesome foster home stuff!”

“Y-Yeah...”  Harmony briefly shuddered.  “'Awesome...'”

“I too intend to stay as long as I'm needed to assist in blooming what Harmony has seeded,” Zecora murmured with a bright smile.  “Never before in my life has the laughter of foals endeared me to so many precious souls.  Inkessa, with your permission, I wish to help Angel Cake's plan reach fruition.”

“We would love to have your wisdom and tenacity at our side, Miss Zecora.”  Inkessa smiled.  “Hocus pocus or not.”

The zebra chuckled, eliciting a giggle from the other fillies surrounding the site.  Quarrington suddenly cleared his throat and motioned with a nervous hoof.  “Uhm... About the big rock...”

“Yes!  The question of the Fourth Age!”  Harmony spun and gestured at the grand array of dots, swirls, and cosmic bands etched with shallow ease before the wall.  “'What to do with the big dumb rock.'  Well, the fact of the matter is, it needs a finishing touch... Or in this case, Gultophine's blessing.”  Clearing her throat, the copper pegasus turned about.  “Dear Vedic...?”

Dawnhoof sauntered into the group.  “I was beginning to wonder when I would be needed.”  He aimed his horn at the illustrations across the great wall.  “You simply need me to make it all deeper?”

“Yes, handsome,” Pinkie Pie whispered hoarsely as she leaned in.  “Har-Har wants you to go deeper—”  A copper hoof slapped across the back of her mane.  “Owie!  Heeheehee!  Watch where you swing that hydra hammer of yours!”

“The sooner the better, Vedic,” the scavenger from the future muttered through a brief migraine of green flame.

“Stole the words right out of my mouth, Miss Harmony.”  Dawnhoof tensed his features, concentrated, and channeled a stream of energy straight out his horn.  A bright glow filled the many swirling lines and dots of the wall as the unicorn's metallurgical talent bore the shallow lines deeper, etching a permanent star map into the bosom of the granite plateau, forever blemishing the Grave of Consus.

Quarrington whistled at the end of the shimmering job.  “Well, I find it highly perplexing, but rather striking in its own right.”  He smirked towards the young ponies around him.  “It'll give us something interesting to look at as we harvest the west fields, at least.  Somehow, I doubt that this is the last work of fancy art to dot the walls of Dredgemane these days.”

“Do forgive me if I-I forsake such creative endeavors for a day of scriptural study,” a sweating, exhausted unicorn managed to say.  He took a deep breath and spoke with a weathered smile.  “If only writing a sermon was as strenuous as carving into a mountain, I might never run out of exercise.”

“I guess in your case, dear Vedic...”  Harmony winked.  “...It's the thought that counts.”

“I think it looks very pretty,” a voice said, aimed at the cosmic mural.

“Why, thank you very much, Blinkaphine,” Harmony said.  “Though, I was focusing more on scientific accuracy than aesthetic quality—” She went Ditzy-eyed in mid-sentence.  She flashed a look over her shoulder.

The quiet filly with a white-white mane was walking away with Inkessa and Zecora in tow.  Quarrington smirked, shrugged, and trotted after them.

“Hmmm...”  Harmony exhaled through gently flaring nostrils.  “Naturally a pony with a rocket on her butt would appreciate stars.”

“That's something I'm going to have to get used to...”

Harmony glanced over at the young unicorn.  “What's that?”

The Vedic blushed slightly and smirked.  “As long as I've been in the order, it's been under the stern gaze of Breathstar.  Living in a town that no longer enforces a dress code is going to be a brave new world, not to mention a slightly embarassing one.”  He fidgeted slightly, but bravely uttered, “All this time, I've relied on the Spirit of Gultophine to make intuitive judgments about ponies' souls.  Now, with everypony's cutie mark exposed... I stand to be distracted.  Erm... Wh-What I m-mean to say is, it's so very easy to hold weight in what is or what is not emblazoned across the coats that Gultophine gave us.  I never wanted to be clouded by such superficiality.”

“Trust me, I know a thing or two about obsessing over cutie marks, and you couldn't be any further from the truth.”  She paused, glanced at him for a brief span of seconds, then softly smiled.  “If I may be so bold, dear Vedic, I think you have the most spectacular cutie mark in all of Dredgemane.”

“I do?”  He gave her a crooked glance.  He looked briefly at the seared skin of his flank and smirked pathetically back towards her.  “Miss Harmony, is Pinkamena aware of your blatant sarcasm?”

“No sarcasm at all!”  Harmony grinned gently.  “What it means to me is that you've lived through flames—self-imposed or not—and you made your destiny for yourself.  You are talented beyond compare, Vedic Dawnhoof, because it is a talent that you discovered for yourself, all the while pursuing boundless altruism.  That's an inspiration that... that I will certainly take with me wherever I happen to go...”

Dawnhoof smiled.  He gulped and glanced nervously aside as a part of him came out through his lips in an off-key murmur.  “I am... enraptured that you would want to hold a piece of my spirit dear to you, M-Miss Harmony.”

The copper pegasus sighed dreamily.  Just then, her wings shot up.  With an exasperated groan, she rolled her eyes.  “Dang it, Miss Pie!”  She spun around, snarling.  “How many times have I told you to stop—?!”  She froze, blinking.

Pinkie Pie was twenty meters away, chatting with Zecora and Inkessa.  She saw Harmony from afar and waved excitedly before pumping a victorious hoof through the air.

Harmony very hideously, very deeply blushed before the priest-in-training.  “Uhmmm...”  She gnawed on her lip and slowly, stiffly coiled her wings back by her side.  “Eh heh... I don't suppose you're ordained enough to hear confessionals, huh?”

“In a decade or so...”  Dawnhoof very sweetly smiled and nodded.  “I'll be here, where Gultophine’s Spirit needs me.”

“Yeah... Well... I only know so much about Gultophine's Spirit.”  Harmony kicked limply at the earth, bathing it with the ashes of her mind.  “I will... I-I will have you in my thoughts, good Vedic,” she murmured in a sullen, cold tone.  “Where I will be going.”

“As you will be in mine.”  He reached over and patted her copper shoulder, leading her away from the mural and towards the Pie family house.  “Would you like to join me for a snack and philosophical discussion?  Pinkamena spoke something of sampling her 'Supernova Sarsaparilla'.”

“Awww Celestia dang it.”

“Miss Harmony...”

“Ahem.  Hail Gultophine.”






I am more than the end of ponies.  I am more than that which can be determined by beginning and endings, or even by you.  I am an amazing, miraculous, and tragically precious phenomenon, like so many other phenomena that pranced across the world on wings and hooves before me.  The Cataclysm may have taken lives, but it couldn't touch Life itself.  Even if all the written and spoken history of ponydom perishes along with me, the Wastelands cannot undo the fact that there ever once was a ponydom, that there ever once was a reason to smile and bask in the warmth of existence, that there was ever once a need to do something as delightfully mad as this experiment that I began.

And it is an experiment that I shall end, if not by Gultophine's Grace, than by my own.  The most of what I can afford is the best that I can afford, because I am more than the last pony.

I am alive.

-End of entry.






“For what it's worth...”

Pinkie Pie flung a paper airplane and glanced aside.  “What was that, Har-Har?”

The pegasus sighed, battling the worst of green flaming headaches yet as she sat on the wooden patio of the Pie Family house, looking out over the dead granite plateau.

“I just can't stop thinking...”

“Pfft... Flippin' duh!  Heeheehee!”

“Seriously... Everything I've done... Everything we've done...”  Harmony winced, gulped, and murmured.  “Even after we healed all of those foals, what is the point?  They will only die another day.  It might come weeks from now.  It might come...”  The time traveler lisped halfway through the sentence, winced, and daringly uttered, “It might come weeks from now.  Every pony must someday die.  What does it matter if their life is extended by minutes, months, or millennia?”

“Hmmm...”  Pinkie Pie reached a hoof over and petted the green scales of a belly-rolling alligator beside her before folding another paper airplane.  “Life is a party, and a very short one at that.  If we don't enjoy it for what it's worth, Har-Har, then the joke is on us!”  She flung the white craft up into the air and followed it with a bright grin.  “ I only ever wanted to laugh with life, not at it.  Heeheehee...”

The time traveler blinked.  “It's that simple, huh?”

“Hmmm... Who ever said anything about 'simple'?”

Harmony stared into the horizon of nothingness.  Slowly, she stood up.  With her bright anchor watching, the copper pegasus walked away from the house in the center of the field of rocks.  Her eyes flickered the brightest emerald yet as she spread her wings, took a few bounding trots, and broke into a sharp flight, climbing high into the misty air over the Grave of Consus.

Pinkamena Diane Pie sat alone on the threshhold of her home, watching the departure of her close friend.  As she stared, a gasp flew through her candy-colored frame.  She glanced down to witness that her tail was twitching, twitching like it had never twitched before.  She blinked at the sight, then a slow and warm smile crossed her lips as she gazed up once more at the distant copper speck.

“Way to go, Har-Har.  Thatta girl.”



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Harmony flew and flew, ascending through the cloudy Equestrian past, using a brave and immutable frown as her piercing bow.  The sparkling green flame in her amber eyes spread across her face in emerald tears, until her vision fused with a sparkling cone of reverse-time forming around the tip of her arrowhead body.  She gritted her teeth and flew harder into the timestream, fighting against the laws of Princess Entropa.

When she broke through, it was with a chronotonic boom of strobing fury.  The burning green flames shot across the lengths of Twilight Sparkle's basement, startling a giant purple dragon so that he nearly dropped the Lunar book in his scaled grasp.

“Good grief!  Scootaloo, you're finally back, child!  How did it go—?”

The last pony ignored him.  She didn't even decelerate for an instant.  In a brilliant brown blur, she soared straight up the length of the cavernous laboratory and veritably smashed through the door leading to the hollow treehouse above.

“Scootaloo?!”  Spike stammered.  The violet pendant around his neck shimmered from the pegasus’ green smoke trail as he stumbled across the laboratory and gazed after her.  “Where are you going?!”  The aged dragon blinked his slitted eyes, then produced a proud, iron-wrought smile as a deep, fuming chuckle thundered through his bass throat.  “Heheheh... so random.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Scootaloo flew.  She flew up and out the body of the late Twilight Sparkle's library.  She flew high above the branches and the balconies of the structure.  She flew high above the rooftops and spires and crumbling buildingtops of Ponyville's ruins.

Brown wings flapping in earnest, the last pony flew up through the falling snow of the Wasteland.  She pierced the cold mist and the lifeless ash of the deathly gray sky, her scarlet eyes tearing from the frigidly mad climb.  She flew and flew until her frail body broke through the clouds, penetrating the heights of the dead planet-sphere faster than any conventional zeppelin or battlecruiser or hovercraft ever could.

She soared and she soared and she challenged gravity, angrily and fitfully, until she broke free of the roof of the world.  There, in the coldest of cold reaches, bathed in dismal dead twilight, Scootaloo hovered, the lone skeletal pegasus of the Fourth Age.  She stared out into an endless world devoid of life, where a froth of stone-gray overcast danced limply beneath a reflective haze of veiled stars.  All was nothing but nothing, an infinite expanse of obscurity, mayhem, and abysmal chaos, and yet Scootaloo was a single burning speck floating amidst the frozen cauldron of this unholy universe.  She was tinkled pink to realize that it all revolved around her, and yet it didn't.

“Heh.”  It came out of her at first like a sneeze, but the repetition was venomously deliberate.  “Heh heh... Heheheheheh...”  Scootaloo's laughter was as endless as her smile, a vaporous and mad exhalation.  “It's all so friggin' hilarious.”  And her eyes rolled back as her body rolled back.

And she fell.




> A Lyra In Equestria Story
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here's something interesting.  This is a story concept that I think would still be cool to do someday, but if I ever tackle it at this point, it'd have to be way shorter and lose a lot of unnecessarily convoluted elements that I have written in here.

The idea of this fanfic should be obvious from the title itself.  That's how I was hoping the story would sell.  Also, this was manufactured back in spring of 2012, when I was having a full-on obsession with Lyra.  But more on that later.

Here, we see some scant elements that make it into Background Pony, but then things take on an insanely different turn.  The personality behind Lyra here is almost insulting, but in my head I was speculating that she was... the embodiment of a 45+ year old hippy female who was into classic rock and psychodelic experimentation.  Er... yeah.

This is an example of a nifty concept with a screwed up execution.  Going into it, I realized I sugar-coated some of the diction with prevailing themes of Twilestia, perhaps in hopes that it would sway Vimbert's editorial opinions in my favor.

It did not work, and praise Nietzshe for that.






A Lyra in Equestria Story
by short skirts and explosions



Dear Princess Celestia,

I just recently finished reading your Treatise on the Dangers of Telekinetic Mine Sweeping, and I must say that I was thoroughly thrilled.  It's invigorating to know that Equestrian Civilization has come so far from the warmongering species of seriously ticked-off horses that we used to be, and it saddens me that there are still parts of the world with more bomb fragments in the backyard than silver spoons in foals' mouths.  I shall make it my goal to study further into this subject, in the event that I might lose a leg and need to marry a popular music star in order to raise funds for anti-landmine charities.

However, I would like to take this moment to bring up a rather bizarre observation of mine.  I believe there may have been some cross-dimensional interference the last time you used the transportation spell to send your letters to my dragon assistant, Spike.  Don't be too concerned, Princess;  the letters arrived in one piece.  Still, upon closer examination they had a strange smell to them.  I'm wondering if perhaps the parchments accidentally crossed over into a gaseous, parallel universe full of random, pungent dust particles.  If so, it would explain why my nose tickled upon opening your most personal letters to me.  I mean, why else would mail from Princess Celestia of Equestria smell like they had been perfumed—








Twilight Sparkle stopped in the middle of writing.  Her rosy cheeks matched the purple haze of magic that was encompassing the floating quill and parchment in front of her.  She had paused her penwork upon hearing the awkward sound of a pony's voice singing in the distance.  Twilight glanced up—confused and blinking—from where she squatted on the edge of a bench along the outskirts of Ponyville in the glistening afternoon.  She wasn't alone; Rarity sat on a pillow in a nearby patch of grass, sketching here newest dress design across a sheet of white canvas.

“My my, what is that grating cauterwauling?” the fashionista exclaimed, battling a crooked grimace.

“Uhm...”  Twilight Sparkle blinked.  She glanced down at her latest letter to Celestia, at the word “Princess” that had tumorously acquired a heart symbol over the letter “i”.  She let loose an errant cough, telekinetically crumbled the sheet of paper, and tossed it into a nearby garbage can.  “I don't know.  Who besides Fluttershy sings at this time of the day?”

“And out in the open, no less?”  Rarity's eyes were thin, jaded sapphires, or some other optical metaphor of crystalline nature.  “I swear, everypony in town wants to be a diva these days.”

“Shhh... Whoever it is, I think she's coming around the bend.”

Both unicorns craned their necks and waited for the mysterious singer to appear, a singular act that alone was a testament to how confoundedly bored the two of them were.  They were awarded with a neon green hoodie and a gray pair of pants and were both mutually disgusted to realize that a living, breathing pony was squeezed into them.  It was a turquoise pony, a unicorn at that, with a shiny horn and an even shinier smile that followed her humming figure as she sauntered down the hill, tossing her hood back to reveal a mane of glossy gray threads.

“Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far.  Shine on you crazy diamond,” she sang, or pretended to sing.  “Pile on many more layers and I'll be joining you there—Oh!  Hiya!”  A pair of golden eyes glimmered brightly.  Grinding her hooves to a stop, the unicorn raised her front limbs and stretched her spine perpendicular to the earth.  “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is—aw crap!”  Her exclamation came to the same bitter end that her skull did, slamming full force into the dirt road behind her.  The unicorn briefly flailed in the dust after falling from the bizarre posture she had attempted to assume.

Twilight Sparkle and Rarity stared in mutual silence, still as stone.  They could very well have been posing for a double-portrait.

“Just a minute,” the unicorn grunted while struggling to get a hoof-hold of the situation.  “Gosh darn this quantum jet lag!  If I had a dollar for every time I fell over myself, I'd be Sabu from ECW—Ah!  There we go.”  She stood back up on all fours, her grin as immaculate and shiny as before the pull of gravity took her.  “I apologize.  Getting here took a lot more out of me than I thought it would.”

“Uhm, it's okay,” Twilight Sparkle said with a nervous smile.

Rarity squinted. “Darling, are you feeling alright?”

“Alright?!  This is Ponyville!  Home to the Elements of Harmony!  Land of magical, prancing equine and other assorted subjects of exploitable macros!  How could I be anything but ecstatic?!”  The unicorn's smile was briefly interrupted by a frustrated glance thrown at her hooves as she backtrotted towards a lamppost.  “Let me just get my bearings here.  I swear, I'm dizzier than a Bangkok reporter at the hands of Bjork.”

“Bang... Cock...?”  Twilight's violet eyes briefly crossed.

“Uhm...”  Rarity folded her sketch and held it protectively away from this sudden, perplexing creature.  “I do believe you are spouting a whole lot of nothing, dear.”

“Shhh!  Hold on.  I gotta do this right.  Heeheehee—Ahem.”  The unicorn backed completely into the lamppost, stood up on her hind legs, and braced her spine against the thing so that she could stretch her forward body into a ghastly, vertical position.  Once her head was so forcibly elevated, the stranger adjusted the hem of her sweaterjacket, cleared her voice, and spoke with such booming presence that it forced the heads of many distant, picnicking ponies to turn and blink her way.  “Greetings, my little ponies!”  She paused briefly to let loose another excited giggle, then jubilantly continued, “Do not be alarmed by my appearance!  Though I may be tall and somewhat ugly by your standards, I assure you that I mean you pretty horsies no harm!  I come from a faraway land on the other side of the rainbow!  I bring you tidings of joy, good cheer and self-indulgent monologues.  Heeheehee... oh god, I'm so excited right now!”

Several ponies quietly clustered around Twilight and Rarity, staring in numb unison at the rambling equine against the lamppost.  Slowly, Twilight Sparkle stepped down from the bench and bravely walked forward with an even braver smile.  “Well, uhm, that's most certainly interesting.  I'm not quite sure if I understand it all, but I appreciate a friendly pony when I see one.  Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is—”

“Twilight Sparkle!” the unicorn grinned wide.  “And what a pretty, lavender unicorn you are!  Especially in this sunlight!  Heehee heee!”  She paused to lean forward and add in a hoarse whisper, “I really like your mane.  It's like a Pepto Bismol angel vomited across a sea of violet silk.”  She stretched a turquoise hoof up at a forty-five degree angle.  “There!  Gimme five, Sparkles!”

“Uhm?  Five what?” the mare remarked with a crooked blink, followed up by a double-take.  “And how do you know my name?”

“Pffft!  Like, who doesn't know Twilight Sparkle, Element of Magic, most faithful student to Princess Celestia, demon daughter of Trigon's seed—whoops, okay, that last one was a stretch.  Ahem.”  She smiled and emphatically wriggled her outstretched hoof.  “Don't leave me hanging, girl!”

Twilight Sparkle bit her lip and glanced Rarity's way, shrugging.

Rarirty returned the gesture.  “I think somepony is lost in more ways than one.”

“Says you, Rarity!” the unicorn in the center of the gathering crowd of ponies exclaimed with a smile.  “You know, I wish that everytime a truck full of blueberry Pop-Tarts slammed into a marshmallow factory, we got a hundred more of you, because the world could always stand to become that much more fabulous—oh fudge!”  She shrieked as she lost her balance against the lamppost and fell back onto the ground once again.  “It's okay!  I'm protected!  All State and all that crap!”

Twilight nevertheless reached over and helped the unicorn up.  “You know, you're just making it harder on yourself.”  Overhead, a curiously blinking Rainbow Dash had hovered down, staring at the scene.  “It'd be a lot easier if you just stood on the four hooves that nature gave you.”

“Pfft, yeah right,” the unicorn grunted while rolling her golden eyes.  An unbreakable smirk once again donned her face as she brushed off her green jacket and gray pants.  “I'm only doing this because of the disorientation.”

“Disorientation?”  Twilight raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, on account of the teleportation spell and all.  It's thrown me off balance.  So long as I don't move around too much while I'm like this,” she uttered while waving her front hooves around at eye-level, “Then I shouldn't worry about getting blisters on my fingers.”

“Uhhhh...” Rainbow Dash murmured while Rarity and the other ponies exchanged stupified glances.  “What are 'fingers?'”

“I...”  Twilight thought aloud, “I-I think they're the names of the five digits located at the end of a small primate's limb.”

“Oh.”  Rainbow Dash hovered, blinking.  “What's a 'primate?'”

“What is anything anymore?”  Rarity exclaimed, the edge of her voice carrying a hissing tone.  “I'm quite  vexed with confusion right now.”

“What is there to be confused about?!”  The unicorn grinned and wrapped a forelimb around a skittish Twilight's neck as she leaned in and winked.  “Just because I'm human doesn't mean we can't pursue friendship and harmony and all those other bitchin' qualities of awesomeness together!”

“'Human'?” Rarity made a face.

“'Bitchin'?'” Rainbow Dash made one of her own.

“I came at just the right time too, Rainbow Dash!” the silver-haired stranger continued, a few inches away from nuzzling Twilight.  “Because this magical land of Equestria is under the impending shadow of the wicked witch, Hydia, and her infernal Smooze!  And the only thing that can defeat such an insufferable blight is my rainbow locket, the power of friendship, and also the flutter ponies—or else some other goofy deus ex machina.  But hey!  Whatever works, amiright?  Amiright?!”

“Well, uhm...”  Twilight smiled bashfully and gently disentangled herself from the excited unicorn.  “That all sounds... really exciting!  But perhaps there's another time and place to talk about such... uh... adventures when there aren't so many ponies staring at us?”

“No, I wanna hear this,” Rainbow Dash hovered even lower.  “This 'Witch Hydia' is relevant to my interests.”

“Witch Who now?” Applejack remarked, trotting up with a basket full of apples lying predictably on her flank.  “Just who in the hay is this fru-fru'd silo of squabble?  I've been listenin' to her gabbin' from my apple stand, clear across Ponyville!”

“Oh snap.  Applejack's right,” the unicorn said with an embarassed wince.  “I guess not everybody can be George Foreman's son; far be it for me to assume you ponies know my name like I know all of yours.”  She cleared her throat, sat on her haunches, and planted a hoof over her chest.  “I'm a human.  You can call me Lyra.  Lyra Heartstrings.”  She blushed with a grin, rolling her golden eyes.  “Yeah yeah, I know.  My parents were hippies, you see.  It's not what you think, though. Sure, they went to Woodstock, but what better a way to have been conceived than in the broad daylight while they listened to Carlos Santana's Soul Sacrifice?  Decades later, my boyfriend and I tried preserving the tradition to a VH1 televised performance of Smooth.  Eh... it didn't work out too well.  Besides, who wants their kid growing up to look like Rob Thomas?”

“Err...” Applejack took a few cautious steps back, a loose apple or two falling out of her basket.  “Y'all mind tellin' me why nopony's called the cops on this yahoo yet?”

“Oh!  Please do!”  Lyra leaned forward with a grin.  More apples spilled as she trotted around in the freshly formed circle of curious, gazing ponies surrounding her.  “Call the cops!  Call the farmers and the musicians!  Call the artists and the scientists and all of the scholars in between!  Preach it to the streets and sing it to the mountains!  A human is in Equestria!  This is a monumental event!  We've slayed Plato's shadowy god of yesteryear to erect this new idol of fantastic crossover, comingingling, coexistence and.. and... dang it, I've run out of abstract nouns.  Alliteration will do that, you know.”

“Yes, well—”  Twilight began.

“Hey!” Lyra hopped in place, only to land on her chest as her hooves gave way once more.  “Nnngh—Ahem.”  She stood back up on wobbly knees  “You guys want to see something crazy?”

“Good heavens, no!” Rarity was already recoiling.

“Sure!” Rainbow Dash excitedly leaned forward.

“Most equines have shoulders!  But not you cute, colorful, little quadrupeds!”  Lyra reached over and grasped Applejack's upper body, wiggling her back and forth and knocking more apples loose from the basket.  “See how these legs of yours just shoot out from underneath your chest cavities like the hydraulic support struts of AT-AT walkers?  Ever noticed that before?  Heheheh—Paging Darwiiiiin!”

The only part of Applejack that wasn't rocking back and forth was her burning frown as she glared in the direction of her three friends.  “Okay, just who is this pony and are there any of her folks nearby who will regret seeing what Kicks McGee is about to do to her face?”

“Ha!  Kicks McGee...”  Lyra poked her hoof into Applejack's mane.  “Who's a silly pony?”

“I beg yer pardon?!” Applejack sneered, her blood boiling.

Rainbow Dash hugged herself in mid-air.  “Hahahaha!  I like this unicorn!  Hey!”  She grinned and wiped a tear.  “Shake Applejack some more!”

“Okie dokie!”

“Now wait just a cotton-pickin' minute—!”

“I've got an idea!”  Twilight suddenly stood in between the enraged farmfilly and the turquoise stranger.  “Now that we've gotten to know each other, perhaps it's time we got to... er... know ourselves!”

“What, is this a zen thing?”  Lyra hobbled backwards, raising an eyebrow.  “Japan's a long way from Equestria.  Plus, they got less ponies and slightly more old people.”

“What I mean to say is... erm...”  Twilight looked Lyra up and down.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately, darling?” Rarity added nervously from behind Twilight.

“Why, am I having a Stevie Nicks day?”  Lyra blinked, and then her golden eyes widened brightly as she ran two hooves through her frazzled mane.  “Oh god.  I'm having a Stevie Nicks day, aren't I?”







“Heeeeey!”  Lyra trotted about the library interior of Twilight's abode.  “This place looks so much cooler when you're actually standing inside it!  Nice pad, Twilight.  I like what you've done with the... wood!”

“I don't recall ever inviting you to my place before,” Twilight said while Rainbow Dash, Applejack, and Rarity stood behind her.

“And you never had to!  You see... erm... how can I put this?”  Lyra squatted on her haunches, surrounded by bookcases, as she gestured dramatically with her hooves.  “In the land I'm from, humans like me have access to this magical portal call 'Youtube,' through which we can see you ponies in their natural habitat, ponies having conversation, and fat Australian kids suplexing scrawny bullies.”

“Ughh...”  Applejack moaned and cast her green eyes across the room.  “Please tell me we brought her here for a reason, Twilight.”

“Shhh!”  Rainbow Dash hovered and leaned towards Lyra.  “I wanna hear more about Lyra's magical tube!  Can it cause explosions?”

Before Lyra could respond, Twilight trotted into the center of the group.  “As a matter of fact, I do have a purpose for bringing our... uhm... new friend here.  Ahem.  Rarity, if you would do the honors?”

“Gladly,” Rarity strolled in from an adjacent room with an elegant canter.  Her horn glowed, telekinetically dragging a tall dressing mirror into the center of the library so that it stretched before Lyra.  “I must say, Twilight, you should learn to clean this thing more often.  Perhaps it would explain why you've walked out the door these past few weeks with your coat so garishly spotted—”

“That's nice, Rarity.  Now let's take a look into this mirror, shall we?” Twilight trotted up and stood beside Lyra so that their dual reflections stood tightly within the mirror's frame before them.  “Okay, Ms. Hardsteves.”

“Heartstrings.”

“Er... Right.  Tell me...”  Twilight briefly nudged Lyra and pointed at the two equine images.  “What do you see?”

“Hmmmm... What else?”  Lyra smiled and gestured her hoof over the reflected dimensions of Twilight.  “Small, round face.  Slender body.  Conical tail.  Simple color schemes.  You're Faust's Generation Four at its best, hardly the gigantic hippopotamus sight of Generation One or Two. And—dear Jehovah—don't get me started on Generation Three-Point-Five.  Frickin' Popeye-legged abominations, I swear to God!”

Applejack glanced at Rainbow Dash.  “We sure her last name ain't 'Hooeystrings?'”

“Snkkkt—hahaha!  'Popeye...'” Rainbow Dash chuckled with a slack-jawed grin.

Twilight Sparkle was in the middle of her tenth second of awkward blinking before she finally shook her head and exclaimed, “No!  That's not... I don't even know what any of that means!  Don't you see two ponies, Lyra?  You know?  Like you and me?  Fellow unicorns?”

“If that's your way of saying we've become fast friends, then sign me up!” Lyra stifled a giggle, her orange eyes flaring brightly over her grin.  “Once you've become a pegasister, you never go back!  Am I right?”

“I... It... unngh...” Twilight ran a hoof over her face, took a deep breath, then calmed herself with a smile.  “Here.  Let's try something else, Lyra.”

“Okay.”

“Look at yourself and tell me what you see.”

“What, are you suddenly blind, Twilight?”

“She's an egghead,” Rainbow Dash said.  “Unless you're a walking pile of letters, she'll never catch you fixing a bucket of water to the top of her front door.”

“You're not helping, Rainbow—”  Twilight briefly did a double-take.  “Wait, that was you who soaked me last week?”

Both Rainbow Dash and Applejack snickered at the same time.

Rarity shuffled up and nudged Lyra's shoulder.  “Well go on, dear.  She asked you something simple, didn't she?”

“Hey, whatever floats your boat, Ms. Hepburn.”  Lyra cleared her throat and squatted on her haunches, her spine erect.  “I see a strawberry blonde with a godawful widow's peak.  The almond eyes are making me thirsty for a cappuccino.  That stupid mole is still lying in the square of my neck like a damn tracheotomy scar.”  She ran her hooves down to her sweaterjacketed waist.  “I'm still carrying three Christmas parties' worth of fudge-dipped guilt from months ago.  Heh... And—gawd—you can't guess how many people think these hips have squeezed out at least three kids, though I am quite blissfully inexperienced in the torturous affairs of childbirth.  Heeheehee.  Still, it's not so bad; I'm just waiting for pop culture to accept Rubenesque women as 'beautiful' again.”

Twilight Sparkle was squinting, squinting hard.  “You... You see all of that?”

“Unfortunately, yeah.  Why shouldn't I?”

A blue hoof poked Lyra in the skull as Rainbow Dash flew low, her brow furrowed.  “This horn!  You mean to tell us that you can't see this freakin' horn on your forehead?”

Lyra blinked, cross-eyed, as if noticing the shiny promontory on her cranium for the first time.  The four ponies briefly leaned forward on their hooves, waiting for it...

“Oh please, Rainbow Dash,” Lyra ultimately said with a sly smirk.  “You may not know me as much as I know you, but good friends are reticent to point out one another's acne problems, and they're even less likely to wax hyperbolic when they do.”

“Listen, sugarcube,” Applejack trotted up to the mirror with a persuasive smile.  “I've seen a heap o'wild pranks in my day, but t'ain't a good thing to run a single joke into the ground.  Now I'll be the first to admit it: you've got us all perplexed something fierce.  But I reckon it's time you rein it in just a tad.”

“No joke!” Lyra briefly frowned while rubbing a hoof over her face and nose.  “I've got rosacea pretty bad!  Well, maybe not President Clinton bad, but we only ever get older, right?”  She giggled and blushed slightly as she added, “My shoulders are even worse off at this point.  It's getting in the way of my tattoo.  I blame it on my addiction to fried fishsticks.”

“Tattoo?”  Rarity made a face.

“Yeah—Here, see?”  Lyra pulled the left sleeve of her neon green jacket all the way up to the base of her limb.  A thoroughly unblemished, turquoise coat shone in the library lanternlight.  Lyra nevertheless pointed at it.  “Granted, it's hardly as awesome as it looked when I first got it at Burning Man five summers ago, and—Snkkkt-Hehehehehe!”  She almost fell entirely on the floor while snickering.

“Now what's so dag-blamed hilarious?” Applejack exclaimed.

“Oh... Just... Eheheh...”  Lyra gulped, snorted, and giggled again.  “How can I go about explaining to cute, colorful ponies what it means to walk down a giant paper mache uterus in the center of an arid valley?  Hahaha—Whew.  Anyways, you see, there's this place called Black Rock Desert in the middle of Nevada, and every year, before Labor Day, the Department of Mutant Vehicles is assembled to—”

“Pssst...”  Rarity leaned into Twilight while Lyra absent-mindedly went on.  “She is rambling again!  This is our opportunity!”

“Agreed,” Twilight said with a nod.  “Everypony—Group huddle!”  Twilight Sparkle, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, and Applejack gathered in a tight circle—hoof-in-hoof—while Lyra's monologue dominated the volume of the opposite end of the room.  “I think there is something terribly wrong with this pony,” Twilight said.

“Yeah?”  Rainbow Dash briefly frowned, murmuring face-to-face with the others.  “What was your first clue?”

“It doesn't take an Einstallion to know that the mare's one haystack short of a barn!” Applejack added to the tight group.

“And where does she get off wearing such bright pastels in mid-April?”  Rarity grimaced.  “It's one thing to be deranged, but must she look like a fashion crime on the way to the asylum?”

“Don't call her 'deranged', Rarity!” Twilight frowned.  “That isn't very nice!”

“I'm not sure there's any better way to describe her, Twi,” Applejack said with a somber expression.  “I've seen Granny Smith lapse in and out of having all her marbles collected.  T'ain't a pretty sight.”

“I dunno; I think she's pretty funny.  Heeheehee...” Rainbow Dash smirked slyly.  “Say, you think she does cute-ceañeras?”

“I'm serious, guys!  I think this pony's in a bad place and doesn't know it!” Twilight said with a sad expression.  “I-I think she needs our help.”

“Ugh...” Rainbow Dash sighed, her eyes rolling.  “Do you really...?”

“Yes, really.”  Twilight Sparkle frowned.  “You all heard how she keeps going on and on with such crazy nonsense.  She's pulling so many bizarre, random ideas from the depths of her mind that it couldn't possibly be healthy!”

“My mother always said that eccentricity was a side-effect of genius,” Rarity remarked.

“Yeah.  Besides, I'm pretty sure it's all just an act!”  Applejack exclaimed.  “I mean, just look at her!”

The huddle of four ponies glanced across the room.

“Hey!  I think the feeling in my hands is coming back!”  Lyra exclaimed with a grin.  She leaned her weight so that she briefly stood on her rear hooves while balancing a stapler, a bowling ball, and a wooden horse carving in her forward limbs.  “Check this out!  I used to juggle on the corner of Church Street Station in Downtown Orlando for tips!  I totally outshone that stupid cartoon mouse whose name I can't mention due to copyright infringement!  Ready?  One, two, three—”  She tossed all three items ceiling-ward, only to have them crash violently down over her skull.  “Augh—Dammit!”  Lyra was sent sprawling to the floor, clutching her throbbing nostrils.  “Unngh... Duh nothe. Why iz id alwayth duh nothe?!”

“Alright, so paint me stupid,” Applejack muttered as she and the other four returned to their tight huddle.  “What y'all reckon we do for her?”

“Let's get her to talk about the magical tube again!” Rainbow Dash smiled.

“Anypony but Rainbow got an idea?” Applejack frowned.

“Hey!  I think she's harmless!  Stupid, but mostly harmless!”

“Yeah!”  Pinkie Pie nodded, cheek-to-cheek with the other four.  “And 'stupid' sells!  You can't afford to turn away a good act when you see it!”

Twilight did a double take.  “Pinkie?!  Since when did you get here?”

“What?!  It's a free huddle, isn't it?”

“If you want my advice,” Rarity spoke, “I'd say a good visit to Miss Red Heart would do her some good.”

“But of course!” Twilight brightened at that.  “A doctor's appointment!  Maybe all of this is because Ms. Heartstrings banged her head really hard or something!”

“Ungh... Twilight, you're smart,” Applejack remarked.  “Can't you just figure it all out on your own?”

“No, I think we should take up Rarity's suggestion.  I'm good at magic and sciences, but I can't pretend to be a competent physician.  This confused unicorn trotted straight into our village and I feel like it's my duty to get her the help she needs.”

“Oooh!” Pinkie Pie nearly bounced out of the huddle in her excitement.  “On the way to getting her help, could we get her some peanut butter wafers too?  Nurse Red Heart's station is just on the other side of Sugarcube Corner!”

“I vote for Pinkie Pie's idea,” Rainbow Dash said with a grin.

“No no no!” Twilight Sparkle frowned.  “We're getting her to the doctor as soon as we can!  Who knows?!  She could possibly be a seizure victim waiting to happen!”

“All the better reason to fill her mouth with peanut butter!”  Pinkie Pie exclaimed.  “That way she won't bite her own tongue!”

“I vote for that idea too,” Rainbow Dash exclaimed.

“Ugh... This is the most dreadful huddle I've ever been in,” Rarity moaned. She blinked.  “By the way, has anypony seen—?”

“Twilight?”  Fluttershy stuck her pink mane through the door to the library.  She trotted pensively inside, gazing at the strangely gathered circle of friends.  “I was hoping you would let me borrow an issue of Lepus Weekly... erm... if that was alright.  Oh dear!” she gasped, gazing straight down.  “Who left this bowling ball lying on the floor?  Somepony could trip and hurt herself—”

“Fluttershy!” Lyra gasped, hopping excitedly with bright eyes.  “Omigosh!  Omigosh!  Omigosh!”  The unicorn scampered over and came to a sliding stop with a jubilant “Squee!”  She proceeded to wrap her upper arms fiercely around the yellow pegasus' body.  “Ohhhh you are as sweet and adoring and squishably huggable as I ever fitfully dreamed you to be!”

“Uhhhhhhh... uhhhh...” Fluttershy quivered in Lyra's embrace, her blue eyes twitching to the point of bursting.  “St-St-St-Stranger h-h-h-hugging meeeeee...”  She looked ready to either faint or turn into a yellow and pink mushroom cloud.

“Heeeee!  I'm actually hugging Fluttershy!”  Lyra euphorically cooed.  “Sing to me a lullaby while we go out shopping for lace socks—!”

“Shimmer down, sugarcube.”  Applejack calmly drotted over and pulled Lyra off of Fluttershy with a toothed grip to the unicorn's mane.  The visitor fell awkwardly to the floor while Applejack stared down at her.  “'Human' or not, you should know better than to go around touchin' other ponies without asking.”

“But... But you're all so bouncy and bright!” Lyra dizzily sat up.  “Not to mention marketable!”

Rainbow Dash trotted over to Fluttershy's side.  “Sorry about that, Fluttershy.  Let's introduce you to our new friend—Whoah!” She collapsed under Fluttershy's heavy embrace.

“Spooky!  Stranger!  Hugging me!  Without permission!  Horrible sweatjacket!” Fluttershy clung to Rainbow Dash and murmured into her mane, on the verge of tears.

Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes and patted Fluttershy's back before tossing a glare Twilight's way.  “So, about that visit to the doctor's office...”

“Right,” Twilight nodded, wrenchin her worried eyes away from Fluttershy's trembling form.  “Lyra, I'd like for you to meet a good friend of mine.  She's named Nurse Red Heart.  Uhm... considering all the times you've fallen down and banged your head since we met, I think it'd only be right that I help you get a thorough physical.”

“Hey, I'm game!”  Lyra shrugged.  “Granted, if I knew I'd be coming here to 'play doctor' with ponies, I'd have hung out on Furaffinity a lot more.”

“Fur-a-whatnow?” Applejack raised an eyebrow.

“Hahaha—Oh god.  Forget I said anything,” Lyra said with a snicker.  “I teleported here to bump ideas, not uglies.  Besides, that'd be too dangerously close to clop, and when I get back home and write about this experience, I want to be able to submit it to Equestria Daily.”

“There'll be plenty of newspaper stands along the way, darling,” Rarity said.

“Hah!  Still, not what I meant, but you get a gold star nonetheless.”  Lyra pivoted her smirk to aim at Twilight once again.  “Before we go, though, aren't you forgetting something?”

“I am?” Twilight blinked.

“Uh... Yeah.  Hello?!”  Lyra gestured to herself.  “I'm certainly not a pleasant sight to behold.”

“What?” Rainbow Dash squinted, still consoling a shivering Fluttershy.  “You mean your clothes?  Just take them off!”

“Heck no!” Lyra flung her green hoodie back over her horn.  “I'd only strip if you paid me with the tears of Mel Gibson!” she exclaimed.  “I mean—I'm only going to frighten all of your friends as soon as they see a freakishly tall human strolling down the streets of Ponyville!”

“Lyra, you look fine,” Twilight Sparkle said with a smile.  “I seriously doubt you're going to frighten anypony.”  There was a timid squeak from Fluttershy behind her.  Twilight blushed.  “Well, most everypony.”

“I'm sure you've got a solution somewhere in your bank of knowledge and plot contrivances!” Lyra grinned brightly. “Why don't you give me the zap!”

“I'm sorry?”

“Use a spell that'll turn me into a pony!”  Lyra beamed.  “Just for a little while, of course.  That way, all the ponies will be fooled.”

“Oh, heavens to Betsy.”  Applejack face-hoofed.

“Uhhh... Let me get this straight,” Twilight squinted.  “You want me to cast a spell that will turn you into a pony?”

“Egads, what do I have to use—a Moonspeak translator?!  Somepony give me something to write with—”

“Oh no no no no!”  Twilight waved a hoof.  “No need for that!  It just so happens that... Uhm...”  She scratched her chin with a hoof, thought, then brightened.  “I've been working on such a spell!  Spike's been wanting to join the nearby hockey team but they don't allow dragons to play!”

“Hey, I'll believe that.  Where I come from, they only accept white people.”

“So... Uhm... Yeah!  Let me just—uhh—fire up the 'ol horn here!”

“Wait!” Lyra raised two hooves.

“Wh-What?” Twilight blinked.

“This has gotta be some powerful spell!”  Lyra squinted.  “Shouldn't it require the Elements of Harmony or something?”

“You...”  Twilight sighed, her head and tail drooping on either ends of her.  “You really think so...?”

“We don't want to take any chances, fillyfriend!”  Lyra's teeth glistened under her grin.  “I'm sure if a talking pony walked into my house back home, I'd have to change underwear for a week!”

“Fine.”  Twilight glanced behind her.  “Girls?  Gather around in a circle.”

“What for?” Rainbow Dash frowned.

“You heard her.  We... uh... need the Elements of Harmony to pull this spell off.”

“Are you certain this requires such pretense?” Rarity exclaimed as she and the others shuffled into a circular formation.  “This is getting melodramatic, even for me.”

“Just stand here next to me, girls, as I... uhm... focus this 'beam.'  It's very quick spell, that's why there's no magical aura in the visual spectrum.”

“Oh golly.”  Applejack was doing her best not to snicker.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaand....”  Twilight tensed her face, grounded her hooves, and yanked her skull forward.  “Voila!”  She smiled.  “There!  You've been zapped, Lyra.  You're a pony now.”

“My left nipple, I am!” Lyra frowned, staring at her hooves.  “Your spell's a dud!”

“Ugh—Seriously?” Twilight made a face.

“Does it look like I'm a pony?”  Lyra raised her hooves out in front of her.  “These are the same pianist hands I was born with.  Why I became a telemarketer for a living and not the next Alicia Keys is beyond me.”

“Hey guys, when we're done here,” Pinkie Pie happily chirped, “Can we all turn me into a frisbee?  I'm in the mood to visit the beach!”

“Shhh!” Twilight frowned.

“I don't think you all channeled the Elements of Harmony just right!” Lyra exclaimed.

Twilight Sparkle's eyes widened.  “Oh!  Right!  Of course, that's it!”  She cleared her throat and flashed a glare at her friends that only they could see.  “You heard her, girls.  Help me... uhm... channel the spell.”

Rarity and Applejack exchanged nervous glances.  Shrugging, they proceeded to make various murmuring incantations and hoof gestures.  Pinkie Pie giggled and added to the babel with a series of twisted, cartoony expressions.  As the room filled with nonsensical, murmuring voices, Rainbow Dash joined the mix.

“Ohhhmmmmmm... Ohmmmm...”  She squinted Fluttershy's way.  “Pssst... Why aren't you channeling n'stuff?”

“This is all so confusing.  What's even going on here?!  Who is this scary pony?”

“Dang it, Fluttershy!”  Rainbow Dash growled.  “Frickin' chant already or I'll tie Angel's ears to a windmill!”

“Eeep!” Fluttershy trotted closer to the circle and started waving her upper hooves.  “Humina-Humina-Humina!”

In the center of the wildly chanting group of friends, Twilight Sparkle shook, shivered, and murmured.  “Harmony... Harmony... Harmony!”  She flung her body forward with outstretched limbs.  “Aaaaaaaand—Pew Pew!”  She slumped down, panting dramatically.  “There, Lyra.  How about now?”

Lyra was biting her lip, staring at her hooves up close.  “Uhm... I hate to break it to you, Twilight, but... eheheh...”

Applejack, Rarity, and Rainbow Dash were already groaning.  Just then, Twilight brightened and sat up.  “Oh!  Did I mention it has a secondary effect of turning you invisible?”

“Sweet!” Lyra grinned.  “Well, in that case, let's begin our perilous journey to the magical doctor's office of detiny—Augh!”  She tripped and slammed awkwardly into the library's front entrance.  “Ughhh... It's dangerous business walking into doors.”

“Here, allow me.”  Twilight sighed and telekinetically opened the entrance.

“Heh!”  Lyra sat up, shook the cobwebs loose, and marched happily into the outside world.  “It's a good thing I'm invisible or else everypony would have seen that!”

Rarity shuffled up and murmured into Twilight's ear.  “Any chance you have a real spell to make a pony mute?”

“If I did, Rarity, you'd be the first to know.”



Here are some notes I made for the next couple of unwritten chapters

Lyra arrives in Ponyville, singing a song
Lyra hugs Fluttershy; Fluttershy panics
Lyra asks to be transformed temporarily into a pony
Lyra makes “Bi-winning” joke – then rambles on about Francis Ford Coppola
-Mane 6 converse about Lyra's craziness, decide to seek medical help
-Nurse Red Heart
-Zecora
-Princess Celestia
-Princess Luna

Lyra gets Spike to write journal for him
-observing ponies in their natural habitat
-shipping Applejack and Rainbow Dash

Lyra attempts riding bicycle
Lyra and Pinkie Pie (Lyra always wins at rocks, paper, scissors)
Lyra and Bon Bon (“I dIdN't PuT tHoSe In My BaG!”)
Lyra and Ditzy (“Who's this moron and why would I want her muffin?”)
Lyra and Dr. Whooves
Lyra and Scootaloo (“Yeah, whatever, kid.”)

Lyra forces Mane 6 to help her acquire the Rainbow Locket to fight back the Smooze from Dream Castle
- “Shut up, Rarity!”
- Twilight rebukes Rainbow Dash
- “Shut up, Rarity!”

Lyra decides to set up stage play to explain human-kind to ponies
-becomes a laughing stock
-good idea but poor execution
-feels it's time to “be whisked back to Earth” (“Anytime now.”)
-Attempts to fly away, hurts herself
-Twilight exhaustedly goes to her aid

Lyra and Twilight have a moment
> Silent Ponyville: Doorwalker
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hoo boy.  This one.  I quite easily consider this one fic to be the best story I never wrote.  And yet, the first chapter of it exists.

There's a crazy history to this one.

Around January of 2012, I abandoned End of Ponies.  There's no better way to say it; I ditched the fanfic in frustration of how lame my attempt at a new arc had turned out.  The suspended nature of End of Ponies has since continued to be an ongoing thorn in my side.  As awesome a success as Background Pony has been, I still can't call 2012 as good a year as 2011, because I feel with each passing month an aching stab of guilt in my gut over what I've left to marinate within the forsaken vacuoles of the Internet.

However, back in early 2012, I didn't know EoP would be suspended for so long.  I figured it was just a momentary lapse in writing, and so I chilled for a month and wrote next to nothing.  And when I say "next to nothing," I really mean I wrote Spelling It Out and then floundered between botched writing ideas until I realized I was no better than a one-trick-pony.  I would eventually return to EoP, fail AGAIN, and produce an accident called "Background Pony" during one night of intense frustration.  The rest is history.  F'naaa.

But I didn't fall in love with Lyra overnight.  It was a gradual thing, a mint-green venom that seeped into my veins.

It all started when someone on Steam was like, "Hey, man, this really talented art guy totally digs your stuff and livestreams audio reads of your fanfic."  And me, always adoring any excuse to masturbatorily relieve my ego, got hooked up with this dude, who turned out to be the massively talented and sexily voiced Spotlight, also known as the artist behind Background Pony's cover art and the genius behind some Appledash shenanigans.  Spotty had himself a tight network of marsupials, among which was none other than Jake Heritagu, author of the immensely popular Silent Ponyville fanfic series.

At some point, Spotty played an audio read of Jake's first fanfic in livestream, and me--being the usual egotistical bastard--could only contemplate how I might be able to show off my digital phallus across the Internet to rustle the jimmies of this finely talented young lemur who somehow had way more goddam fanart than me.  So, my brain immediately went into steampunk mode, riveting together possible side-fic ideas that might blend well with the universe Jake had created.  I happen to have had joyous romps in the Silent Hill experience in the past, and I severely uphold Silent Hill 2 as the pinnacle of survivor horror.  With that in mind, I tried to imagine a ponified Silent Hill scenario that could emulate the James Sunderland story.  Clearly, this needed a romantic pair to mimic the James/Mary dynamic.  And just who in Ponyville could possibly match that?

It must be understood, I had never ever given Lyra a second glance in all of my poni poni poni obsessing prior to this.  I simply knew that the fanon had this thing for her and Bon Bon, and that they were often paired together in tons of fics.  Suddenly, though, my mind was concocting this idea for Lyra--the unicorn of the couple--to be caught in a Sillent Hill situation where her gift of magic is not only a tool of survivor but some gimmicky means of narration.

It took a few weeks, but I finally got the courage to try writing an initial chapter.  I went for a long walk, jacked myself up on Dr. Pepper, came home, sat down at the computer, started writing, and didn't stop until about eight hours later.  The result is what takes up the rest of this document.  I tossed myself online, hunted down Jake Heritagu, and spammed him with a Gdocs link going "Wut do j00 think of d1s, lulz."  I think his reaction was conveyed in multiple four letter words.  He was quite evidently impressed, perhaps even flattered.  I asked him if there was a way that I could not only be allowed to upload the story set within his fanfictional universe, but if there was any possibility of doing it with his blessing of "canonization."  He was game for it, but a lot of details had to be hammered out.  It so happened that we had an opportunity to do just that the next day, because we were both heading to Megacon.

So it was that I arranged myself to meet a relatively random brony in real life for the first time.  I met Jake Heritagu in person.  He was pleasant, creative, full of ideas; I tried to ignore the kid-sized pink pony backpack hanging off his shoulders while giant robots, samurai soldiers, and female Deadpools sashayed all around us.  We must have spent two hours standing there, engulfed in sweatified pop culture, bro-fisting random passerbies in Fluttershy shirts while rambling to each other the convoluted plans of our fanfics in extreme, testosteronical detail.  He told me secrets about Silent Ponyville that I keep mum about to this day.  I mentioned random EoP things and gawked at obese Zelda cosplayers.  Eventually, we talked our lungs out, saluted, and walked our separate ways into the huge convention of extreme body odor.  It was a nifty experience, and chatting with him helped me lay the mental groundwork for how my idea, "Doorwalker," was to shape itself to his future plans for the Silent Ponyville series.

There ended up being a problem, though.  He never finished the series.  Even today, it would seem, the fic is experiencing a Crisis of Infinite Apathies as he seeks to find an author willing to assist him in completing the vision.  In the meanwhile, from a combination of literary delay and personal laziness, I never wrote beyond the first initial chapter that I layed across his table like a porn star at a job interview.

Still, the impact it had on my fanfictional... career thingy was undeniable.  The ego-rush I got from apparently impressing him made me exalt the character of Lyra.  In a time when EoP was entering into its long drought, Lyra symbolized for me a ponified muse.  I fell in love with her character, the goofy fanon take on her, how joyful and ecstatic she appeared all the time.  Though I could never follow through with "Doorwalker," I felt desperate to write a story regarding the subject of my obsession--any story.  This led to a few failed writing attempts until I got into a conversation one day with Spotlight, in which he bluntly claimed that there was nothing special to the character of Lyra aside from her relationship with Bon Bon or the fanon ideas of her human/hands obsession.  Wanting to defend the new best poni poni, I wracked my brain and recalled some ancient story idea I heard about an obscure X-Men character whose power was that everybody forgot her within minutes of striking up a conversation.  I took that, amplified it, and centered it upon a mint-green unicorn who needed to evolve beyond Internet stereotypes, and another train wreck of a fanfic was born.

As for Doorwalkers, it's no walk in the park.  If I ever wrote it in its entirety, not only would it be rated M, but it would feature a lot of foul language, intense exploration of sociopathic concepts, a brutal characterization/mutilization of Lyra, and a highly experimental writing style that no self-respecting editor would ever give a green light.  The essential concept is that the story is being told through a broadcast, like a "found footage" film such as Cloverfield or Blair Witch Project.  Lyra was suffering from some sort of magical ailment and required a prosthetic be placed over her horn that suppressed her mana-conjuring as well as simultaneously monitored everything she said or did.  As a result, everything is in present tense and is more focused on capturing thoughts and sensations as opposed to being grammatically accurate.  It would have been a miracle if it ever made it to Equestria Daily.

The fact that the story never made it off the ground is of very little concern to me now.  Jake's story fell into obscurity, and what exists of Doorwalker does not take into account what Jake had planned for his latest installment--which is important because Doorwalker is supposed to take place after SP3.  However, some of the most basic elements of the fic spiritually influenced the overall plot structure of Background Pony.  So, in a way, it can be said that the fics are conjoined twins, only one of them had to be euthanized to save the other.

Whew.  And on that note, have some rusted shiet and locked doors.










Silent Ponyville:  Doorwalker
Chapter One
by shortskirtsandexplosions
based on the fanfiction series by Jake Heritagu




From the Records Office of the Foalsom Prison for Deranged Ponies

To the Royal Canterlotlian Supernatural Investigation Agency

Enclosed in this requested shipment is the arcanium alicornia once attached to the subject of Cell 3A who, as of August 12, 1002 of the Third Age, inexplicably vanished from Foalsom Prison along with the occupant of Cell 3D.  The material contained within has been thoroughly reviewed by the higher unicorn members of Foalsom staff, and it is our firm belief that this information may shed some light on the recent deaths of Octavia and the other members of the Royal Canterlotlian Orchestra.  Furthermore, the subject’s mental records provide details that elaborate even more on Her Majesty’s description of the “Dead Alicorn Dream”.

It is imperative that you supply Princess Celestia with this information at once.  We can only regret that it has taken us this long to unlock the magical data that was previously obscured.  Hopefully, if this information can help us at all, it can prevent even more deaths related to the Elements of Harmony than what has already been sustained.  If the wave of suffering that’s struck Ponyville over the last three and a half months is of any indication, then all of Equestria--if not the Alicorns’ sacred lineage--is at stake.

Please handle these recordings with care.  The information decays upon each subsequent perusal, and we cannot afford to lose such valid evidence as what we have in our hooves.  Also, for those of you assisting the wise Princess with her documentation, guard your leylines with great caution.  We’ve already lost two of our finest physicians to the slings of madness.

Sincerely,
Doctor Iron Farrier of the Canterlotlian Unicorn Health Commission













































Light.  Bright, flickering light.  Fading in and out.  Uneven.  Black.





Wooden walls.  Bookcases and more walls.  Teetering.  A glossy window.  Sunlight.  A unicorn says something.  I pivot towards her.  The light fades.  Dizzy.





A lavender coat.  Twilight's face evens out.  She's smiling at me.  It hurts.

“That's it.  Just relax.  Try to get your bearings and—”

“Everything's fuzzy.”

“You're doing fine.  It takes a while to adjust to the magical channels filtering through the suppression field.  Just breathe evenly and close your eyes for a bit.”

“Okay.”

I do what she suggests.  Everything is dark.  Everything should be dark.





“Okay, and... open your eyes now.”

The light returns.  Bright.  Still fuzzy.  Twilight Sparkle is a purple blur in the middle of a sickly miasma.  I don't remember the world being this heavy on my eyes.  I hate this whole process already.

“I hate this already.”

“Just give it a chance, Lyra.  We've come this far.  This can only be good for you in the end.  I promise.”

She's said that many times before.

“You've said that before.”

“Hehehe—Well, it's good to know that the suppression field hasn't affected your memory at all, now is it?”  She smiles.  It's a very easy thing for her to do.  She shuffles up to me and tilts her head forward.  “I don't think it'll hurt our little experiment any if I help your balance with a simple grounding spell.  Here, don't move.”

Her horn starts glowing.  My peripheral vision is encompassed in a violet glow as she seems to be concentrating on me with all her might.  Several seconds pass.  I'm gazing at the windows as she does this.  Blue skies and white clouds.  I feel exhausted.  Sleepy.

Twilight finishes.  “There we go.  Feel any better?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Try and lift something with your magic.”

“Haven't we done that part already?”

“Yes, but now that I've got the recording channels affixed to your cranial alicornia, I want to be sure that they're not interfering at all with the suppression field.”

“Whatever.  Just tell me what I need to do.”

She points to my left.  “Try and lift the horse carving off the table.”

I look over towards the wooden effigy in question.  It's a jagged, splintery affair.  Twilight Sparkle's library is a beautiful interior, but the wooden horse carving is an insult.  It's the ugliest thing in the room, and yet everytime I arrive for our regularly scheduled visits, I can't stop looking at it.  I should be looking at her, listening to her.  But it's hard.  Harder than I think.

Wait, is she going to be “hearing” all of this later now that we've prepared this “recording” spell?  Whatever.  I'm exhausted.  I think of my bed, but the ugly horse carving is in the way.  I tilt my head towards it.  My skull feels heavier, on account of what's attached to my horn.  I concentrate very hard.  Gnashing teeth and twitching neck muscles.  My tongue curls, and usually something would be happening by now.  The wooden horse carving doesn't budge a single inch.

“I can't move it.  I think it's still working.”

“Splendid!” Twilight Sparkle beams.  “At least we won't have a repeat of last session.  Hehehe... I really can't afford to replace the windows twice in one month.”  I can't understand why she's so excited.  Perhaps she's pretending to be.  She trots once more into sight and smiles in my face.  Bright eyes.  Happy, lavender dimples.  I really wish she'd keep some distance.  “As for the channeling spell, we won't know if it's recording anything until three months from now when we take the cap off of you.”

“Then all of this work could be a waste of time?”

“Now Lyra, what did we discuss about having a positive attitude?”

“Uhm... You said that it was the easy way to do things?”

“Er... No.  Eheheh—If you remember from two sessions ago, we agreed that being positive was the first step in confronting our personal obstacles.  Once we've rediscovered our confidence, then things become easy.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  I-I guess you're right.”

“But right now, let's test the channeling spell.”

“Isn't that what we're already doing?”

“Kind of.  Remember, it'll record not only what your senses catch, but what your memory recalls.  Whenever you think about something with invested emotion, the channeling spell will store the information within the replicated alicornia of the horn-cap.  So why don't you give it a try and we'll later find out if it worked or not.”

“Uhm... How?”

“Hehehe... It's simple, Lyra.  Just think about the first important memory that comes to mind.  The channeling spell will do all the rest.”

“Okay...”

“Don't stress it.  It should come naturally to you.”





Your eyes opened.  Pearlescent blue sapphires.  I was the first thing you saw that morning, and I knew it.

Your lips moved.  You were trying to say something, but between the weight of sleep and the stretch of your smile, it came out as gibberish.

And I loved gibberish.  I loved you.  I leaned down and I met those lips with mine.

I wished I had never let go.  I wished our kiss would have lasted forever.  I wished that I could inhale your words everyday, from then on, and live off of nothing else.

You were my breath.  My everything.





“Lyra?  Did you think of something?”

“Y-Yeah...”  Twilight's violet shadow is fuzzy again.  My heard hurts.  I could tell her this, but I don't.  “I thought of something.”

“Good.  Once you get used to the channeling spell, it should be easy to tell when you're using it and when you're not.  I wouldn't be surprised if the recorded thoughts and sensations from the first few days is a bit disjointed, but I'm sure once you get acquainted with the whole process, we'll have proper feedback to examine later.”

“And you're sure this is going to help with the... therapy?”

“Lyra, think of this from an architectural point of view.  Your old life is behind you, and now we're examining the blueprints of your current existence in order to help you establish a secure future.  Unicorns have been doing this sort of experiment for years, and it almost always turns out beneficial for them.  I have every bit of confidence that we'll get your magical abilities back, and you'll be returning to the concert hall where you're supposed to be, or—who knows?  Perhaps you're destined for better things?”

She won't stop smiling.  The fuzziness and the dizziness goes away.  I can see dust particles scattered in the windowlight.  I hear wood creaking in the foundations of the library.  Everything in the world is slowly settling, slowly crumbling, slowly falling.  To become better means to become nothing.

“Perhaps you're right.”  Twilight Sparkle wants to help me so much.  It would make her happy for me to feel better.  It would make her even happier to impress her royal mentor with a successful experiment.  “Thank you for all your effort.”

“Hey, it's our effort.  We're in this together, Lyra.”  I feel her hoof on my shoulder.  It's so warm.  Everything around me is so warm.  “You're not alone.  You have ponies here in Ponyville who care for you and want to be there for you.  Even when it's not time for one of our sessions, don't hesitate to pay me a visit, drop by for tea, for chat—hehehe—whatever you feel like!”

“Thank you, Twilight.”  I really just want to sleep.  “I'll keep that in mind.”  The stupid horse carving is staring at me.  I hate it.

“Remember—with the new channeling spell and all—the key thing is to relax!”  Twilight's Voice rings in my ears.  I'm walking away from her.  The bright red door looms.  “The rest will come naturally.”

“Naturally, right.”

I open the door.





Glaring sunlight.  Golden rays and chattering voices.  Hooves and hooves and hooves.  The ground is broken, muddy, brown.  Ponyville can never be perfectly green.  So many hoofprints.  So many wandering bodies.  Ponies move like boulders, though their voices are dipped in vanilla.  I feel sick.  So much mud and dirt.  I wonder how many of them are looking at me.  Do I look different now that the new spell's in effect?  A gust of cold wind.  Spring is too fickle: stale one minute and damnably fragrant the next.  You always loved spring.  I feel sick again.  Two minutes until I'm home.  Hoofprints and voices.  Has it always been this bright?  Two minutes.  Two minutes.  Two minutes.





The first thing I see is my lyre.  Glistening, golded frame.  Tiny, immaculate strings.  It hangs from a nail beside the cupboard.  I should move it.

I shut the door behind me.  I'm cut off from spring and wind and voices.  It's so gray in my house.  The glint of light off the lyre is an insult.  I really should move it, but I don't.

I walk across the house.  For some reason, the echoes of my hooves startle me.  I thought I was used to this emptiness.  I blame Twilight Sparkle.  She told me to think, and I thought of you.  She should have known.  They all should know.  I'm a walking sideshow attraction by now.  Even if I played the lyre again, everypony would only laugh at me.

Wait, should I be recording all of this?  I know she's going to be reviewing these thoughts.  Maybe not just her.  How many other unicorns are bridging the gap between her and the Princess?  How many more damnable ponies are going to be picking apart my brain, piece by piece, like it's a box of matches?

Have to relax.  Have to concentrate.  I've been eating a lot more lately.  I hate myself for it.  Mustn't do that.  Just... water.  Water is good.  Water will work.

I trot into the bathroom.  It's so cramped in here.  I can't believe we ever shared it.  I grab a glass and pour water from the faucet.  I look up while I drink and wish I hadn't.  The unicorn's turquoise cheeks are hollow.  Her mane is short; I shaved it about a month ago.  I was pretty bad off then.  Just what am I now?  Bloodshot eyes.  Paling coat.  Dry lips.  And that cap—that cone.  It's like a bulging anvil of black arcanium on the tip of my horn.  They should have just put a noose around my neck.

No.  Must relax.  Must be calm.  Twilight is a silly pony, but a smart pony.  Besides, she's got it together.  What have I got?

I drink the water.  It's cool and refreshing.  It works for a minute, and my reflection and I are once again drowning in a sea of sighs.

My eyes close.





Ow.

Ow.

Too cold.  Shower water is too cold.  Luna almighty.  Am I late on the heating bill too?

Huh... I wonder if that will get recorded.  Better turn this channeling off or else Twilight will see me bathing.

Warming... Warming up.  Thank Celestia, I paid it on time.

Close my eyes and pretend to be nothing but the vapors.





Is it self-indulgent of me to sit by a warm fireplace after I've had a warm shower?  I don't know if I'm asking myself this or asking Twilight or whoever-pony-else will be reviewing this.

The burning wood crackles beyond the hearth.  I sit on the couch, my legs curled up beneath me, like you always used to do.  The radio sits across from me in the living room.  There's an issue of Equestria Daily lying on the floor.  I used to love occupying my time with those things.  Now, I can't stop staring at the fire.  Flickering embers and gasping sparks.  Why are the beautiful things always the dying things?

It's a warm fire, but this sofa is cold.  Maybe that's why I turned the channeling on again.  It's just like the shower, only it lasts forever.  I think it's because I know this that I can't stop staring at the fire, that I can't stop trying to fool myself.

Come to think of it, I shouldn't be recording this at all.  I'll be sleeping soon.  I've got to be at the hospital early in the morning.  Then groceries.  Then bills.  Then... this.

It's always this.

Close my eyes.  I can handle the darkness.





Rising.  Gasping.  Pale moonlight.

I'm sweating.  It's too cold to be sweating.  My heart.  My heart.  Will I die?

It's not dark enough to sleep.  But that's not it.  I had turned over in my slumbers, and the bed felt so empty.  I thought I'd be rolling down a silken mudslide for eternity, with nopony to catch me.  Somewhere an owl is shrieking beyond my bedroom windows.  I wonder if he knows the truth that I'm slowly sinking into.  If I had as much wits as him, I'd be screaming too.

It's this house.  This damnable house.  It doesn't deserve my screams.  It doesn't.

I roll over into my bedsheets.  I nuzzle my neck past the sweat, past the folds, past the hours of tossing and turning and the perpetual ringing in my ears.  I can never scream, not until everything is gone, because all of this still smells like you.  I'm too afraid to shatter that, it'd feel like the earth giving way beneath me.  I'd be rolling downhill forever.  Perhaps that's what I have been doing.  Perhaps that's what woke me.

I look at the clock.  I hate it, but only because it hates me.  Four hours until I officially wake up.  I throw the sheets over my head to hide the moonlight, to hide the owl.  I can't hide from you.  Four hours.  Four hours.  Four hours.





Breakfast is a stiff, boring ritual.  A bowl of oats and Equestria Daily.  Each time I bite, I feel like a giant albatross is vomiting down my throat.  I think I'd rather eat the newspaper.

That was almost funny.  I think I'll record that.

Thirty minutes, and I'm out the door.





Muddy ground.  Dew and mist.  I must be crazy to be getting up this early.  All the other ponies are crazier.  I'm barely downtown, and already I hear over a dozen colorful equines greeting me.  I think they go out of their way to greet me.  I don't hear them talking to each other nearly as much.  Then again, I hardly care.  This damn arcanium cap weighs so much.  There's no hiding it.  I tilt my head towards the dirt as I count the trots it takes to get to the hospital.  I think I like it more inside those cold, sterile halls than out in the open.  Nopony talks to me in the hospital.  They're too serious to pretend to be cheerful.  It's a sobering sensation.  I intend to record a lot of it.





Why is Nurse Red Heart smiling?  Oh dear Celestia, not her too.

“Good morning, Lyra!  I see you're doing rather well!  Did Twilight already switch the cap out?”

“Yes.  She did.”

There's a blissful bout of silence as I walk across the nurse's station and open the utility closet with my assigned key.  Heart monitors are beeping in the background.  The checkerboarded hallways beyond are flooded with hushed sounds.  Gurneys and orderlies.  Wheelchairs and clipboard sheets.  Everypony is too afraid to talk above the sound of a falling bedpan.  I rather like it here.

“You sure?  It looks the same to me.  Then again—heheh—I'm hardly the magic expert.  It's a good thing we've got Princess Celestia's star pupil in the center of Ponyville to look after the magically-afflicted.”

“I guess...”  I grab a toolbox, a bucket, and a hoofsaw.  I balance them carefully on my flank and make for the distant edge of the hospital.  “I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday on account of my session and all.  I'd better catch up while I can.”

“Oh, it's quite alright.  You've done so much good work with the expansion, Lyra.  We couldn't have received your help at a better time.”

“It's helping me as much as it's helping you, Nurse Red Heart.  When I finally get this thing off my head, I'll be able to do the work three times as fast.”

“Oh?  But I thought you'd be going back to the music hall once you're...”  Her voice stops.  She's probably realizing by now that she shouldn't have said anything out loud to begin with.  She's really sweet, but she should stick to her patients.

“I really just... want to work on the bathrooms, Nurse Red Heart.  I think I should have majored in interior design instead of minored when I graduated from Canterlot College.  I can't get the same relaxation that I used to from music.”

“Very well, just don't overdo it.  You're the only pony working in that wing of the hospital, after all.”

“And I kind of prefer it that way.”  I trot down the cold, sterile hallways.  The light grows dimmer and dimmer.  The plastered walls are replaced with dry panels and plywood.  I march over the yellow tape, and into organized chaos, smelling of sawdust and copper plumbing.  Strange how this place feels more like home than home.

I place my toolbox onto the floor, grab the hoof-saw, and go to work.





This one stall is a real bitch.

No matter how many times I try to measure it, there's no finding a perfect way to rig it to the wall.  I know that I've gotten the partitions right, but whoever laid the foundation of this expanded wing of Ponyville Hospital was drinking something extra special in his or her sarsaparilla.

It's funny how the unexpected labor falls on the shoulders of those who volunteer instead of those who get paid.  Whatever.  I don't care.  Not even all the golden bits in Equestria could make me do something else right now.

Sliding across the cold, shiny tile, I get underneath the spot where the bathroom stall is going to be erected.  I measure the space one more damn time.  I should have it right by now.  I can come up with a solution to this mess.  I can.

I stand back up and reach for a marking tool.  As I do so, I glance up above the bathroom sink.  I see a mirror covered with tarp.  Part of the dangling plastic has fallen away, and the exposed surface of the glass shows me, shows my baggy eyes, shows the pale coat that had shivered under a curtain of sweat in the dead thick of night.  And that's what does it.

I think of you.

It's suddenly colder in here, just as cold as it was in the concert hall months ago when I made an entire room full of instruments collapse in on me.  I should have died then.  I should have died.

Whatever.  I'm here.  I'm alive.  And this damn bathroom stall is screaming to be born.  I slide back across the tile, away from the mirror, and mark the wall.





I shouldn't be grocery shopping.  I'm hungry.  It's never a good idea to shop for food while you're hungry.  I can't afford to buy too much fruit.  These disability checks won't last forever.  After all, I'm going to be cured someday, right?  Right?

“Oh Lyra, how marvelous it is to see you.”

Dear Celestia.  Rarity.  I see a pair of spiky pineapples on a vendor's shelf beneath me.  I think they belong in my eyesockets right about now.

“Done with another day's worth of volunteering at the hospital?” She bats her painted eyelashes.  The only other time I've seen a face like that was in the less savory streets of Manehattan.  “I think it's quite exceptional what you're doing for Ponyville's refuge for the ill and weak.  Tell me—what is it that you're working on there?  An intensive care unit?  A new operating room, perhaps, hmmm?”

“I'm installing the toilet stalls to a new bathroom.”

“Oh... Uhm... Well then...”  She smiles nervously, backtrotting half a step as if I just announced I had the plague.  “Any useful facility is a good facility, yes?”  It's then that I realize she's not alone.  Another pale shadow is standing beside here, about a third her size.  The little filly is staring at something above my eyes.  I can see where this is going.

“I didn't mean to interrupt anything.”  Why is my bag so empty?  I should have finished shopping by now.  The sun is setting.  There are too many ponies around.  There are always too many ponies.  “I'm just getting the fixings for a weekend's worth of meals...”

“Oh, on the contrary!  It was I who interrupted you!” Rarity smiles.  “Though, I assure you it was for a good reason.  Ahem.”  She leans forward with a charming smile, as if it's supposed to have an effect on me.  “Have you heard about Pinkie Pie's party tomorrow night at Sugarcube Corner?”

“I'm afraid that you're going to have to be more specific, Miss Rarity.”

“Heeheehee—She's celebrating the return of Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash from their most recent trip to Fillydelphia.  Word is that Ponyville's latest, happy couple is about to make a big announcement!”

“You don't say...”  The little filly is still staring.  Judging from her silken, curled mane-style, her family must be pretty rich.  She should know better.  So many ponies should know better.  I realize Rarity is staring at me too right now, but in a different way. “I... really don't think I will be attending the party.”

“Oh?  But we would love to have you, darling.  You were always such a pleasure to be around, and with all that extended labor you've been doing at the hospital, surely you could afford yourself a little respite!”

“It looks like she's got a dry eraser on her head!” the little filly finally says what she's thinking.

“Sweetie Belle!  Honestly!  What did we discuss before we trotted over here—?!”  Rarity pauses in the middle of chiding her young companion in order to chide herself with a heavy grimace.  “Erm... Anyways, do think about it, Miss Lyra.  We would be ever so blessed by your presence.”

“Yeah.  I'll think about it.”  I won't.

“Very well then!  A pleasant evening to you!”  Rarity smiles at me, and all but bites the filly's ear off her skull as she escorts her away in a fierce canter.  “We need to have a talk!”

“But sis!  It's so funny looking—”

“Not another word!  I swear, mother and father knew better than to raise a blabbermouth!”

They fade away into the bleeding sunset.  It's the first time I've felt calm all day.  I forget how hungry I am.  Perhaps that's a good thing.  I finish my purchase and trot the dull, crimson way home.





Twenty bits spent on meals, and I don't make myself a single bite to eat.  The warm shower and fireplace isn't helping either.  I don't even know why I'm recording this.  If anything, I can at least prove that Twilight was right.  It is getting easier to switch the channel on and off.  I just wish I could predict when I really need it.

Perhaps now is such a time.  My lyre isn't hanging from the hook.  It's in my hooves.  Cold and smooth.  Curved and shiny.  It fits perfectly into the crook of my hooves, but it never used to be like this.

It used to float.  It used to dance in the sunlight.  The cool drizzle of afternoon rain used to bathe it, used to bathe us, when I played it for you with the natural ease of my telekinesis.  You would giggle and laugh.  You would tell me that I was being lazy.  I told you that all artists are lazy, for true genius is like lying in the womb and being fed your muse.  Now, with this stupid cap on my horn, I struggle to hold this thing in my hooves and all I can think of is lying in your embrace instead.

The sofa is a poor substitute.  The crackling fireplace is nothing like your humming voice.  I reach a shaky hoof into the forest of strings stretched before me and all that comes out is dissonant nonsense.  Where is my audience?  Where is the pair of pearlescent blue eyes that shimmered in the aura of my magical instrumentation?

The moonlight wafting through my living room windows is pale.  There is nothing for it to bounce off of.  Nothing but me and the vibrating strings as I pluck my numb hooves through the cold bands like a foal trying to walk for the first time.  These hooves are worthless.  I should have practiced playing this way long ago.  I could have practiced playing like this, but not any longer.

You're not here to listen to me.  I cannot make music without you.  I can only make sobs.

It always begins like this.  Cold as knives, hot as lava.  The tears pierce my eyelids like an infant bird clawing its way out of the shell.  So many nights.  So much cold sweat.  I know it's only been half a year, but the baptism hasn't stopped.  The only true sign of progress is that it happens three times a week instead of seven times.  You wouldn't know this unicorn.  You would hardly even recognize her.

I can only wonder, can only hope, that you would have loved her.

And now I'm at the point of no return.  I curl into myself.  The fuzzy gray living room is expanding.  The fireplace is a million miles away, racing off and trying to find you in the darkness.  I wish I was running along with it.  Instead, I am stuck here, drowning in the echoes of my own sobs, wishing your voice was suffocating me instead.





I wake up and my hooves aren't mine.  I can never explain it.  I hate myself sometimes.

Daylight is too bright.  I think Princess Celestia is a masochist.  I may be miserable, but I'd never drown myself in infinite sunlight.

Damn, my hooves ache.  I need a bath before I do anything today.





My muscles ache, but this time it is a good ache.  I stretch and I heave and I finally slap the first of several toilet stalls into place.  The cold sarcophagus of the partially-constructed hospital wing engulfs me as I engulf myself in my job.  I take a step back and watch—under a victorious sheen of sweat—as a freshly erected partition stands before me.  I think I may have made the doorframe a little too low, but I always preferred that anyways.  There's nothing I hate more when I'm in a toilet stall than seeing the hooves of users on either side of me.

I should get to work on the next few stalls.  I realize I'm taking a long time to set things up.  It hardly matters.  That's the great thing about volunteering; I get to create perfection in my own time.

And then I remember my regularly scheduled session with Twilight is in an hour, and I sigh again.





“But are they all sad thoughts?”  Twilight asks.  Her face is long.  Her violet eyes are soft and warm and inviting.  The library is like a bright torch around her.  Lanterns glimmer and wood varnish shines.  Her little dragon is nowhere to be found.  I'm fine with that.  His voice annoys me.  “That is to say, do they only serve to make you feel lonesome?”

“They make me feel like a lot of things, Twilight.  They are what they are.  Lone strolls through the park.  Picnics by the lake.  Our favorite spot on the bridge where we stopped to chat and stare at the babbling brook.  In the evening time, in summer, just before sunset, we'd sit out in the grass outside our house and watch ponies walk by on their way home.  I think we did it not just because we were happy, but because we were proud.  We wanted everypony to see us... to see us so blissful, and it delighted us to see smiles on their faces as they passed by.  Do you suppose that's arrogant?”

Twilight shakes her head, her lavender lips curved.  “I was one of those ponies who would walk by, Lyra.  Seeing you two made me happy.  I had long dreamed—and still do—that I too could be so happy sometime with a special somepony, studies permitting, of course.  Heeheehee...”

“I've always thought that happiness is something you get not by searching for it.  If you spend so much time looking, you get caught up in the pretense, and then the cheerfulness you finally do achieve is nothing but a pretensive facade.”

“Very eloquently put, Lyra.  But is true happiness something that can be so logically compartmentalized?  Never mind what you thought or still think.  What about how you feel?”

“What's the difference?”

“Well, the difference—if I may be so bold to suggest—is that you were once a unicorn who wasn't afraid to feel, and ever since that one day in the concert hall when your telekinetic powers went haywire, you've relied on cold logic and unemotional thoughts to govern yourself.  Never mind the suppression cap on your horn, Lyra.  I think this new 'you' is what's keeping you from truly expressing yourself.”

I sigh.  There's not enough oxygen in the world to weather these sessions.  I feel fine.  I have been feeling fine.  The long nights and tears are just a side effect of existence.  I know that now.  I wonder if Twilight ever will.

“Just what do you want from me?”

“What I want is not important, Lyra.  I'm just your magical therapist.”  She smiles and leans on the edge of her pillow seat.  The wooden room is like a cold box, trapping me with her grin.  “And I think you've gone on for long enough thinking.  Just how do you feel, Lyra?”

I gaze at her.  If only my eyes could tell her everything.  This might have shattered her less.

“I feel like she's never really left me...”





I feel like you're still there.  You're around the corner in the hallway.  You're just behind the bedroom door.  You're standing at the far side of the kitchen and on the other side of the sofa.  Every time I try to get to you, you trot away and giggle in silence.  You think this is a game, and I do not blame you for it.  There is as much innocence in death as there is before birth.  Life makes infants and corpses of us all.

When I'm in the marketplace, you're right there beside me, laughing at the types of vegetables I pour into my bag.  You try to outpace my hooftrots on the way to the hospital.  I've always had a larger gait than you, and it amused us both to no ends every time you've tried to deny it.

In the hospital, as I work alone on the latest, lone construction project, it is then that I feel the contours of your sad frown matching the grayness of those desolate walls.  You know what I know: that I should be performing music.  It cannot be helped.  If I take this cap off, I'll send another ceiling flying off its foundation.  I could even hurt ponies, and neither of us would want that.

I know that it's for your sake that I leave the lyre hanging on the wall, so that it's there in open sight every time I walk in through the door, just like you would be.  It is also a broken and dead thing, like my hooves are—or should be, for they're all I have now.  All the magic is gone, as well as all the joy.  I know this.  I can conclude this and accept this in an instant, but it wouldn't make a difference. So long as you're around me, in some effluent shadow of the past or another, I know that the truth is not just for me to realize, but for you to realize as well.

I can only hope that someday...




“Someday she will learn, as I have learned, that life is far too short to afford precious things.”  I shrug.  This is as real as anything I've ever sweated or sobbed to in bed.  The Ponyville library is merely a vessel for the unbreakable epitaphs of time.  “Until then, I can feel whatever I want to feel.  But, to think of anything else but her, is but a dream... until the very fragments of that dream can be swept away, along with her.  I know more than anypony that this will take time.  A nightmare is only a nightmare as soon as you wake up from it, and I'm trying very hard—Twilight—but I'm afraid that my eyes are still closed.  I'm living this world asleep.  I don't know what it will take to wake me up, but I'm glad that you're willing to help.”

I haven't realized how long I've been talking until I see the last of several tears streaking halfway down Twilight's face.  She sniffles, her face contorting.  I can see how professional she's trying to be.  I realize that this is as much a journey for her as it is for me.  If I had any self-respect, I would have hired a psychiatric expert from Canterlot months ago instead of her, but that's assuming I ever really wanted to be cured.

She reaches forward and plants a lavender hoof gently on my shoulder, smiling at me.  The gesture is as artificial as her tears; she's just too naïve to know it.  I play silent as she delivers her earnest words to me across the library, “Your love is a beautiful thing, Lyra.  I have no doubt that she loved you just as much, and if she was still alive... and saw you like this... she would let you go, Lyra.  She would do the same thing for you as you would do for her, so that you can live on.  What greater love is that?”

I look deep into Twilight's eyes, and suddenly I see your eyes instead, pearlescent blue oceans that once twitched and brimmed beneath me, that clung onto every visual piece of my sobbing face as the light went out in your soul and the warmth was drained from your limbs.  I held your porcelain shell for what must have been centuries, and no matter how loud my wails were, they could not drown out the sacred serenade of your final, fainting breath.

Yes.  There is greater love.

I barely notice Twilight has gotten up until I see her wandering back from a table beset with tissues.  She smiles at me, attempting to dredge me up from the black mire of our session.  If only things were that simple.  “I have an idea, Lyra.  There's going to be a party this afternoon...”

I can already feel my ears drooping on either side of the horn-cap's weight.  “You don't say...”

“Pinkie Pie's inviting everypony to attend.  There's going to be lots of treats, lots of chatter, maybe even some games.”  She squats down on folded limbs beside me.  “And... I really think you should attend.”

She knows my answer even before I do. “I really don't think that's a good idea, Twilight.”

“Lyra, there's more in life worth absorbing your thoughts than volunteer work at the hospital.    How many months have you been in therapy, and in all of that time have you bothered to mingle with other ponies?  You know, like you used to?”

I sigh.  The room is full of books and still there aren't enough words to formulate an excuse.  “I used to do a lot of things, Twilight.  None of them are all that easy to do now.”

“Which is why you should try, Lyra.  Perhaps you'll discover that it's not so hard to...”  She briefly giggled and smiled wider.  “...to be cheerful, just for the sake of the feeling.”  She winked.  “We are trying to get you to feel again, right?”

I hate it.  I hate it when she speaks in plural-first-person.  If only she knew how grating it was.  But she doesn't, and I can't fault her for ignorance.  When all the life is drained from a pony by a single, traumatic experience, the gritty parts left over are the most fertile, and they rarely grow fruit trees.  For the longest time, I realized that I knew more than she did about all this, in that I didn't bother to try to know much at all.  This really is her journey.  The unicorn's entire legacy in Ponyville is her journey.  I should be annoyed by this, and yet I can't help but pity her... in much the same way she thinks she's pitying me.  Ponies who are the most lost are the ones who don't even know it.  That's something that can't be helped, but it can be humored.

“Alright, Twilight,” I say with a groan.  “I'll attend, for what it's worth.”

“That's good, Lyra.  That's very good,” she says with a  bright smile, then points her horn towards mine like an extra appendage.  “And be sure to switch the channeling spell on while you're there.  If this experiment of ours is to be of any success, then you should record the good moments as much as the random or unpleasant ones.”





Pink balloons.  Pastel streamers.  Confetti and horns and bright lights.  Now everything isn't just random and unpleasant, it's random and unpleasant and annoying.  Pinkie Pie is at the center of it all, and that explains everything.  I try to ignore her like I ignore the rotation of the Earth.  I sit in the corner, the quintessential wallflower.  I've tried to be fashionably late, but it hasn't been late enough.  Time is ticking, beating against my eardrums like the fast-tempo music warbling off the record player.  I want out of here like a newborn.  These hooves of mine can't crush my skull, but they keep rubbing my temple in the humble attempt.  Why in Celestia's name am I recording this again?





Ponies.  Lots of ponies.

Dear Luna, how can there be so many?  I don't think even the streets of Ponyville had this many equines at any given time.  I'm starting to think they're all trying too hard.  Even the pegasi are floating just beneath the ceiling of Sugarcube corner to make room for the bulging crowd.  What could possibly garner this much attention?

I look at the banner one more time with as much disbelief as I have the last dozen times.  It's a congratulatory message to Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash.  I'm not even sure what the “congratulations” is for.  Did I miss it?  I somehow don't doubt it.

Rarity's at least two dozen manes across the eatery from me.  For the umpteenth time, she makes eye contact and attempts to sashay over.  Then, for the umpteenth time squared, she's interrupted by some pony acquaintance or another who distracts her long enough for the mechanical absurdity to rinse and repeat.  It's the most tense situation I've ever been in my life.  At least it distracts me from Pinkie Pie.

I sigh.  I'd rather be drowned in sweat and tears than this.  At least there is punch to look forward to.  Tears and punch—they seldom ever cross paths, but I am thankful for them both nonetheless.  I glance at the clock.  It's two hours until midnight.  There's a shrill scream from across Sugarcube Corner that breaks the rhythmically predictable music of Vinyl Scratch, and I glance up in time to see Rainbow Dash attempting to disentangle a tiny green alligator from Fluttershy's tail while frowning at an embarrassed Pinkie Pie.  The room vibrates.  Giggles and confetti.  Two more hours.  Two more hours.  Two more hours.





“Fillies and gentlecolts!” Rainbow Dash's voice booms over the neverending cacophony of pastel-colored jubilee.  She hovers in the center of the room with the demure, wilted shape of Fluttershy at her side.  “If we could have your attention, please!”

Am I still awake?  Unfortunately, I think the answer is “yes.”  Midnight is an arrogant mistress, and I'm already plotting her murder.  The room becomes briefly, blissfully quiet as several ponies turn to face the two guests of honor in the center of the sugary place.

“As you all well know, Pinkie threw us this wild and crazy shindig to let us get something epic off our chests!”  Rainbow Dash smiles proudly and throws a grin Fluttershy's way while shaking the yellow pegasus' shoulders.  “Go on, Fluttershy.  Tell 'em the good news!”

“Mmmm...”  The mare's platinum cheeks morph into a rosy hue.  I think something is about to explode from deep inside her, and she's too scared to prevent it.

Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and promptly rescues the situation.  “Ahem... Fine... I have a special announcement to make!”  She hugs Fluttershy even tighter and grins victoriously towards the crowd.  “Fluttershy and I spent a week in Fillydelphia visiting a foster home.  We've decided to adopt our first child by the end of the month!  We're starting a family!”

Roaring cheers.  Whistles and giggles and gleeful chants.  My ears hurt.  I hear Applejack's twangy caterwauling for the first time.  I didn't even know she was here.  From across the room, Twilight smiles at me, as if this was somehow supposed to be “our moment” as much as it was Rainbow's and Fluttershy's.  I don't get it.

No.  That's a lie.  I do get it.  You would smack me for denying so.

I really don't want to be here right now.  I thought I'd be gone by midnight, but that awesome declaration has undeniably thrown an extra hour of euphoria into the wild party.  I'm starting to feel too exhausted to bother being polite.  The cap on my horn weighs heavier and heavier.  When was the last time I ate?  I'm so full of punch at the moment; I might build a toilet stall right where I'm sitting just to give myself an excuse.

“We... uhm... We've already selected the little filly,” Fluttershy's voice finally breaks through her iron-tight lips.  “The infant's name is 'Rosy Skies', and her late parents were Clousdalian.  It... It seemed only fitting...”

“Well, I for one, am happy for you!”  Twilight Sparkle walks up, speaks up, and telekinetically raises a glass of punch.  “If I could propose a toast to the new and proud foster parents of Ponyville...”

Yeah.  Now's a good time to stop recording.





Ow.  What did I just bump into?  I was on my way out the door, finally, when—Oh, Pinkie Pie.

“Aren't you excited, Lyra?!”  She jumps and jumps.  She's in my face.  Celestia alive, what's wrong with ponies these days?  Do we really need to breathe on each other?  “Sure beats banging tools around a dusty, half-built bathroom, huh?!  Come on and say 'hello' to the newly adoptive parents!”

“Pinkie Pie, I'm happy for them.  But I think I really need to go—”

“Well, here's your opportunity to tell them just how happy you are!”  Pinkie is practically dragging the two confused pegasi over to me.  “Fluttershy!  Dashie!  Look who showed up just for you!”

The same euphoria that dribbles off of Pinkie Pie's face is hardly showing in Fluttershy's and Rainbow Dash's.  As soon as they glance at me, their eyes tilt up, twitch, then force themselves back down to look me square in the face.  They're immune to the hysterical cloud engulfing their pink friend, and I respect them for that.  I truly do.

“Oh... H-Hey, Lyra!”  Rainbow Dash's smile cracks almost as much as her voice does half the time.

“It is oh so special to have you here,” Fluttershy says in a lulling voice.  Golden silk to my ears.  For a brief moment, I'm almost calm enough to be the kind of party guest they deserve to be graced with.  “After all you've been through, it's encouraging to see you spending time with other ponies again.  I do hope you've managed to have some fun.”

“Twilight made you come, didn't she?” Rainbow's eyebrows raise interrogatively.

“Shhh!” Fluttershy nudges her partner with a surprising show of strength, then smiles my way again.  “I'm sure you heard the big announcement.  At first, I really didn't want to make a big show out of it, but—”

“But how could you not party over something as awesome and amazing and super sweet as Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy adopting a new, baby foal?!”  Pinkie Pie's head shook, and her explosive hair with it.  How can anypony stand to let her mane get so tangled and unkempt?  Even in my darkest days as of late, my mane has remained straight.  Shorter than normal, perhaps, but straight.  “As soon as they told me, I knew that every other pony in Ponyville had to hear it with surprise fanfare!  Because any tiny soul lucky enough to be blessed by Dashie's and Fluttershy's parenting deserves no less of a celebration!  I'm already planning Rosy Skies' first birthday party, second, third—Oh!  Don't forget the cutsie-nera!  Of course, that's—what?—nine or ten years down the line, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared!  Just like my grandma said!  'The best celebration is the one met with great anticipation!'  And, yes, I know that totally makes her sound like a zebra shaman, but I'm pretty sure if she had stripes under that pink coat, I would have known by the time Octavia and I were old enough to ride a bike—”

“I think she gets the picture, Pinkie,” Rainbow Dash says, planting a blue hoof over the party host's muzzle.  She smirks my way, her eyes surprisingly soft for the notoriously brash weather flier of Ponyville.  “On your way home, Lyra?  We won't stop you.”

It's the first blessing I've had all day.  “I'm glad for you two.”  I really mean it.  Or, at least, I would have really meant it.  It is the right thing to say, after all.  My horn is so heavy.  There's a warm shower waiting for me somewhere.  I'm surprised to actually be looking forward to it again.  “I... uhm... I'm sorry that I wasn't there for your wedding reception six months ago.  Things were... well...”

“We know, Lyra,” Fluttershy nods.  There's a sudden desperation to be seen in how close she's hugging her partner from the side.  She knows she can't hide it from me, from my eyes.  “And if ever you need somepony to talk to, Rainbow and I are here.”

“Oh!  You guys should really get together and talk sometime!”  Pinkie Pie is again everywhere, everywhere in my face, yanking her glance back and forth between me and the two pegasi.  “What happier place is there to be than in a conversation with a loving couple on the eve of their next best day ever!”

“Right...”  I shudder.  The weight of the horn-cap carries my glance down.  The floor tile of Sugarcube Corner is suddenly and unexpectedly interesting to me.  “Well, if you don't mind, I'd best be off—”

“It's an even better day than when they got married!”  Pinkie Pie beams.  “Cuz they're starting a family now!  Against all odds, they're spreading their love into uncharted... erm... waters of joy and stuff!”

“Pinkie Pie...” Fluttershy's voice spins through the air.  It's a trembling thing.  “Uhm... I-I think that's enough...”

“And I can't wait to see the little scamp grow up!  To think of her being a combined bubble of awesome and gentleness because of you two!  It's like heaven's gift to Ponyville!  Don't you think so, Lyra?”

I can't see the floor anymore.  The bright tiles are merging.  Blue and pink.  Your mane hair used to glow in the toasty light of the fireplace.  You turned and gazed at me.  You asked me what I thought.  For a moment, you actually assumed I hadn't been listening to you.  But I heard every single word that you said.  And I told you that I would only go through with it if it was a colt, because I've always wanted to play catch with a kid and this world is too damned cruel to fillies who want to telekinetically pitch softballs.  You smiled at me, tears in your eyes, as if what I said was the sweetest reply you could ever hear.  You would have kissed me, but then you started coughing.  You started coughing and you never stopped.  You never stopped.  You never...

“Lyra?  Pfft!  Hellooooo?  Don't be a rudey-rudey-tomfooler-dudey at the newlyweds' biggest celebration ever!”

“I... I need to go...”

“Heehee!  Come on!  Don't be shy—”  She reaches over.  Her hooves could just as well be red hot pokers.

So I bat them away like the claws that they are.  Somepony is yelling and she sounds like me.  “Will you buzz off, you stupid, overgrown child?!  I said I was happy for them, wasn't that enough?!”  A record scratches to silence somewhere.  Every breath in the crowded place is like a falling pile of dull pebbles.  Somehow, I don't think that avalanche has quite ended.  “I'm happy that they're so lucky!  I'm happy that they're both alive and healthy!  And I'm happy they've got a little bundle of joy to add to the colorful mess!”  Pinkie Pie is lying on her back, her legs curled, her blue eyes blinking wide.  This is what clues me into the fact that I'm leering over her.  The horn's shadow above her has a bulbous end, like somepony's waving a hammer over her flinching features.  “What more do you want from me?!  I only came to this party because I was asked to!  Some ponies just aren't in the mood to celebrate!  Some ponies have lost enough that they know better than to party over things that haven't happened yet!  So will you get a frickin' clue and lay off?!”

Pinkie Pie stares up at me, her eyes wide.  For the briefest moment—obscured by my heaving, hyperventilating vision—she looks like the shadow of the annoying creature I'm familiar with.  Perhaps it's the weight of this horn-cap straining at my eyesight, but I can almost swear her hair is straighter than normal, a precious and porcelain thing that looks as though it’s been shattered before.

“Lyra...?” she murmurs, her voice like a lanternlight suddenly about to be snuffed out.  “I... I know a thing or two about losing what I love.”  She gulps, and her next breath is a far stronger thing than I could ever muster.  “But I've chosen to laugh at all the darkness in my life.  After so many months of Twilight helping you, what have you chosen?”

“Pinkie!” a lavender unicorn's voice barks from across the room.

Everyone flinches, as if expecting me to explode.  But I haven't.  After all, you wouldn't have let me, and suddenly I realize that.  It hurts more than anything I've pretended to be sorrowful about over the last half-a-year.  I gaze up at the room, and everypony makes up a blank mosaic of hollow shells, and yet they're so full of life.  I'm afraid I'll be too numb to the fires in their eyes to ever be sentient enough to envy what they have.

Anger is a good enough shroud to escape under.  “You know what, screw all of you.  I'm doing rather fine for myself, thank you very much.”  I choose to make my escape swiftly, darting out of the depths of Sugarcube Corner with a swish of my gray tail.  But upon the exit, I trudge into the fields of failure, and I spin about in time to catch their eyes aimed at what I know they're too selfish to pry themselves away from.  “And stop staring at my friggin' horn!  It's not going to hop out and choke you to death!”  I shout, pointing at the offending promontory on my skull, along with its arcanium cap.  “As a matter of fact, this stupid plug is the one thing keeping me from going all Discord on your flanks!  So would it kill you to be friggin' grateful?!”

Every face suddenly turns from me, all except for one.  It's a genuine sadness instead of superficial disappointment that blemishes Twilight Sparkle's expression.  I really, really don't look forward to our next appointment.  I turn and leave the party in a huff.  Life is a masquerade ball from the get-go.  Maybe someday, one of those ponies will understand that, and realize they're just as guilty as I am of not being able to hold in all the pretense.





I arrive home under the cover of darkness and the first thing I see is my lyre.  That's what sets me off.  I slam the door shut.  I pace loudly across the living room on clopping hooves.  No amount of walls, no number of kitchen cabinets, no dazzling array of doors—bedroom doors, closet doors, or basement doors—can hold in my seething breaths.  Suddenly, it's not Twilight's fault.  It's not Fluttershy's or Rainbow Dash's fault.  It's not even Pinkie Pie's fault.  It's all that damnable lyre, and since I can't in very good sanity rip off two patches of skin from my flanks, I do the next best thing.

When the musical instrument slams into the hearth, it actually bounces off like it was made of rubber.  I'm almost too surprised to be angry.  It's with a hazy disposition that I find myself jumping up and down on top of the musical instrument, mangling it beyond recognition, bending the strings at odd angles, squeezing every drop of syphonous melody out of the platinum corpse that I used to hold value in, that I used to mark the days of joy with, that I used to think could paraphrase my past and future into a single ballad of hope and cohesion.

Forty seconds into my dastardly deed, I am screaming.  It is a long and violent thing, far lengthier than it needs to be, and I realize that the reason for this is because I am trying to drown out the inevitable, but I can't.  I don't have the breath to do it.  I don't have the sheer mortal willpower or awesome strength.  I fall to my knees, and as soon as my lungs are empty, my hope is gone, for you have caught up with me.  You cannot be masked by screams.  You cannot be washed away by tears.  You are behind every door that I open, and it only ever leads into an empty room christened by all of your shadows and none of your smiles.

With my sobs, I beg for you to hold me.  With my tears, I plead and I entreat you.  You answer with nothing, for you are nothing, and I will only ever be half of nothing... so long as I am alive here without you.

So I live in this house, before a dead fireplace, collapsed in a heap of my own crying breaths, trying to piece together the parts of me you once thought was precious, that you were once so passionately willing to marry, that you would even have raised a brand new life with.  Instead, there is what there always has been, with or without you, with or without us.  There is death, nothing but it.  I cry myself to sleep, not even bothering to crawl myself into the bedroom, and I practice for that which I've learned to expect nothing less of.





Golden light.  Morning mist and painful hunger.  Did I sleep in?  Why am I on the floor?  My face is drier than it should be.  I was crying over something last night.  I should take a shower and make myself breakfast before I remember what it is that I was upset about.

Wait.  My lyre?

Oh Celestia dang it.  Celestia dang it to Hell.

Maybe I'll choke on a bowl of oats.





I didn't choke.  Orderlies and nurses flurry past me as I march down the sterile hallway of Ponyville Hospital, past the emergency room, past distant and murmuring visitors clustered around loved ones in the throes of panic an agony.

Nurse Red Heart is up ahead.  I briefly wonder if she caught wind of my little speech at Sugarcube Corner.  She takes one glance at me and from the look in her face, I know that she has.

“Lyra!  You're... here today!”

“The bathroom won't finish itself.”  I've already got the utility closet open.  I grab my tools.  My hoofsaw.  My bucket... Just what do I use the bucket for anyways?  I dunno.  “I'm taking long enough as it is.  There's no point in delaying any longer.”

“Oh Lyra, both you and I know this isn't about that wing of the hospital being finished.”  She smiles.  Her teeth are whiter than white.  I really wish she'd stop aiming them at me.  “You should be taking your time.  I... I really think you deserve a day off.”

“These are my days off, Nurse Red Heart.  They all are.  Now if you'll excuse me—”

“But you look like a mess!  Did you even get any sleep last night—?”

“I slept as I always slept!  Cold, dead and stupid!”  I snarl, forcing even the patients to glance my way.  “Now let me do my work and save the bedside manner for those in bed!”  I'm gone long before anypony can call the cops.  If only the day could get that exciting.





I hate this bathroom stall with a passion.  I've sliced the fiberglass into what I thought was an appropriate length, but somehow it's even longer than when I first measured it.  I don't know what's actually bending: my eyesight or the laws of time and space.  Maybe parasprites are to blame.  Whatever.  You would have liked that joke.

No.  No more sighing.  No more tears.  You're not here.  I'm here.  The toilets are here.  The sawdust is here, and I'm about to make more.

I slap the fiberglass wall onto two overturned blocks and brace them in place.  I grasp the hoofsaw in one limb and lean over the plank, my tail facing the line of tarped windows behind me.  Life is as simple as you build it or destroy it.  I have a straight line marked out for me.  All I need to do is cut along the meridian and I'll have this damnable partition fixed just right.

As soon as I begin slicing, the rhythmic grinding noise fills my ears like the hushed murmur of a dying party.  I groan inwardly.  It's still too early to feel guilty about last night.  The anger is still fresh, still righteous.  I should lean on the crutches of my passion more.  Maybe that's what Twilight means when she tells me that I should “feel” more.  But if that's true, then she wouldn't like what I feel.  She wouldn't like this sullen spirit boiling underneath it all, waiting to sprout its explosive ambush.

I have chosen, Pinkie Pie.  I have chosen what to do with my life.  What has that cotton-candy-maned abomination of pink ever done to earn the right to choose?  She lives in Mr. and Mrs. Cake's attic like a discarded piece of furniture, and I'm willing to bet her tears are worth just as much dust.  I don't care what she thinks she's lost.  If she goes around shoving her grin into other ponies' faces like that, she certainly hasn't learned anything from it.

I grit my teeth.  The plank is refusing me.  Everything is refusing me.  I saw harder and harder, slicing the fiberglass apart like I would wish to slice apart this blasted day long before it's even started.  Things can never be simple, and yet they are.  Why is it that I'm the only living thing in Ponyville to see it?  The lights are either on or off.  What we call “precious” are really just illusions, attributes we assign to things that we are too afraid to lose.  Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy think as though they're adopting something precious.  It hasn't occurred to them yet that they could lose it even before they have it.  How could they?  What has Fluttershy lost?  She's the daughter of a famous, rich Equestrian physician.  And what about Rainbow Dash?  She still thinks she can join the Wonderbolts.  She isn't even remotely prepared to face the undeniable loss in front of her.

Precious things are only precious because they stand to no longer exist as soon as we comprehend them.  I almost want to teach this to everypony, but what's the use?  They live off the fumes of blissful, childish dreams, whether it’s becoming a famous fashion icon or a Wonderbolt or... or... Princess Celestia's third ovary.  It doesn't matter.

I saw harder and harder.  Flakes of fiberglass are bathing my rear hooves.  I've been bathed in worse things before.  Judging by how long I'll be living in this stupid, clueless town, I'm bound to be bathed in even more.  How dare they all stare at me like some sort of freak?  And how dare Pinkie Pie call me rude?

I don't feel rude.  I feel cold—sharp, jagged knives of icy cold.  It's gnawing its way into my left hoof, and suddenly it blossoms into something far deeper and far redder beneath the frigid exterior.  This is not cold.  This is pain.  Lots and lots of pain.

I've just sliced my left arm open.

“Nnnngh—Aaaugh!”

I jerk back, and a red fountain jerks with me.  Bathes me.  Trips me as I sprawl onto my haunches and squirm into the recesses of my suddenly soaked self.  I clutch my left limb with my right hoof.  The gash is deep.  I look into it and white bone looks back.  A shrill cry, foalish and floundering.  I never knew my voice could reach such a high pitch.  My body is stinging with this jarring pain.  My entire skeleton vibrates.  I feel like the arcanium cap is going to fly off my horn.  In some way, I wish it had.

“Mmmmmnngh—Damn it!  Damn it to hell!”

I stumble up to my hooves and kick the bucket.  I finally know what that thing's for.  It clatters beneath the indifferent line of mirrors as I stumble through a throbbing bathroom of anguish, leaking red beneath me.  Dear Luna, it's an absolute fountain.  I feel it spurting out of me with each wrenching pulse.  I'm emptying myself everywhere.  How important was the part of me I just lacerated?  At least I'm in a hospital.  Somepony somewhere must be hearing my screams.  I don't care how deep into the expanded wing I am.

Still, eveypony is so immeasurably far away.  I'd give anything to be blinded by Nurse Red Heart's bright white teeth right about now, if only it would mean the end to this slick, crimson suffering.  I hobble forward on three limbs, screeching at myself like an albatross pierced by an arrow, and just as unbalanced as a clipped bird would be flightless.

I look ahead.  The world's fogging through tears I'm too ashamed to acknowledge.  All I see is a black obelisk, the empty nothing encompassing a door.  I fall towards it, collapsing, and brace myself with the last thing I can—my injured limb.  I let out a shriek as my weight crushes the fresh wound, plastering the doorframe with my inside's juices.  It's all too much... too much blood.  This isn't good.  I'm scared.  I'm so scared.  I shut my eyes and lean against the bloodied doorframe.  You... You...





You used to hold me at times like this.  I was a grown mare, and still I was scared of ridiculous things like thunderstorms or shrieking cats in the middle of the night.  I always hated cats.  When you asked me why, I pretended like I hadn't said anything, and simply surrendered myself into the hug I had forced you to give me under the covers.

I smiled victoriously to myself, and judging from how long you held me into the whimpering recesses of the night, I think you felt like it was a victory worth celebrating too.  It's been nearly half a year, and still it surprises me how well I can remember the feel of your breath against my mane, and how much it warmed me.





The pain is gone.  The surprise of this is what opens my eyes, and I am even further shocked to see that every light in the hospital is out.  I know that this is the extended wing, and things are still undergoing construction, but I don't see why the rest of the hospital's staff would have switched all the lights off at this time of the day.  Surely they know that I'd be working here.  Maybe I actually ticked off Nurse Red Heart earlier.  Even so, I doubt she'd do something as petty as ruin my volunteer work by playing with the circuit breakers.

Wait, my pain is gone.

I glance at my hoof.  In all those panicked seconds of bleeding a moment ago, I didn't feel like vomiting as much as I do now.  My limb has stopped bleeding, but the wound is still there.  It's almost as if the blood has patched itself up, performing a week's worth of scabbing up in a single blink.  That can't be right.  Did I pass out and wake up?  If so, could I have done all of it in a standing position?

I glance at myself.  I'm still leaning against the doorframe, but somehow that is different too.  The wood looks older, splintery, decrepit.  Wasn't the foundation for this laid less than two months ago?

I turn around and glance at the bathroom.  Now I know something's screwy.  The two bathroom stalls that I erected just yesterday are in the same place as I left them, but they look old.  I mean really old.  There're mildew strains on them and flakes of shattered fibreglass spilled all over the toilets.  It's as though the bathroom had been left unattended for weeks... months... no, screw that, years.

My body swivels about once more, and a faded image stares back at me.  I blink.  The tarps have cleanly fallen off the mirrors of the bathroom.  The sinks are hanging off the walls of shattered tile.  Rust and sediment is pouring out of every faucet.  I stroll up to the mirror and glance curiously at the figure beneath all the grime.  I raise a hoof, wipe a stretch of glass clean, and gasp so hard at what I see that I nearly trip over myself.

The arcanium cap is gone.  My horn is barren.  Oh Dear Celestia, this is bad!  I can't control my magic!  I'll tear this wing of the hospital to shreds!

I fall into a shivering heap on the ground and clutch my skull, whimpering.  It's a pathetic sight, I imagine, but a necessary one, for as long as it lasts.  And it doesn't last long, for none of my fears are coming true.  Everything is still.  Everything is desolate.  Slowly, pensively, I stand back up, blinking curiously at the reflection once more.

The cap is gone, and yet the suppression fields are still active.  Either that, or I don't need the suppression spell anymore.  But that can't be right!  My head still feels heavy.  Everything about this room is twice as sterile as normal.

Wait, can I even be recording anymore?  If the cap was on, I know I sure as heck would be at this point.  My heart won't stop beating.  I look around and around at the tattered lengths of the room... and realize that somehow I can see the tattered lengths of the room.  There's a dim light in this place after all, a gray light.  I gaze up at where I know the one lone window to be.

The thin, horizontal slit is fogged over.  The plated window is plastered over with milky white dust.  Whatever is beyond it, I cannot make out anything but a pale miasma.  Was it supposed to be overcast this morning?  What's going on here?

I glance at the bathroom, at my dried-up wound, at my plug-less reflection.  I suddenly don't want to be in this place anymore.  I really, really don't.

Turning about, I shuffle out of the bathroom and into the inner depths of the hospital.





Something is wrong.  Something is very, very wrong.

Everypony is gone.  They must have fled in a flash, for they left everything in disarray.  Even that, I realize, is a cheap excuse of failed logic.

All of the electricity is out.  None of the life support machines are switched on.  The usual, beeping cadence of the hospital monitors are dead and mute.  There's no shuffling of hooves because there are no ponies to produce them.  The place is barren.  There is nopony in sight.  The nurse stations are covered with tattered bits of papery debris.  The gurneys and patient beds are threadbare and moth-eaten.  Chips of paint have fallen onto the emergency room and the waiting area beyond.

“Hello?!”  I call out.  Either this is the most elaborate, epic-scaled practical joke ever perpetrated on a unicorn in the history of Equestria, or I was distracted from a severely terrible event that took place without me.  “Anypony there?!  What gives?!”

My voice would normally echo in a place this large and empty, but something drowns it out.  Everything is silent, save for the lonesome squeak of a bent wheelchair's overturned spokes lingering in front of me.  I become faintly aware of a fine, thin soup filtering through the air of the lobby.  Squinting, I gaze towards the stretch of windows.  They're abnormally bright in the wake of all this darkness and desolation.  Again, a dull, pale glow permeates the world outside.  If something terrible has happened, it's likely that everypony ran out in a hurry.  I decide to follow suit.  Atop clamoring hooves, I rush towards the front doors of the hospital.  They refuse to slide open for me.  In a sudden panic, I'm pushing against them, shoving with all my might.  After a trembling of my muscles, the doors give way.





It's bright.  And yet it isn't.  My eyes adjust, and soon I wish they hadn't.  The streets of Ponyville are empty.  White mists.  Dead air.  Floating fog.  I can barely see ten feet in front of me.  Did the weather fliers crash a cloud into the middle of the village?

Then I see debris.  Clumps of rusted metal.  Discarded shreds of paper.  Splintery bits of wood.  The normally brown street is littered with the bric-a-brac of... of... what?  Did the town explode?  If so, why didn't I hear anything?

I step out into the mist.  It is quieter than quiet.  A pony could hear the decay of butterfly wings against the canvas of this noiselessness and somehow it would resemble thunder.  Suddenly, I’m starting to not detest the gentle murmur of a Sugarcube Corner gathering quite so much.  I am alone.  Truly and utterly alone.  Without the secure cloak of my usual bitterness, this stabs me in a funny way.  I am no longer sad or angry.  I am simply scared.

No.  I just need to calm down.  Look around.  Think.  Record.  Think and record.  Something bad has happened, and I need to chronicle all of it... assuming I still can.  It's a ridiculous thought, but an even stronger belief.  I cling to it as I cling to my vocal cords, flinging words around along with my twitching gaze:

“Hello?!  Where is everypony?!  What's happened to Ponyville?!”

Nothing responds to nothing.  I wonder if there could ever be a more disquieting sensation.  I march into the pea soup whiteness, momentarily engulfed by it.  I could just as well be walking on a cloud.  I almost feel as if I could very literally fall throught it at any moment, and that doesn't bode well for a non-pegasus.

“Hello?!  Where the heck is everyone?!  Please—I'm sorry for being such a jerk at Pinkie's party last night!”

I'm grabbing for straws.  I always have been.  Ever since you left me.

“Just say something!  This is totally not cool!”

You left me, and yet you didn't.  Is this what I get for dwelling on it?  How many more things have I let slip from beneath me before I had to slice my limb open on “accident” to wake up to it?  Or perhaps I haven't woken up at all?

I run a hand through my mane.  I can't stop my shuddering breaths.  With each crumpled building I pass by, I hyperventilate harder and harder.  The fog unfolds, and the town stretching beyond it is falling apart.  It takes blinking snapshots to realize how bad it is, and then it gets even worse.  Windows are boarded up.  Shop signs are hanging loosely on rusted chains.  Chickenwire fence has replaced glass and splintery fences stretch around long-dead gardens.  Sugarcube Corner is almost caving in on itself.  The Ponyville Library has lost all its leaves.  The Carousel Boutique is leaning precariously to the side, and the tents beyond...

I stop.  I gaze.  My lips part in disbelief.

The tents...

Are they... made of leather?

Wood creaks underneath me.  I gasp.  I look down.  I've stumbled onto a plank of wooden shingles.  I can see through the cracks in them, and everything is gray mist.  The fog dissipates briefly—like an ivory monster yawning its jaws wide—and I see a huge abyss stretching beneath, slicing off the edge of town with a deep, impenetrable chasm that sucks out all light like it is currently sucking out all my breath.

The wood creaks some more.  It cracks.  I'm going to fall.  Oh Celestia, I'm going to plummet into the abyss!

The wood gives way.  Two thick planks fall forever into nothingness, but they are alone.  I've fallen back on my haunches, sitting and panting safely on solid earth.  Before the fog coalesces once more, I realize that the chasm stretches on into all perceivable horizons.  What could have carved this inexplicable ravine into the earth, I have no clue.  I'm too frightened to think.  I can only feel... and that feeling is overwhelmed by a racing heartbeat.

Twilight Sparkle would be proud of me.

It's just then that I feel a cold touch.  Then a second—like frigid tendrils kissing up and down my neck.  I gaze up.  White dots are filling my vision.  I raise a hoof up, and a pair of ashen flakes lands on my limb, then more, then even more.

It's snowing, and yet it isn't freezing.  What kind of madness is this?  Did Discord take over Equestria again?  This doesn't jive with his bizarre sense of humor.  No living creature should be mad enough to blemish the world like this.  Where did everything and everypony go?  Into the chasm that almost swallowed me up?

I can't sit straight.  I can hardly even stay conscious.  I need to go somewhere.  In times like this—as in every other moment of my lonesome life—there's only one place to go.

Home.

I get up, turn away from the ravine, and gallop straight into the heart of town as fast as my fleeting breaths can carry me.  The snowy fog if a heartless sea, and I am stringing my way through it.





I know something isn't right as soon as I see my front entrance.  The door is missing.  Never mind the rotting garden and boarded up windows—What in Celestia's name happened to my door?  I stumble up towards it, fidgeting, glancing at the frame.  I blink, then squint.  Something's lining the wooden finish that surrounds my entrance.  It almost looks like markings... letters?  Words?  If so, I can't possibly read the language.  Is this some sort of joke?  Who would line my entire door with stupid, inane runes... and so many of them at that?

I disregard this confusion as I disregard my safety, marching swiftly into my home, only it isn't my home.  It's a burned-out hovel, and many of the walls are missing.  As I stumble towards the living room, I realize why.  The place has been hollowed out to make room for something that shouldn't be there.  The house is larger on the inside than it is on the outside—which is impossible.  It must be my memory, only I'm pretty sure my memory would take into account the sight I see before me.  Cages.  Rings within rings of cages.  Giant, barred domes are filling the center of the building.  It's too startling to count, but it almost looks like six chambers inside of even larger chambers.  It's like a labyrinthine nautilus shell of rusted metal bars has stretched up out of nowhere.  There's so many criss-crossing rails before my sight that I can barely see through them, much less make out the rusted metal doorframes locked within the circumferences of these jailed obstructions.

I can't help it.  I move forward, hoping to make a closer inspection, when I step onto something.  I glance down and see a bright object amidst the brown and decaying debris of my demolished home.

It's my lyre.  What's more, it's not shattered or bent or even remotely damaged in such a way as... I damaged it, just last night, in a fit of rage.  In fact, it looks just as new and immaculate as the day I first received it as a gift, only all of the strings are gone.  That shouldn't be possible.  It was in perfect condition the day of our first anniversary, when you surprised me with it...

You...

“You were always so clumsy with your belongings, Heartstrings.”

I freeze in place.  Every part of me is chilled to the bone, except for my face.  A tear has instantly fallen down my cheek at the sound of that voice.  I gaze up from the lyre, through the bars, into the center of the cages-within-cages.  There's a “room” in the middle of it all.  It's a room with a bed, along with a bookcase, a lamp, two tables, a chair, and you.  Your smile.  Your pearlescent blue eyes.  Your sapphire and pink mane.  Every adorably priceless piece of you... and all of it alive.

“Bon Bon?”  My voice drips out of me like so many nights spent sobbing into your shadows.  I look at you, and you're looking back at me.  “Oh sweet Celestia...”  You're looking back at me.

“Did you lose the cords on purpose this time?”  Your voice is as enchanting as I remember it.  It caresses me, squeezes the tears out like milk.  “Hmm-hmm-hmmm... Or did you just do it to get my attention?”

“Bon Bon...” I can't stand anymore.  I'm leaning against the outer cage, staring at the rows of bars separating us like so many gray, gray months.  “But... But... how?”  My voice evens out long enough to produce a question beneath all the weeping.  “You... You're dead!  You died, Bon Bon!”

“Silly Heartstrings,” you giggle from beyond your prison, your blue eyes curving above your sweet, alabaster dimples.  “You forget yourself so easily.  Wasn't it you who told me, one day, that life is far too short to afford precious things?” 
> Background Pony - The Original Chapter 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Back in April of 2012, a wonderful accident occurred.  I wrote a pretentious story with a palpable first chapter, and it became an instant hint.  Since I had no legitimate concept of what it meant to carry a "successful oneshot" on one's shoulders, I continued with my dream of fleshing Background Pony out into a full-fledged epic.

Unlike what some marsupials may think, I never intended Background Pony to be just a oneshot.  I had every intention of making future chapters with the same formula crafted out by the first one; I simply constructed Chapter One to be shaped in such a fashion that if it was an utter bomb, it would stand on its own four legs in the event that I needed to abandon it.

To my surprise, it made marsupials orgasm in their web browsers.  So, Tartarus yeah, I was gonna continue that sucker.  I had established a general plot in my mind, and I knew about things that I had to touch up on: the state of Lyra's curse, how she built her cabin, her "first trip" into the unsung realm and the flashback exposition of how she got cursed by Nightmare Moon.

Now, I have a thing when it comes to formatting plot revelations.  I space shiet out (no friggin' duh) and I tend to save the best for last.  In my heart of hearts, I wanted to write the content of chapter three (the story of Lyra, Applejack, and the cabin) more than anything else.  However, I felt it was important to re-apply the stylisms of chapter one in order to reinforce 1) the stuff Lyra gets away with under her curse and 2) the fact that the story was a great deal more about the journey than the destination.

To that end, I delayed writing the Applejack chapter and instead thought up chapter 2 as a way of showing Lyra blessing another pony's soul (like she blessed Derpy's and Dinky's in chapter 1) while at the same time making it clear that she wasn't *always* a calm, meditative, and collective soul.  A major reaction to chapter 1 was that Lyra's character was provocative because she was so much at peace with the shittiness of her existence.  I wanted to show that things hadn't always been peachy keen for her psyche, and she had to get to where she was after dealing with many obstacles.

There was one problem:  Chapter One.  "Melodious" was so dayum huge, so big, so successful, that I knew that there was nothing I could do to top it.  So, I tried to do it anyways.  I tried a little too dayum hard.  Who am I kidding--I tried so fucking hard that I would have had better luck giving birth through my urethra than actually making a chapter nearly as competent as the first one.

Come to think of it, there was another problem.  I began Background Pony in a state of rebellion.  I felt that I didn't need any editors, and I was being all anti-Vimbert about it.  In other words, I was letting my writer's high dictate the manner and speed at which I posted things.

And so it was that I slapped this garbage together, had the audacity to call it "chapter two," and rolled it onto the bone pale runway of my ponychan thread.  I had every intention of letting marsupials comment on it for the better part of--oh--six pathetic hours.  Or maybe not at all.  I wanted to upload that chapter with a vengeance.  And why not?  I was suddenly a god of subscribers and feature boxes--mwahahaha.

And so it came to pass that the hero of the hour, theworstwriter, strolled into town, took one good look at my rough draft of chapter two, and quite humbly commented with the layman's equivalent of "Uhhhhhhhh yeah, no."  I was giving him suspicious double-glances, my finger hanging hungrily over the "PUBLISH" button on fimfic like a leper prepared to scratch his own balls, when I quite literally paused and decided to give his wise words some respectful attention.

I went back through the chapter--as you're about to see here--and holy Buddha did it suck cactus tits.  Lyra comes across as a mint green douchebag.  There are WAY too many characters talking about nothing.  Caramel is annoying as hell.  The language is far more flowery than any moment in End of Ponies (if that can be imagined).

Overall, it wasn't a train wreck.  It was a holocaust.

I've said it before, but for those of you who weren't there at the time, I'll say it again here.  I owe theworstwriter for the success of Background Pony.  If I had posted this chapter instead of the (slightly less crappy) version that now graces fimfiction, the story would have imploded in on itself.  It would have been the Shyamalan movie of pony fiction.

All of that was avoided because, for the briefest of seconds, I actually remembered that I'm an idiotic lemur who needs to listen to editors who do what editors do... and that's help you fix your shit.








Dear Journal,

What happens to us between sleeping and waking?  Every night, when the moon rises, we march like sheep into that deep darkness, not knowing what truth mechanizes the spaces between our heartbeats during such long and noble silence.  Are we really the same ponies when we wake up?  Or is what rises with the morning merely a carbon copy of the thinking creature that had laid itself down the evening before?  What a strange homunculus that thing must be, a golem crafted after the flimsy blueprint of a slumbering soul's final thoughts, that it is no wonder that all of our ambitions, aspirations, and hopes are only residually pursued until the bitter end.

What, then, would we call our dreams?  Are they the manifestations of regret?  Are they the substance of all our attachments thrown into a searing crucible of mortal fear?  Do we dream because we know of loss, of all its colorlessness, across which our wills and desires shatter like eggshells dashed against a brick wall?

I used to believe in these things.  I saw the fall of night like the mistress of death.  Dreaming was a threadbare, skittering whisper—like the flutter of gray wings or the curling legs of an overturned moth after a short and fruitless life of chasing the invisible purpose behind flame.  When a pony is alone—and lucid—whilst cast before the great looming darkness of a world that forgets her, dreams serve nothing more than a dissonant overture to a symphony of screams.

It was with a very mad notion, then, that I once stumbled upon a miraculous epiphany: a dream is much like a song.  Very often do ponies forget the title of the instrumental.  On other occasions, ponies are even likely to forget the name of the composer.  What is not lost between that impermeable gap of sleeping and waking is the tune, the indefinable voice that plays with our ears like a mother licks her newborn foal.  And when we open our eyes to the golden glow of a new dawn, it is something more than our bodies that animates us, something that gives us the tempo to which our hearts can dance, something that makes us crawl out of our beds like a resurrected soul is blessed to climb out of a tomb.

Life is a very impossible thing, bleak and dark and dastardly at every turn.  But something in the cold void of night—something as black if not blacker than death itself—slips a tune into our meaty hearts as a gardener plants a seed in inert soil.  What grows from our dreams is a symphony, at times an orchestra that has no artist.  And like that orchestra, we blossom against the nothingness, until our search—our growth—becomes life itself, becomes something impossible, like remembering the name of a musician that you were never introduced to, only to learn that it was yourself the whole time.

I do very much love to dream.  Does that make me mad?  I daresay, it makes me alive.









It was the eve of the Summer Sun Celebration.  All of Equestria teetered felicitously upon the brink of the year's most honored festival.  Nowhere was this more exemplified than in Ponyville, a humble little town that bathed in the shadow of the Canterlotlian Mountains.  As the last day before the annual event lingered into the waning afternoon, colorful citizens dashed about, setting up the last bits of decorations and fireworks in anticipation of the night that was to come.

The final sun of the spring equinox sank slowly towards the horizon, casting a crimson glow over the streets and courtyards of the quaint little village.  In the scarlet penumbra of the afternoon's dying rays, several patches of flickering amber dotted the lengths of Ponyville, marking where large bonfires had been erected and lit ablaze in accordance with Summer Sun tradition.  Many disparate groups of ponies—young and old alike—gathered with their loved ones and huddled about the toasty flames.  They looked forward to a night's length of fireworks, stories, and activities that would keep them awake through the darkness as they anticipated the first sunrise of the summer solstice.

One such group huddled in a circle around a burning pyre of wood no less than twenty meters from Town Hall.  The deep red hues of the sunset glistened across the coats of seven ponies as they sat in the company of each other's murmurs and laughter.  Gentle music wafted through the open air of the village, tickling their ears pleasantly as they drank in the communal electricity that danced in the wind from bonfire to bonfire.  As the sun continued to set, painting the sky from red to purple to violet in the advent of night, an eighth pony shuffled tiredly up to the burning pyre to join the other seven.

“Well...”  Ambrosia exhaled, hoisting an hard hat off her ivory mane and plopping down on her exhausted haunches.  “That certainly took a lot longer than it did last year, and we don't even have the Princess visiting us this summer!  Heh... What gives?”

“Heeheehee,” Blossomforth giggled from where she squatted next to Thunderlane.  “Just relax and enjoy the fire, Ambrosia.”

“Yeah, you earned it, girl!” Thunderlane added with a wink.

“As much as I love being consoled by Ponyville's Pegasus Clique,” Ambrosia wiped her brow with a hoof and squatted low.  “I really can't relax until four days from now, when my crew and I will have taken everything down.  I swear, Ponyville ponies have no concept of subtlety.  If y'all party half as hard as you did last year, I might as well just switch to demolition.”

“Who can blame us, Ambrosia?” Bon Bon remarked.  She and Sparkler sat on a log, toasting marshmallows before the dancing flames.  “It's been a long year.  So many of us just want to unwind.”

“You and the other workers did a fine job, Ambrosia,” Candy Mane added, glancing over from her side of the burning circle.  She gave a soft smile that complemented the music swimming delightfully between the group.  “I especially like the effort you went through to make the stage in downtown so perfect.  The Forging of Equestria play should be fantastic this year.”

“Heh, whatever.”  Ambrosia yawned and smiled thankfully as Sparkler passed her a marshmallow on a stick.  “As long as Cheerilee's schoolfoals don't tear everything down.  I'm still getting over what those three little scamps did at the stage we built outside the schoolhouse months ago.”

“I was there for that,” Candy Mane remarked.  She looked across the flames towards the other ponies in the group.  “It was a talent show, right?  Anypony remember the award the that the last act won?”

“'Best Legion of Discord,'” Wind Whistler stated.  She chuckled and leaned daintily against the weight of her coltfriend, Caramel, beside her.  “On account of all the chaos they were wreaking.  Did you know that just last week those three kids nearly set fire to the post office?”

“Something about earning a 'paper recycling cutie mark,'” Caramel uttered in a grumbling voice.

“Heeheehee... Yeah.” Wind Whistler smiled.  “They're a rambunctious bunch of fillies, but you gotta admire them for their persistence.”

“I'll admire them once they quit speeding left and right through downtown,” Sparkler muttered, turning her marshmallow over until every white contour was burnt a golden brown.  “They nearly ran over my hooves twice this month.  Normally, I don't mind—but when I'm trotting across Ponyville with my little daughter in tow, I don't find it so funny.”

“Just where is Star Sprite today, Sparkler?” Candy Mane asked.

“She's having a sleepover with my niece,” Bon Bon interjected with a smile.  “Luna knows, they're probably already asleep by now.  Heehehee... We figure that next year will be their first chance to try staying awake for the whole night before the Summer Sun Raising.  Right, Sparkler?”

“Meh.”

“It's a shame that they missed it last year when Princess Celestia was here,” Blossomforth said.  “I remember when I was a little filly.  It was my greatest dream to see the Princess with my own eyes.”

“Isn't it every filly's?” Wind Whistler suggested.

“Speak for yourselves,” Ambrosia took a bite of her marshmallow, gulped, and smirked.  “When I was a filly, I wanted nothing more than to engineer a bridge across the Blue Valley Estuary.”

“How's that dream working out for ya?” Thunderlane asked.

“I've got my work cut out for me here in Ponyville.”  Ambrosia said with a sigh.  “Don't get me wrong, it pays well—for a construction gig.  But, I swear, I've lost more sleep working in this town than in any other village of Equestria.  This year especially!  Dear Celestia above!”

“What about this year?” Bon Bon remarked.

Ambrosia squinted fixedly at her.  “Do I need to spell it out for you, candy-maker?  An Ursa Minor attack, a rampaging green dragon, the return of Discord—and don't get me started on the whole parasprite ordeal!”

Thunderlane whistled while Blossomforth winced beside him.  “Yeah, I guess I didn't think much of it,” he remarked with a crooked grin.  “But you've had a lot on your hooves, Ambrosia.  It's no wonder you look so exhausted.”

“If I had known that I would be having to rebuild so many buildings in so little time with so little planning...”  Ambrosia's words melted in the flames as did her tired eyesight.  The sky darkened to a dull purple as her coat glistened in the amber haze before her.  The music was a soothing current, and she smiled into the crest of the next wave of chords.  “Give me another one of them marshmallows.  This is going to be a long night.”

Bon Bon handed her one and glanced at the rest of the group.  “Well, I, for one, see this Celebration as a chance to relax.  After twelve months of craziness, I'd say we've earned it.  Erm...”  She blushed and smiled Ambrosia's way.  “Most of us, at least.”

“Here here,” Ambrosia returned and chomped immediately on the marshmallow, too impatient to toast it.

“A lot of scary things happened,” Bon Bon continued.  “Discord's little 'week of chaos' was almost enough to drive me batty, but we all pulled through.  We trotted through adversity like good ponies.  Even though Celestia's off raising the Sun in Baltimare this year, I think this is gonna be our biggest Summer Sun Celebration ever.  I can't wait to see what sort of things we get to celebrate next year.”

“If we make it to next year,” Caramel muttered.

The other six looked at him and Wind Whistler.

“Come again, Mr. Cheerful?” Sparkler droned.

Caramel's face was a sullen thing.  He stared into the flames, oblivious to the harmonic undulations of the music as he murmured, “Seriously, guys.  Things are getting crazier and crazier around here lately.  Dragons running amok, parasprites eating everything to bits, cutie pox outbreaks, cider shortages—has this really been a year that's been worth celebrating?”

“All things considered, Caramel,” Candy Mane spoke, “I think it has been.  If the Elements of Harmony hadn't been around in our very own town to drive away both Nightmare Moon and Discord—”

“You want to know what happened while Discord was in power?”  Caramel's blue eyes knifed sharply across the fire-lit faces staring back at him.  “I was turned gray and forced to chase after my mom and dad with an apple cannon.  I don't even know I had it within myself to build a cannon that shoots apples, and somehow his chaos magic made me turn on my own family like a possessed monster.”  He sighed and shook his head.  “No, I don't care to think about the next Summer Sun Celebration in Ponyville, because I'm not going to be around for it.”

This summoned a sharp gasp from his circle of friends.  Blossomforth held a hoof over her mouth.  Bon Bon dropped her marshmallows.  Sparkler and Ambrosia exchanged curious glances.

“Seriously, dude, what gives?”  Thunderlane squinted across the flames.  “You picked an awkward time to pull our legs...”

“It's no joke,” Caramel returned with a brief frown.  “We're moving away in a few months.”

“Who's 'we'?” Blossomforth asked in a meek voice.

“Sweety...” Wind Whistler gulped and leaned into Caramel.  “I thought we decided that we weren’t going to tell everypony until—”

“What's the point in delaying the truth?” Caramel replied.  Upon seeing the sad look on Wind Whistler's face, he placated her with a gentle nuzzle while speaking aside to the group, “This is supposed to be a night of fun and festivities.  I figured it would soften the blow of the announcement, not that it comes as any surprise.”  He stared solidly at the other six once more.  “Windy and I are moving to Trottingham before Hearth's Warming.”

“But...”  Blossomforth's freckled face was sad and pale.  Her ears drooped, no longer reveling in the sweet music.  “How could you think of moving away from all of us?”

“How could you find friends like us in Trottingham?” Candy Mane added.

“How could you afford it?” Sparkler drawled.  Bon Bon elbowed her sharply.  Sparkler merely rubbed her leg and returned a glare.

“What choice do we have?” Caramel said.  “Ponyville is a virtual disaster area, and it only gets worse with each week!  Buildings crumble at a moment's notice—you can just ask Ambrosia about that!  Then we have Diamond Dogs knocking on our back door, Timberwolves chomping at the bit to drag us away to the Everfree Forest, and gigantic serpents within a stone's throw of the river!  And I know how much everypony worships the ground that the living Elements of Harmony trot on, but have any of you really... really taken a step back and looked at the big picture?  The fact that the wielders of the Elements are here is a major invitation for trouble.”

Candy Mane smiled.  “I've always seen it as though we're living in a place full of adventure!”

“Well I don't like adventures!” Caramel retorted.  He sighed and spoke a bit more calmly.  “Not when adventures nearly destroy my home, threaten my family, and shatter my peace of mind!  As a matter of fact, I'm downright scared that one of these days I'll wake up to find that Windy's been abducted or kidnapped or turned gray by a magical chaos god.”

Wind Whistler nuzzled Caramel back and smiled apologetically at the circle of fire-lit ponies.  “We talked and talked about this decision for a while, and I... I have to agree with Caramel here.  Ever since the Summer Sun Celebration of last year, I've been a nervous wreck.  I can't walk the streets of Ponyville in the daytime without fear that a swarm of parasprites is going to attack me or something.  I just... I just don't know what happened to make this town so crazy these last twelve months, but I get the feeling that things aren't going to change for the better.  I mean—yes—I think it's great that we've remained in one piece this far, but I can do without all the craziness, y'know?”

“But does that mean you have to move away?” Blossomforth's voice squeaked.  Her eyes were soft and round as she said, “Windy, you and Caramel are our friends!  We love having you around!  Things wouldn't be the same without you!”

“What difference would it make if we go?”  Caramel exclaimed.  “This town is a powder keg!  Next thing we know, we'll learn that this place was built right on top of Tartarus!”

“Actually...”  Sparkler began.

“Don't you dare!” Caramel pointed with a threatening hoof.  He cleared his throat and spoke a bit more calmly, “If you ponies had the mind, you'd be doing the same thing we are and getting the heck out of this place!”

“Have you both really thought about this?” Thunderlane asked, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.  “I mean really thought about it?  A little bit of fear and uncertainty isn't worth leaving the ponies who love you, if you ask me.”

“To be frank, Thunderlane, I'm surprised you and Blossomforth haven't considered the idea yourself,” Caramel bluntly exclaimed.  His voice broke through the music, injecting an angry cacophony to the awkward scene.  “Do you ever think of the future?  Do you ever think of having kids?  Do you ever think of raising foals in an environment like this?”

Thunderlane and Blossomforth exchanged nervous glances in the bonfire's glow, shifting uncomfortably at the idea.

“I do raise my foal here,” Sparkler spoke up.  She briefly glared across the way at Caramel.  “And I for one know that Ponyville is manageable because—in spite of all of the craziness—we make it manageable.  All of us.  What else are we expected to do?”  Her eyes glistened evocatively from the flames.  “Should we run away?  Should we give up on such a happy life that Ponyville's allowed us?”

“Sparkler, Windy and I are leaving Ponyville to find that happy life.  Because—I'm telling you—it ain't here,” he muttered while Wind Whistler leaned sadly against him.  “You are all great friends, and we love you to death.  But living in this town, month after month, with one thing stacked upon another—it's just not worth it!  You have to be a lunatic to find peace and quiet in this place.”

Just then, the music stopped.  Everypony blinked in curiosity, until a voice replaced the melody with a hum as warm as the flames between them.  “Sounds like somepony's mad.”

All eight equines looked around, confused.  Finally, Caramel's eyes were the first to find me.  “What was that?” he asked with an angry face of incredulity.

I smiled back at him.  I was leaning against a wooden post to the side of the group, hovering my lyre just centimeters before my face.  I reached up with both hooves and lowered the hood of my sweatjacket down from over my horn.  “It must be oh so delightful to be mad, to be a ceiling without a floor, a fish without an ocean, so that the horrid absurdity of the moment lends a frightened pony the freedom to give up a true gift before it has the chance to shine.  The sturdiest asylums in life are the ones built by our own fears, and patrolled by our countless regrets.  Such a sad fate, that it's downright silly!  At least an open grave has a rich, earthen smell to it, hmm?”

“Uhmm... Sorry...”  Sparkler squinted suspiciously at me.  “You are...?”

“Oh!  My apologies.  Heeheehee—I should remember my place.  Ahem.  Please.”  I leaned back against the wooden post and began telekinetically strumming the strings of my lyre once more.  “Do continue your celebrations.  It's my role to serenade such jubilant festivities, not curtail them.”

“No, you have us all curious!” Candy Mane spoke up.  I could spot her scarlet eyes peering at me through the matching tongues of the flickering pyre.  “What were you trying to say?”

“That's the funny thing about saying,” I smirked to myself as I attacked each melodic note with soft rigor.  I knew that, once again, I was about to become a happy hypocrite.  “A pony can try her best, and still not convey anything.  I prefer tossing music at others.  Unlike sentences, tunes very rarely get thrown back, on account of listeners devouring them so ravenously.”

“Well, thanks for the music, if nothing else,” Bon Bon said with a nervous smile.  “I hardly even realized somepony was performing it until you spoke.”

“Heeeheehee... Yeah.  I get that a lot...”

“Yes, well...”  Caramel grumbled and gazed once more into the fire.  “Just add another plank of crazy to the burning pile.”

“I still think somepony's mad.” I smiled with my eyes closed.

I could hear Caramel grinding his teeth from meters away.  “Just what are you trying to prove?!  My friends and I were only trying to enjoy ourselves—”

“Were you?”  I opened my eyes, and the combined gaze of eight ponies met me across the amber halo of light.  “Were you really?  The last time I checked, this wasn't the industrial district of Stalliongrad.  The funny thing about complaining is that it's so easy to do.  I dunno about you ponies, but I much rather indulge in a challenge, like doing ballet in a hail-storm, or sneezing while your eyes are open.  Heeheehee—I almost went blind trying that last one!”

Sparkler glanced over at Bon Bon with a raised eyebrow.  “Does anypony know if Screw Loose has a sister?”  Bon Bon shrugged.

“I've never seen you in Ponyville before,” Caramel remarked, his glare a frozen thing as it studied me.  Funny how the most handsome of stallions are the most temperamental.  The debonair lengths of him ended where his vocal cords began. “It's tradition to be in your hometown when the Summer Sun Celebration hits.  What's a unicorn like you doing on the road?”

“Oh, but I am home!”  I grinned wide.  My lyre was dominating the conversation; my voice simply provided the backup chorus.  “And I assure you, this town did not become my home out of obligation or enslavement, in spite of the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Blossomforth inquired.

I merely continued, “But I chose Ponyville to be my home.  I chose its gold-thatched rooftops.  I chose its smiling citizens, its beautiful and playful children.  I chose its flower gardens and lush parks.  I chose its ancient bell tower and antique windmill.  I chose the glittering sparkles of light that shimmer off the hillside as the sun rises over a crisp spring horizon.  I chose the soft porcelain slopes of snow that blanket the fields on a Hearth's Warming Eve.”

My chords danced around my tongue.  The last vestiges of the day were dying, but this was not a threnody.  No, that I would practice later, on my lonesome, when even celebration itself was asleep.  I realized that I was already dreaming, talking in a fanciful state of sleep, standing on all four hooves as bonfires burned like laughing stars all around me.

“Yes.  I choose life.  For Ponyville is nothing short of life.  It is frightening and random at times, as the slings and arrows of existence so often are.  But in the end, it is beautiful, just as life itself is.  And when I give my final breath... I expect it to be a sigh of praise, and not of defeat, in spite of the cold and frigid darkness that is to come.  To face a sunless eternity with exultation is courageous, and yet it is also the very crux of a lunatic's dream.  But I wouldn't have it any other way.  To settle for less is not so much living as it is existing, and I would much rather live dangerously in Ponyville than exist safely in the richest mansion of Trottingham.  I may not know the craziness that tomorrow brings, but I find it rather dull to sacrifice the joys of the present for the boring security of the future.  A memory is only a shadow once it's been lived, drained of all its flavor.  So I ask you, as sincerely as a musician can eke sound from a fractured rock, are you mad?”

“In more ways than one,” Caramel grumbled.

Wind Whistler placed a gentle hoof on Caramel's shoulder, calming him.  Turning towards me, she smiled serenely and said, “You're certainly rather poetic, and we really appreciate your music.  But even you can't deny that things have been rather... hectic in this city over the past year.”  She bit her lip, her brown eyes darting towards the flames briefly.  “I've had some great times in this village, but it's getting to the point that I can hardly bear it.  I have to say goodbye to Ponyville.”

“As well as you should,” I nodded, my chords filling the purple haze of the falling evening.  “And all your friends as well.”

“Huh?”  Wind Whistler blinked, then giggled nervously.  “But—I don't understand!  Surely, they're not all leaving too!”

“Oh, hardly!  For once you are gone, Ponyville will cease to exist!”

The eight ponies murmured in confusion.  Their expressions darted left and right, just as swiftly as the flickering movement of the bonfire's flame.  It was Ambrosia who eventually spoke up.

“What do you mean by that, Missy?”

“Do you really think it's the town hall, the courtyard, the multiple shops, or any of the surrounding houses that make up this city?” I briefly experienced a wave of cold.  Pausing my music, I glanced up towards the horizon.  There was still a lasting sliver of red sunlight; the moon was nowhere to be seen.  It wasn't time yet.  “If you made a granite replica of every building in this place, mimicked its timelessness, and placed it upon the holy ground of the Alicorn Sisters' foaling, I could visit that monument and still not find a single square centimeter of the town that I first fell in love with.  Hmmm... No.  Ponyville is more like a choir, and every single one of you is singing in it—whether you know it or not.  It's a dream too sacred to end, and as soon as one of you leaves, that would be a defeat too sad to write laments for.  It'd be like waking early from an enchanted slumber.  I know what that's like.  Or—at least—I almost did, until someone looked up into my eyes and saved me.”

“Is that so?” Blossomforth asked, blinking innocently.

“Hmmm...”  I tongued the inside of my mouth, as if in some futile battle with a smile that was flying at me from halfway across the globe.  “Tell me... has anypony here heard the Tale of the Mad Pony?”

“The tale of the what-now?” Ambrosia made a face.

“Ugh, bards.”  Sparkler rolled her eyes.  “A-bit-a-bushel, I swear to Luna.”

“Nnngh... Come on, Windy.”  Caramel started to get up.  “Let's find us another pile of burning wood.”

“No, wait... Please...”  Wind Whistler ushered him back down to a squatting position beside her.  She smiled pleasantly my way.  “I want to hear this. We’re here to celebrate this night and its experience, aren’t we?”

“Hehehe...”  I grinned.  Surely my teeth must have been glinting as I resumed a soft melody with my lyre.  “My feelings exactly.”

“Mmmmmphhhg... fine...”  Caramel groaned.

“Now this should be interesting.”  Thunderlane smirked as he and Blossomforth scooted towards my side of the bonfire.  Candy Mane and Ambrosia followed.  Soon Bon Bon and Sparkler were leaning their ears my way.

There is no better audience than an innocent one, and there is no better challenge than to keep them innocent through to the end of the story.

I levitated the lyre higher, casting my music across the darkening heights of Ponyville's misty ceiling above us.  Soon, the melodies were resonating across the heart of the courtyard, so that the many ponies seated around the neighboring bonfires were also glancing my way, gradually joining the small crowd of fortunate souls that I had so intimately collected.

“Long ago, in a tiny town like this one, during a Summer Sun Celebration as tranquil and beautiful as Ponyville has ever had, there was a pony—a stranger—visiting from far away.  And while every other was soul celebrating and rejoicing in the annual festivities that had blessed their city, this one pony was alone, for she had discovered something... and it was starting to make her quite mad...









“She wasn't mad at first, though.  Initially, she was perplexed, quite comically flummoxed.  It started when she ran into a nurse who had treated her in the nearby hospital for a concussion, only the medical pony had no recollection of her.  It became even more startling when the two ponies who had discovered her lying unconscious in the street the night before treated her as if she was once more a perfect stranger.  Then there were little things—haunting and subtle—like celebrating ponies waving at her twice, or shop vendors greeting her multiple times in a row.  Soon, the pony could only come to one conclusion: none of the equines in town were remembering a single detail about her.

“'But you saw me just last night!' the pony exclaimed to the two blinking, disbelieving citizens standing in front of her.  'I was collapsed in the middle of the street.  My head was pounding, I was freezing cold, and you helped carry me to the hospital!  How could you possibly say you've never met me before?!'

“The two ponies merely shook their heads.  In fear, they backtrotted away from the pony, as if she was diseased.  While the festive villagers danced and played in the Summer Sun Celebration around the pony, she began to think that perhaps she was indeed afflicted.

“'But you treated me just this morning!' the pony shouted, losing her breath, nearly tripping over the hooves of the startled nurse she had stumbled into off-duty.  'You had found nothing wrong with me!  Could there be something wrong with me now?!  Am I hallucinating for some reason?!'

“The nurse had a look of pity, but buried beneath the shallow surface of that was an increasingly familiar expression of confusion.  She offered to help the pony across the festival to the nearest health tent, but the pony realized that history was repeating itself, and far too soon to be natural.

“It was at this point that the pony's spirit turned to anger, as a confused victim’s psyche is likely to do—at first—when facing insurmountable nonsense.  'What's wrong with all of you?!' she growled, thrashed her hooves, overturned a brightly-colored sign or two.   'This is the Summer Sun Celebration!  Not April Foals!  If this is some kind of cruel joke, then quit it!'

“It didn't occur to her how ridiculous it would be for an entire village to be playing an atrocious prank on her, and yet there she hovered—weightless and adrift in a sea of confused and frightened eyes.  But all too soon, those eyes dissipated, disappeared, like waves rippling out from her helpless splashing.  It was too improbable to imagine that the ponies simply couldn't comprehend her situation.  The only logical truth was that they didn't care.  This was already enough to make any equine mad.  The pony, however, decided at the moment to settle for furious.

“She ran through the streets, enraged, pounding her hooves over colored sand art, thrashing her limbs against vendor stands full of celestial trinkets, screaming at the top of her lungs.  'This isn't funny!' she hollered.  'Somepony, anypony, listen to me!  Pay attention to me!'  She was trying to sound menacing, but with each successive hour that went by, hardly a pony paid heed to the havoc she was wreaking.  It was then that she started to panic, to whine, to mew like a kitten that had lost its mother in a cyclone.  'Please!  Please, somepony, anypony!' she yelled and spat, exchanging screams with sobs like two stallions might shovel dirt into a grave.  'I'm here!  Look at me!  Listen to me!  I beg you!'

“Every shout and every bellow was absorbed into the crowd.  Each time she made her mayhem, a flimsy column of gasping ponies would brighten, rise, and fall back down to their routine like blanket sheets tossed over a broad bed.  It was with furious desperation, then, that the pony took the next step, and pushed over a torch-lit lamppost that ignited the wooden stage erected in the center of town.  Dozens of citizens ran—desperate—to put out the flames.  She stood in the middle of the conflagration, shouting boastfully of her horrible deed.  And for once, it worked.  She practically cried in joy as a pair of police stallions hoisted her off to the jailhouse on the far side of town.

“Her heart sang.  She had finally found an audience, even if it took her becoming an arsonist to win them.  Just as they were locking her away in a barred cell, the pony spun around to thank them, only to receive blank looks and dazed expressions as penance.  The officers suddenly looked at her as if she was a lost child, apologized vehemently for their 'mistake,' and swiftly ushered her back out into the streets.  She was too busy recovering from her shock from that turn of events that she barely realized that the stage in the center of town had been completely renovated, as if she had never set fire to it in the first place.  As the Summer Sun celebrators frolicked and giggled around her, it occurred to the pony that perhaps she had never committed arson... and yet she had, a very impossible thing.

“She went mad that night.  Not when she slept, nor when she woke up, but somewhere in between—in the world of dreaming—she discovered her insanity, for the landscape of her fractured mind was nowhere near as bizarre as the world she was suddenly flung into.  In the midst of her own fitful nocturne, she spun herself down the web of fresh and painful memories.  Every time she had tried talking to a villager, she had been forgotten within a span of minutes.  Every time she tried to buy a bite to eat, the food would go missing as the waiter or salespony lost track of her order.  Every time she tried renting a room in a hotel for the night, the innkeeper would stumble in on her and toss her out like a freeloading bum.

“The pony had only one last recourse—the final gossamer strand of her sanity left to snap—and that was to go to the library in the center of town the following morning and visit the only soul that she knew, the one equine in the entire village that was the sole reason for her coming there to begin with.  When she knocked on the door, the pony's heart jumped for joy at the sight of her friend's face... until her friend's face stared at her blankly.

“Losing the love of a friend is like a death that has no funeral.  Entire galaxies have dissolved over the eons and even they are worthless things.  The pony realized she was still dreaming, only the dream had consumed her from the inside out.  No living thing should face a reality like that, to be an island with no sea—only the perpetual blackness of apathy, encompassing.  You can be pummeled to a bloody pulp, have your eyes and ears pulled from their sockets, and have every nerve in your body paralyzed forevermore.  That would still not be as numb and hopeless a fate as being ignored forever.

“Of course she went mad.  Wouldn't you go mad?  Wouldn't you too dance through the streets, whooping and howling, filling the air with your righteous hysteria?  Wouldn't you also toss sobs against laughter and see what rained down from the resulting explosion?  Wouldn't you, like her, try counting all of the worthless pieces of you crumbling to the floor, put them in a hat, and beg every pony you saw to reach in and tell you what they drew because you no longer had a clue?

“Ponies aren't born to be alone.  It's just not in our blood.  We attract to one another.  We are cohesive: like water.  The void of the universe exists only because we are here in the center to point in all directions away from ourselves and label that which is missing, that which is more cold and frightening than a winter's night, that which hungers for us because it can never understand—as we understand—what it means to be warm, to be happy, to be whole.

“The mad pony could no longer be warm.  There was nothing left in her to keep whole, for she had no other soul to recognize her anguish long enough to acknowledge the spirit that it was tortuously tethered to.  She tried becoming something recognizable—if not to the villagers' joy, then to their despair—as she turned violent and shattered shop vendors apart, tossed over effigies to the alicorn Bringer of the Sun, and screamed out every obscenity she had the poor grace to learn in her young life.  Each flare of drama was like a lit matchstick tossed into a deep well, and the black waters were rising in tandem with her hyperventilating lungs.

“For three days, the mad pony descended into the depths of her nightmare.  While the Summer Sun Celebration praised the world for its gift of life, she discovered a brand new darkness, an ocean of oblivion that she once knew as a foal—when she heard strange noises outside her window and sobbed until the morning came to shatter the shadows back into hiding.  Only, now she was the one who was hidden.  Now she was the cause of those sobs, as well as the vessel.  The shadows were her only companions, the only ones she could afford—as hunger and cold attacked her from all angles.  Only the shadows granted any sense of familiarity, and it had a very, very stale taste to it.  She suddenly knew what it would feel like to subsist on ashes forever, an inexplicable scavenger of a world that had died in freeze frame all around her.  All that the black-and-white photograph needed was her signature, a surrender to the fate that was squeezing every sob out of her lungs as the sudden cold was squeezing shivers from her limbs.  She knew the bright morning was bound to come, like her foalish self once dreamed of, but there would be no waking from this dream.  She was deader than dead forever.

“How do you wake from an endless dream?  She pondered upon this for hours, with bloodshot eyes and sore limbs, all of which failed her constantly in the abandoned alleyways of town while the Celebration was being wrapped up all around her.  It occurred to her that her entire concept of nonexistence was a skewed thing.  Death never ended her, it only made her lonelier.  After all, she had died hundreds of times since the Celebration began.  When she woke up to the two ponies dragging her to the hospital, that was the first death.  When she was being treated by the nurse and promptly forgotten, that was the second death.  Every pony that looked at her twice was another.  Every time something she had done was ignored, it piled up the bodycount.  The officers who hoisted her off to jail only to free her was a veritable massacre, and soon she was bound to die again—countless times—as her legacy was reborn, like a waking child in bed, only for that bright morning to be curtailed, aborted, tossed off a cliff as she too would be flung back into the bleak world of her nightmare, smelling more and more like the corpse that she felt festering deep inside.

“It was no longer a matter of living or not living.  She had to assault the dream—that damnable masquerade of misery—and then the freezing would stop, the hunger would stop, the emptiness would stop.  What lay beyond the last breath of slumber may have been blacker than black, but the pony suddenly realized that oblivion was harmless to a soul no longer possessed with the ability to see.

“The Celebration had come and gone.  All of the festive decorations had been removed from the center of town.  It was late in the evening; citizens were getting ready to sleep.  She was getting ready to sleep too.

“Then, all of the sudden, one of two earth ponies glanced up from where they were bundling equipment and saw her on the fourth story ledge of town hall.  The stallion immediately gasped, his sapphire eyes full of shock and horror, the same violently real expression that she had tried so hard to summon days before.  Only, now it was too late.  Regardless, he waved a hoof at her while shouting towards his comrade.

“'Oh dear Celestia!  Quick, go fetch a pegasus—anypony that can fly!'  As his buddy galloped off in a desperate breath, he trotted boldly to the edge of the building and peered up at her.  'Ma'am, I don't know what you're going through and I can't pretend to, but please—this can't possibly be the answer.  There's got to be another way!'

“But the mad pony was past reasoning with.  If her tears weren't evidence enough, then perhaps her disheveled mane and muddied coat spoke volumes to the shocked stallion below.  'Just stop!  Just stop talking!' she shrieked, her teeth shattering.  It was the beginning of summer, and yet she felt as though a great blizzard was pelting her through to the bone.  It must have been the cruel world's last attempt to prolong her torture, and she was no longer stupid enough to settle for it.  'Your words are meaningless!  They mean nothing!  Soon you won't even remember me!  I'm as good as dead—I should be dead already!'

“'No!  Don't say that!  Nopony deserves to die needlessly!'  He reached a hoof towards her from afar, as if history could rewrite itself and give him wings or a horn to save her body where he was helpless to salvage her soul.  'I promise that we won't forget you!  Just walk away from the ledge and let us talk to you!'

“'There's nothing you can promise me that won't get swallowed in time!' she said, hiccuping, struggling to maintain her breaths.  Her soul teetered upon the brink and threatened to pull her body along with it.  Ponies who fall in their dreams were never known to hit the ground.  She was more than ready to test that theory.  'This village means nothing to me!  It's a prison!  Nothing more!  Nothing!'

“'Look...' the earth pony below raised both of his front hooves and spoke calmly, soothingly, though his shivers briefly matched hers.  'Even if everything is as horrible and as bad as you believe it is, this isn't going to solve it!  This isn't going to make anything better!  You need to have faith and step away from the edge!  Don't allow yourself to go before your time!'

“Finally, the mad pony had heard enough.  'Why?!' she spat down at him, furiously.  'Why shouldn't I just jump?!  Why shouldn't I just end the nightmare once and for all?!'

“He looked up at her, but it was a different stallion somehow, or so she noticed him for the first time—as so many of the villagers had noticed her for the first time, only to forget.  Only this time, there would be no forgetting, and she realized it was because she was the means of that memory, a power that she always had, but was only now echoing in the cave of her punishing situation.  Perhaps it was the drooping of his ears, or the soft shape of his lips, or the glossing over of his sapphire eyes.  Whatever the case, he spoke to her, and a part of the mad pony that she thought she had left with her sanity suddenly felt him scratching the insides of her mind, like a tune that woke a foal slowly from a dark, dark dream, with words that weren't in fact meaningless... for they were merely the accompaniment to a chorus as old as time:









Because you are so special, so precious, and this world would be a lot less worth enjoying if you chose to leave it.









“The mad pony was silent.  She stared down at the stallion.  He was a perfect stranger.  He didn't know her, and in a matter of minutes he never would again, and yet that didn't stop him from appealing to the deepest part of her, the part of her that was still warm, for in so few words he had reminded the mad pony that that part of her was in fact still there.  In mere seconds, he would very well have made her... or remade her, for the very simple fact that he could, and wanted to.  He was the one who was precious, for he didn't know that in a matter of time he himself would be gone, nothing more than a mere shadow burned against the walls of the mad pony's beleaguered mind.

“And it was then that she realized how selfish she had been in her anguish and despair.  She was not the one dying multiple times, over and over again.  These ponies—these beautiful villagers were the ones dying repeatedly.  They were nothing more than amnesiac shades of their past hosts, paper facades of souls that once graced the earth with the right to bear every thought that crossed their mind into righteous permanence, but couldn't because the mad pony was there to bring their dreams to an end.

“The entire village was dying, with ponies falling left and right into oblivion, for she—a cursed pony—had the blatant audacity to gallop across their lives and impart her pestilence upon them.  And there were so many of them, countless ponies who briefly laughed and smiled at her, far too many to dig graves for, only to sing songs of—like the vibrating tune coming to life in the back of her head—a chorus that repeated itself louder and louder with each heartbeat, for hers was pulsating for the stallion's, for his priceless words that would soon rocket their way into oblivion far faster than she could ever jump her pitiful self.  All of these ponies' faces were snapshots, joyous and beautiful until the end of time, like she had every ability to be, if only she was courageous, if only she was mad—mad for the sake of making a life out of a nightmare and discovering the colors hidden within.

“Before this epiphany finished illuminating her more than any sunrise ever could, a cold chill ran across her body, and she knew that something that was briefly there was lost forever, because the stallion was already starting to blink dazedly like a waking infant in his crib.  But as the stallion's dream ended, and his tears disappeared, they rediscovered themselves in her eyes.  She smiled for the first time in days, and teetered upon the edge of the buildingside.”









The music ended.

All eight ponies gazed, mesmerized, at the edge of their wooden seats.  The fire burned brilliantly between them, but they could just as well have been blind to it.

I lowered the levitating lyre to my hooves and leaned against the wooden post.  I waited, like a glacier crumbling slowly through an immeasurable age.  My smile was even more patient, enticing them.

It was Blossomforth, of course, who was the first to murmur, “What happened?”

“Hmmm?” I glanced at her as if she was just now placed on this earth.

“Aren't you going to tell us?” Thunderlane added, mesmerized.

“Finish the story, girl!” Wind Whistler exclaimed, practically trembling.  “Did she jump or didn't she?”

I adjusted the sleeves of my hoodie and calmly gazed back at the group.  I tossed at them, “Would you?”

They were speechless.  Any words would fail them.  That's when I realized—as I always do—that we were finally in communion.

“You can complain about this town,” I said in a voice as gentle as my grin.  I felt the shadows of other ponies peering in from nearby groups as I continued, “You can gripe about the troubles that afflict you on a weekly basis, about the dangers that briefly encumber your regular routine.  But know this—what makes this town is more than incidental adventure, more than the rise and banishment of chaotic demigods, more than curses and blessings cancelling each other out to make poetry.  This town is you, a very precious allotment of souls, souls that love each other, souls that give to each other, and it is worth living for.”  I took a deep breath and hugged my lyre to chest.  “Just like everything is worth living for, so long as you have the ability to live it, so long as you can prolong the life of something so precious.  Because to choose to do anything else is to choose to end something that can never be fully explored or understood otherwise.”

The ponies around the flame murmured quietly amidst themselves.  Their breaths were deep things, inhaling more warmth than what the bonfires could give them.  Little could they see the pale sheen rising over the edge of the black sky as the darkness of night came upon us.  I saw it, of course, and so I spoke quickly to outrace the cold.

“Live,” I told them.  “Live, and do so together, no matter how mad the notion may seem, no matter all the craziness it takes to stomach it.  Live in this town, for you have built a paradise for yourselves here, and there is music to be discovered, like a harmony lying beyond the golden veil of a half-forgotten dream.  And the joy of waking is always yours to have so long as you're humming the song together, so long as you're looking at life for all you can rejoice in, and not for all its baser shades—for even that is easily hidden by the radiance we give to each other, which is far more brilliant than ever an alicorn goddess is capable of wielding.  After all, this town would be a lot less enjoyable if you left it, and it would ruin the chorus... not just for me—heeheehee—but for yourselves.”

Something lit up the edges of their eyes.  I could sing of that bright, pale orb in my sleep, and I knew that I had been doing just that for a solid year.  The eve of the Summer Sun Celebration was over, and I announced it with a shiver and a cloud of vapor escaping my trembling lips.

“I'll never stop dreaming,” I said, though my words were replaced by the strings of a lyre, as if they formed a beacon from across the universe, the faithful yet meaningless eulogy of a righteous sentry.  “I'll always remember you.”

Sparks crackled and died in the bonfire, like a brief color in everypony's eyes.  They all blinked as one, for night had fallen.  Darkness encompassed the bright islands of amber flame, and the equine souls clung to each other with their mutual silence.

“If you'll excuse me,” Sparkler's droning voice broke the stillness, though it was wavering.  “I need to go.”

“Huh?”  Bon Bon was still dazed.  She looked up at her companion.  “Where to?”

Sparkler paused in mid-stride.  She turned and smiled for the first time that night.  “I'm going to go and wake up Star Sprite.”  She gulped and ran a hoof through her mane.  “It's going to be a gorgeous celebration.  She deserves to see it.  I don't care how young she is.”

Slowly, Bon Bon returned the smile.  “I'll have some marshmallows toasted for when you both return.”

Sparkler left, and that was when the first of the fireworks exploded across the night's sky.  The remaining seven ponies looked up, awestruck, their hearts pulsating with the bright plumes of rainbow pyrotechnics, like the percussion to a hidden song they were discovering with each twitch of their eyes.  Foals danced wildly between the bonfires, shouting with glee in a futile attempt to match the volume of the dashing explosions overhead.

As the light show continued, Wind Whistler heard a shuddering breath to her side.  She glanced over towards Caramel with a concerned expression.  “Sweety?” she implored.  “What is it?”

“I... I'm not sure,” he replied.  His face was soft, and a single tear fell from his sapphire eyes.  “I'm just... glad to be here.  Glad to be alive.”  He swallowed hard and easily tore his gaze from the fireworks to fill his vision with her instead.  “How else would I be spending this moment right now with you?”

Her returning smile was as gentle as the nuzzling she gave his neck.  “Love you too, ya sap.”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.  “Windy?”

“Hmmm?”

“I think... we should rethink our moving plans...”

“I think so too, Caramel.”

Across the bonfire, Blossomforth and Thunderlane stared at the couple.  Soon, they exchanged tender gazes and leaned against each other in a blessed mimic of their friends, all the while watching the fireworks above.  Ambrosia and Candy Mane giggled over memories of past Celebrations while Bon Bon fumbled for more marshmallows.

Ponyville had become a strobing sensation of amber flame and rainbow explosions.  Ponies danced in the streets—fillies, colts, mares, and stallions alike—all mutually promising to stay awake through to the next morning, when it was up to their patron Princess to bring forth a literal glow to the world that mirrored the prancing joy in their hearts.  They were so busy with their festivities that hardly a soul noticed one pony marching through the heart of the event, a pony who was not lit up by the bonfires, a pony to whom the fireworks gave no shadow.  She paused halfway through trotting out of the center of town, looking over her shoulder.

For a moment she saw—or thought she saw—a trail of her own hoofprints disappearing behind her in the bright moonlight, at an even pace.  Upon such a dreamlike sight, she did what only a mad pony would do.

She smiled.









If all I care about in life is the imprints I make in this world, then the most I'll ever leave is a grave.






Background Pony
II - “Lunatic's Dream”





by shortskirtsandexplosions
Special thanks to: the FATHOMLESS VOID OF THE UNIVERSE MWAHAHAHA--no seriously, I’ll fill this up later
Cover pic by Spotlight: 



> Background Pony - Chapter 10 - Missing Mane 6 Scenes
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 10 of Background Pony is something that should never have happened.  I didn't look forward to it a hundred pages in advance.  I didn't enjoy it while writing it.  And even in hindsight I still hate it.  A lot of it has to do with the fact that Pinkie Pie is involved.  There's also the fact that I had just... stopped caring by the time I tackled it.

It wasn't so much that I gave up on Background Pony, but my spirit had sort of dive-bombed in general.  I had lost my initial lurve for the fanfic; I no longer felt the epic was Nietzsche's gift to eyeballs or wutnot.  I was starting to see all of the flaws, and--as horrible as it sounds--I was starting to disregard the comments being given to the overall story.  When one gets almost nothing but endless praise, doubts start to float around.  If the same folks are saying your story is awesome over and over again, it means that you're pleasing those same exact folks... not necessarily winning any new converts to your literary cause.

Thankfully, chapter 11 sort of revolutionized the fic for me, and the next 9 installments weren't quite as stale and predictable as I had originally set them out to be several months in advance.  I dragged my hooves quite a bit in producing material, but I think a lot of the second half of Background Pony is stronger and more provocative than the first half.  But that's just me.

Where was I?  Oh right, Pinkie Pie chapter.  F'naaaaa.  Can you believe that this shiet was once a lot longer?  That's what a lot of people don't seem to understand about my crap.  As huge and tumorous as my stories are, they've been even larger in the past.  They get chopped down as part of the editing process.  The rought drafts that I make before the loyal lemurs of SATGF tackle them are quite abominable.

For instance, in this chapter, I felt it was absolutely necessary to have Lyra talk to each member of the Mane 6 about Pinkie Pie in order to enrich hers and the audience's perspective of the character.  As it turns out, this was a redundant exercise, and it served to do nothing but fatten up a chapter that was already quite inane and pointless from the beginning.  So, the conversation bits got the axe.  Still, they were easy to write.  Anyone can write conversation shiet, so long as there are characters in one's heads who can easily carry the dialogue.

It doesn't always make for a nifty plot, though.  F'naaa.










What was I becoming?  Or, better yet, what was I destined to become?  I wasn't always so cold, so joyless, so devoid of any sense of humor or levity.  Was the curse such a curse because I was letting it be so terrible?

No.  No, it couldn't possibly have been that simple.  I just needed to understand things more.  I needed to get answers.  If I could understand Pinkie Pie, then maybe—just maybe—I could understand everything else as well.  There is nothing harder to unlock than randomness.  After all, I was dying to know how a pony could live forever in the present, for I realized that I too would soon have to adjust to such an existence.

So, groaning, I turned over and did something I would never have predicted.  I lifted the blank journal in my grasp.  I opened to the first page.  Then—telekinetically grabbing a pen that I had previously used only to write music notes down on sheets—I began chronicling two new quests of mine.

One quest was to break the curse.

The other quest... well... I knew better than to expect solving it on my lonesome.









“Yeah, I know Pinkie Pie!”  Rainbow Dash exclaimed between grunts.  She slammed her way through a standing stretch of wooden barn siding.  The panels fell uselessly to the ground besides the wooded path.  Adjusting her goggles, she spun about and prepared to smash once more through what remained of the abandoned structure.  “She's a total laugh to be around.  Whaddya wanna know about her?”

“First off, why don't you take five?”

“But I so got this barn ready to cry 'Uncle!'  Just gimme a few more tries—”

I whistled at her.  Sweating and panting, Rainbow Dash gazed down at me.  I shook a canteen full of water in my grasp as I smiled and said, “The barn will learn its lesson soon enough.  Take a break and get some water in your system.”

“Mmmmm-Fine.”  She hovered down and yanked the container from my hoof.  “But only cuz you're paying me.  If this was any other situation, I'd be making a perfect crater out of this thing in—”

“Ten seconds flat.  Right.”  I nodded with a calm smile as I stood before my tent.  “So...”  I crossed my front limbs casually.  “Pinkie Pie?”

“Mmmmm...”  Rainbow Dash took a long sip, swallowed, and wiped the sweat from her brow.  “Yeah.  I dunno if there's another pony between here and Fillydelphia that's both annoying and fun to be around all at once.  Sometimes I feel like smashing her face in.”

“I think I can imagine,” I said with a gentle smile.  “But you don't, I'm guessing?”

“Heck no!”  Rainbow Dash smirked and took another swig before saying, “She's my friend!  I wouldn't be a loyal pegasus if I gave her bruises, even if she gave me headaches from time to time!”

“You think she likes being annoying?”

“Ew.  Who does?”

I chuckled and waved a hoof.  “Let me rephrase that.  Ahem.  You think she tries to be annoying?”

“Well...” Rainbow Dash fidgeted.

“Because some ponies can't help but be who and what they are.”

“Yeah, but you can't—like—put her in a single dictionary entry,” Rainbow Dash said.  She next rolled her ruby eyes.  “Not like you'd catch me reading one.”

“Is it because Pinkie Pie is simple minded?”

Rainbow Dash suddenly flashed me a frown.  “That's not very nice.”

I bit my lip.  “No, I suppose it's not.  Ahem.  But that's how it comes across with Pinkie at times, don't you think?”

“Yeah, well...”  Rainbow Dash gazed down at the fresh rubble thrown off from the barn.  “It may seem that way at first.  But Pinkie is just... Pinkie.  She's happy all the time, and only wants other ponies to be happy.  Is there something wrong with wanting one thing at any given point of the day, so that it's all you ever work towards?”  She flashed me a grin.  “Heck.  I'm always going on about joining the Wonderbolts.  It's my big dream, y'know?  Just because it's not something that could happen right here and right now, does that make what I want any more complicated than what Pinkie Pie wants?”

“What do you mean?”

“She wants to make other ponies happy, and I can't wait to become what I was born to be.”  She took another heavy swig and exhaled gladly.  “Ahhh... Legendary.”

“At least you want something that will determine the sort of pony you will be in the long-term,” I said as I took the canteen back from her.  “Can you say that Pinkie wants the same?”









“If you ask me, Miss Heartstrings, everypony wants to be remembered,” Twilight said with a soft grin as she sat across the library table from me.  “Just not everypony needs to be so... so... epic about it?”

“Mmmhmmm...”  My left hoof was flipping through an old tome while my right forelimb was shuffling the freshly scribbled notes to Elegy #5, or—as Twilight had told me on the previous visit—what was called the “Waltz of Stars.”  I spoke aloud across the sea of research.  “But why put all of your effort into making a pony smile?  Don't you think it suggests that there's a great deal of joy missing from your own life?”

“Heh...”  Twilight rolled her eyes.  “I wouldn't be the first pony to suggest that Pinkie Pie is missing something, but joy is hardly it.  All she needs to do is trot into a room and instantly I feel better about the day.”

“That's a remarkable gift,” I said.  I flipped a few more pages and telekinetically jotted additional notes down while gazing across at her.  “But a pony can't be giving all of the time.  Have you ever thought about what Pinkie Pie needs?”

“Uhm...”  Twilight bit her lip nervously.  “Come to think of it, I haven't given it much thought.”

“Why's that?”

“Oh, I hope you don't think I'm being a horrible friend to my fellow ponies...”

“Heh, hardly, Miss Sparkle.”  I smiled gently at her.  “Is it, you think, that Pinkie Pie is hard to read?”

“I've never really had a reason to ask her much about it,” Twilight replied.  “I suppose if she asks for anything, it's simply for attention.”

“Why do you think that is?”









“I reckon it's on account that she needs it a heap more than regular ponyfolk,” Applejack said.  She planted seeds one at a time across the lengths of the soil to the side of my cabin.  “Some ponies are nice and subtle about it.  But not Pinkie.  Heh, that mare wouldn't know 'subtlety' if it ran up and bucked her square in the keister.”

“That doesn't make her selfish, does it?”  I asked as I squatted next to her and studied how she planted the crops.  The endless cycle of the “Moon's Elegy” swam through my aching head, but I tried my best to concentrate on our conversation.  “What pony doesn't like attention?”

“Some need it more than others, ma'am,” Applejack said.  “Why, shucks, you wouldn't guess this from first glance, but I used to be awfully clingy-like.”

“Huh?”  I blinked crookedly at her.  “You?  Clingy?”

She groaned.  “The passin' of my folks hit the whole family really hard.  Granny Smith tried to be there for the three of us—Big Mac, myself, and lil Apple Bloom, but she was only one mare.  I found myself gettin' laughed at while attendin' school, on account that I was askin' for hugs all the time.”

“Awwww...” I smiled painfully at her.  “That's so sad...”

“Yeah, well, I learned mighty quick that t'ain't no use fussin' the stuff in life we never did ask for.  Even at a young age, I could see that Big Mac was even worse off than I was, and Apple Bloom needed an older sibling to look up to.  So I fancied myself up for the job.  I sucked it up like an adult, put my muzzle to the plow, and got what was left of our family plantin' apple orchards somethin' proper.  I've been doin' mighty fine for myself ever since.”

“You suppose that Pinkie suffered a similar loss in her life?” I asked quietly.  “And... And somehow she never recovered from it?”

“I don't hold much stake in what makes that silly filly tick, and I can't imagine why any newcomer to town would want to either.  Still...”  She stood up from her task and wiped her orange brow.  “If I was to sum Pinkie Pie up in one word, I'd say 'Happy go lucky'.”

“Heh, alright.”  I gulped and pointed.  “But, Miss Applejack?  That's three words.”









“Oh.  Uhm... I'm sorry.”  Fluttershy looked away from me as she scratched her left leg with her right.  “I'm just not used to being asked these kinds of questions about Pinkie Pie.”

“Quit apologizing!” I said from where I stood beside her cottage, strumming on my lyre.  Several of her furry pets cuddled together, smiling to the rhythmic tunes I produced while I attempted salvaging our conversation.  “Seriously!  It's okay.  If I'm asking too much, then I'll talk about something else.”

“No.  No, it's... uh... it's okay,” Fluttershy said with a nervous smile.  “You strike me as a pony who's only concerned about Pinkie.”  She gulped and glanced anxiously into the babbling brook beside her home.  “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about her myself on occasion.”

“Oh?”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy to have such a cheerful friend in my life.  But I feel like everytime I try to do something to make her happy in turn, she only distracts me or takes the conversation somewhere else.”

“You think that Miss Pie is attempting to avoid a dark subject matter?”

“I seriously doubt it's all that dark.  We all know about Pinkie's upbringing.”

I blinked curiously at that.  I tried to keep my instrumental on-key.  “You do?  Since when?”

“If Pinkie ever wanted to hide information about her past, she doesn't do a very good job about it.  Maybe it's because I'm a year older than her, but sometimes I can read her like a book.  She does things so happily and carefree in Ponyville because she can afford to.”

“As opposed to...?”

“She came from a very strict family.  From what I understand, the farm community where she was born doesn't get a lot of sunshine.  Somehow, Pinkie Pie was able to see warmth and rainbows where the rest of her close relations couldn't.  It's a difficult thing to infect others with a happiness that only you're aware of.  Uhm... was that too bizarre an analogy I just gave there?”

“No, it's perfectly clear to me,” I said.  “If I may be so bold as to ask, Did her parents treat Pinkie Pie poorly for her joyful qualities?”









“Oh, good heavens!”  Rarity dramatically exclaimed.  “They practically kicked her out of the house without bothering to let her pack!  How else do you think she came upon living with the Cake family, renting out a boorish attic for a bedroom no less?!”

“Surely it's not that horrible a situation?”  I remarked.  I stood in front of her as Rarity paced around me, fitting a fabulous red sweater over my torso and forelimbs.  My hoodie lay folded in the corner besides a saddlebag and four freshly enchanted sound stones.  “After all, Mr. and Mrs. Cake seem more than happy to foster her!”

“Only because they're trying to hold in all of their groans and sighs, dearie.  Don't tell me that the adult inside you isn't aware of that sort of ritualistic pretense.”  She winked.  “Not that I'm doing anything of the sort at this moment.  I'm more than happy to be sewing this dashing sweater for you, darling.”

“You don't have to convince me, Miss Rarity.”  I smiled politely.  “I seriously doubt you're holding anything in.”

“Quite true.  Now where was I?  Oh yes!”  Rarity paced around me some more, squinting at her job as she levitated several tools about the two of us.  “She drove her parents mad with impromptu midnight parties, Pinkie did!  I even heard from her sister when she visited us two months ago that Mrs. Pie nearly had a heart attack this one time that young Pinkie stuck a bunch of bouncy confetti serpents into her hoofbag!  Uh!  Apparently Mr. Pie shouted so loudly that the roof almost fell off.  I mean, seriously, when you build a house atop a rock farm, do you put much thought into securing your roof?”

“Uhhh...”

“Anyways, one thing led to another, and Pinkie Pie was sent to Ponyville about two years after her Cutsie-nera.  She's been performing practical jokes and throwing parties around town ever since.  Not exactly a story worth writing a stageplay about, but it's not without its shades of whimsical charm, would you think?”

“Whimsical to Pinkie Pie, perhaps.” I remarked as my eyes followed the fashionista's graceful movements.  “But do you believe she ever stands to think about the past, about her family, about all that she's ever been disconnected from?”

“What ever for, dear?  Pinkie Pie is happy where she is.”

“Is it true happiness, I wonder?”  I muttered aloud.  “What if she was... I dunno... reminded of why she's in Ponyville to begin with?”

“Oh, perish the thought!” Rarity exclaimed, submerged in her work.

“Why?”

“Because despite her occasionally bothersome qualities, I love Pinkie Pie dearly, and I can't stand the thought of her changing.”

I gulped.  I said, “But could she do with a change?  If it could somehow help her well-being?”

“Tilt your head up.”

I did as I was told.

“There's a good dear,” Rarity murmured, in another world.

I took a deep breath.  I realized that over twelve months had passed.  I was getting close to understanding the elegies, but I was just arriving at another understanding altogether.  “Tell me, Miss Rarity, is it that her parents won't ever let her go back home to the ponies Pinkie knows and loves?”

“Oh, I've said too much as it is,” Rarity remarked with a flippant laugh while trying to focus on her work.  She spoke monotonously out the corner of her lips.  “Far be it from me to gossip like an old mare...”

“Trust me, Miss Rarity,” I spoke, hesitating slightly upon the bastions of a thoroughly jaded conscience.  Gulping, I bravely lisped, “Your secrets are safe.”

> Background Pony - Chapter 15 - Redundant Conversation Ahoy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


There really isn't much to say about this bit.  It's from Chapter 15: "Being There" of Background Pony.  Lyra has to convince Twilight, Applejack, and Rainbow Dash that she's a cursed unicorn with an edge over the rest of the town's populace and they must trust her in catching Straight Edge in the act of abusing his family.  The editors looked at the original piece and made a good point: the reading audience already knows about 95% of what Lyra rambles on about, so it makes for two pages of redundancy.

It goes to show that oftentimes when I'm writing scenes, I think about them logically from the perspective of the characters more than anything else. However, just because Twilight and her friends *need* to have everything explained to them by Lyra each time they meet, it doesn't mean the audience needs to get the same eyefull.  There's a reason for why Link can skip through cutscenes in Majora's Mask.  Groundhog's Day scenarios don't make for easy-to-read literature.  That's why it's a lot better to cut halfway through a conversation rather than draw it all out from scratch like we've seen before.

It makes me think of something Vimbert has said to me on several occasions:  "Never assume that your audience are idiots."  If you can find a way to cut corners and still convey an important message, do it for the sake of being concise.  Your audience will figure out the rest, and they won't be bored to sleep either.








“Okay...”

The next day, Twilight Sparkle squinted through the afternoon light cascading down through the library windows.

“So let me get this straight.”  She pointed at me and murmured, “Over a year ago, you witnessed the arrival of Nightmare Moon in the center of Ponyville, and ever since then you've been suffering from a forgotten alicorn's curse that has rendered everypony around you an amnesiac and has completely rewritten the history books in order to surgically wipe out complete knowledge of your existence.  And now that you're on the verge of finishing the performance of a time-forsaken symphony that could somehow free you of this curse, you've come to me and my friends for help—not in relinquishing you of this horrible situation—but in trying to stop a local case of domestic abuse?!”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, breathing frantically.  “And now that it's taken me nearly an hour to re-explain all of this to you, I need your help in order to bring justice to Snips' family once and for—”

“What do you mean 're-explained?'”

“Nnngh!”  I tossed my head and drew my hooves frustratedly through my disheveled mane.  “Look, I know I must come across like I'm in a hurry!  But there's no predicting when the curse will go into effect!  And before you ask me—because I know you're totally thinking about it right now—each time I've had this conversation with you before—and we've made every possible attempt to solve the curse, contact Princess Celestia, or even leave a permanent note to your future selves—we only fail miserably!  That's okay!  I've grown to accept that!  I know that the only way out of this curse is to finish learning all I can about the 'Nocturne of Firmaments' on top of getting an undead alicorn goddess pony to get off her high throne and perform the last movement or two of it along with me!  That's my burden to carry!  But I don't care about that right now!  You and your friends are the most important, most heroic, and most thoughtful ponies in town!  This very moment, I need your help in saving this poor family from an abusive father, because I'm running out of options!”

Twilight Sparkle blinked.  Biting her lip pensively, he looked aside at two other figures.

Applejack was squinting suspiciously, adjusting the brim of her hat.  Rainbow Dash was hovering with her forelimbs crossed.  The antsy pegasus frowned and muttered, “Can I say it?”

“Shhhh... Just wait,” Applejack replied.  She turned and looked at me.  “Look, darlin', even if this was all true, what would it matter in the end?  Seems like this curse is fixin' to undo everythang y'all set yer hooves to.”

“Right!”  I grinned widely at the three mares.  I felt my right eye twitching.  I was missing sleep and my nerves were on edge, but I didn't dare stop to think.  I only had to talk, and they only had to listen.  “But you three can be there with me!  If I can get all of you to witness evidence of Straight Edge's cruelty up close and personal, then I'm sure that between the whole of you—one half of the Elements of Harmony—a piece of the truth will remain in your collective heads!  I-I mean... sure!  You'll forget about me!  But that's a sacrifice I've made before and it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make again!  I know for a fact that some bits of information bleed through the layers of my curse, and all I need is for you to see for yourselves that which I've been the only pony to witness so far and then maybe—just maybe—justice will be served and Snips' family can be saved!”

The three mares continued to stare blankly.

Again, Rainbow Dash murmured, “Can I say it?”

“Rainbow, please...”  Twilight muttered aside before leaning towards me.  “I don't understand.  This is just so... so bizarre.  If what you say about yourself is true, it has got to undoubtedly be the most remarkable case of magical imprisonment in the history of ponydom.  All things considered, we should be doing all we can to free you first and foremost, and then—afterwards—we can go about doing such things as testing your claims concerning Mr. Straight Edge's abusive nature.”

“Nnnngh!”  I gripped Twilight's shoulders, almost making Applejack pounce on me.  “Not everything has to be a Crisis of Magical Importance, Twilight!  Don't you see?  I'm just like any other pony you know and care for!  Cursed or not, I worry about my fellow equines!  I'll take care of my own self in due time.  Snips' family needs help and they need help now!  Right now, we can all be in the knowledge of it, and that's what counts!”

Twilight Sparkle blinked nervously at me, then at my hooves on her shoulders.

Rainbow Dash flew in between her two friends.  “Now can I say it?”

Applejack muttered, “Reckon ya can, sugarcube.”

Rainbow Dash spun and hissed at me, “Horsefeathers!”

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

“Of all the crazy, low-brow, lame attempts at grabbing attention!”  Rainbow Dash hovered circles around me, tossing accusatory glares.  “Your randomness makes Pinkie Pie look like a college professor!  Oh!  So you heard about the Elements of Harmony!  So you heard about Twilight Sparkle, the magical apprentice to Princess Celestia, and how she and her bestest friends defeated Nightmare Moon!  And now what?!  You just want a slice of the popularity pie!  I mean, heh, kudos on subtlety!  At least you're not making us go on a global quest to a 'Nocturnal Locker' on the opposite side of the world or some other epically unrealistic crud!  Still, though, this whole Straight Edge nonsense is downright creepy!  Just how long have you been sticking your nose into other ponies' business, huh?!  And making nasty claims of child abuse?!  Bah!  This is a clean town, filly!  I'm Ponyville's eye in the sky!  I should know this crap!”

I turned and looked coolly at her.  “And you also know that the only reason you haven't already given up everything that you own to go and join the Wonderbolts is because your new and altogether 'boring' friends here in Ponyville have unwittingly filled a niche in your life, dissuading the biggest fear you've ever had: of being perpetually alone.”

Rainbow Dash's ruby pupils shrank as she fell flat on her haunches.  “Derr... wh-what did you just say—?”  She began to whimper, shivering like a foal.

Applejack was frowning.  “Now see here, Missy—”

I turned towards her.  “And you—whose father was the inspiration for both the physical and metaphorical foundations you constantly lay down for yourself and the ponies around you—you just can't stop staring at this hoodie that I'm wearing, can you?  Perhaps it's because deep down inside, Applejack, you know that there's a reason for its familiarity; it's the same jacket you once wore when tending the orchards of your farm.  You loved it because its color reminded you of your father's coat in winter when he held you close and sang you songs hoofed down for half a dozen generations.”

“Uhhh...”  Applejack's face paled as she pulled her hat off and held it to her chest.  “Land's sakes...”

“And you...”  I pivoted and smiled at Twilight.  “A pony who fears the greatest horror of all: being forgotten.  When you came to Ponyville, and you saw the spark of friendship that solidified your place here forever, you discovered what it meant to cry tears of happiness for once.  Beforehand, when you sobbed, it was always in the lonely confines of the Canterlot study halls.  But you never dared share your concerns and sorrows with Princess Celestia.  'After all,' you had once told me, 'Starswirl the Bearded was the greatest mortal magician who ever lived, and he died alone with nothing but his scrolls.'  You used to believe that a lonely existence was a necessary sacrifice for greatness.  But since you found your friends here in Ponyville, a piece of you has become willing to be forgotten by the Equestrian History Books of Magic, because you'd rather be happy in the now than despondent for the future.”

Twilight stared at me, her lips quivering.  “I... H-how...?”

“There isn't enough time to explain 'how,'” I said, leaning forward and smiling gently.  “All that matters is why.  And the answer is: I want to help ponies, just like you do.  Right now, we have an opportunity to do just that, but no good will come to Snips' family if we just sit around on our flanks.”  I stood back and gazed at the group as a whole.  “You would be completely different, completely lonely mares if you didn't take the leap of faith by becoming friends.  But in doing just that, you turned into the three strongest, the three most dependable ponies in the whole of Equestria.  Won't you take another leap of faith, right here, right now?”

Rainbow Dash was shivering.  Twilight Sparkle sniffled.  Applejack placed her hat back on her blonde head and gazed at the other two silently.  They looked back at her.
> Background Pony - Chapter 17 - The Original Photograph Scene
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


If there's one thing I've learned from writing, it's that if you're actually enjoying yourself, then you're probably writing something crappy.

This is the ORIGINAL photograph scene from Chapter 17 of Background Pony.  The final version is very short and accomplishes what needs to get done:  Lyra takes a photo of all the important villagers of Ponyville.

Originally, I wanted Chapter 17 to act as a living memorial of all the lives Lyra had touched and how they had shaped throughout the course of the fic.  I never really did anything to support this angle except for in this scene, and it's pretty dayum glaring.  There is a lot of unnecessary detail, only because I was focused intently on the unnecessary detail.  I wanted to show off all of the BP-universified characters and... uhm... stuff.  It was supposed to be a "farewell" of sorts to the Background Pony cast, for better or for worse.  Ah well.

Farewell.







“Pinkie Pie, darling, do stand still!”  Rarity exclaimed.  “You're posing for a photograph, not preparing to dance for a party!”

“I just can't help it!  Heeheehee!”  Pinkie Pie bounced ecstatically beside the fashionista as the two sandwiched themselves beside several other ponies clustered together in the downtown space of Ponyville.  “Group stuff is so incredibly exciting!”

The Town Hall building loomed above them in the noonday sun.  The sky was bright and cloudless, casting a perfect light upon the scene as dozens of ponies lined up before a camera on a tripod with wide-angled lens.

“Ouch!” Fluttershy quietly hissed, blushing.  “Pinkie.  You're... uhm... st-stepping on my hooves.”

“Oopsies!  So sorry!”

“What did I tell you?!” Rarity uttered, glaring.

Rainbow Dash hovered low.  “Pinkie, sit still or I'll help Mrs. Cake hide the entire town's supply of popcorn for a month!”

“Eeep!”  Pinkie Pie's body rigidly resembled a fuschia statue on command.  “Mmmfff-Iff Thid Stibb Enoubb?” she murmured through frozen lips.

Several ponies chuckled.  Twilight Sparkle rolled her eyes, smiled, and looked towards the photographer.  “I think we're just about ready, Ms. Breeze.”

“Almost but not quite...”  Scarlet stood behind the camera, squinting into the viewfinder.  “Let's get the foals in a bit tighter, shall we?”

“You heard the lady, y'all!”  Applejack said, waving at several petite pastel shapes at the front of the group.  “Move yer flanks!  And no fussin' with each other!”

“Awwww... But it's a beautiful day and we wanna find our cutie marks!”  Apple Bloom said in a moping voice.

“Yeah!”  Sweetie Belle added.  “Taking photos is boring...”

“Sweetie Belle!  What kind of an attitude is that?!”  Rarity remarked.  She pulled Sweetie Belle over and rested a hoof on her shoulder with an elegant smile.  “Years from now, you'll look back on this and smile from the exquisite nostalgia!”

“More like yawn from exquisite boredom,” Scootaloo muttered.

“Ahem...”  Milky White cleared her throat from behind the tiny pegasus.

Scootaloo fidgeted.  “Did I say 'yawn?'  I meant 'giggle with fluttering goo-goo eyes.'”

Milky White's hoof pressed sharply into the middle of Scootaloo's spine.

“Ow!”  Scootaloo stood up straight, blinking awkwardly.

“Remember to keep a proper posture,” Milky White said, suppressing a smirk.  She looked over at Cheerilee.  “I wish I knew how you made all the schoolfoals do it in your class.”

Cheerilee giggled and said, “Usually it involves a great deal of pleading and twice as many salt licks.”

“Heh heh... Eeeyup,” said a deep voice beside her.

Cheerilee blushed, shrugged it off with a coughing breath, and glanced across the massive group.  “Snips?  Snails?  Did you scoot into view like Ms. Breeze asked?”

“Sure did, Miss Cheerilee!  Wouldn't miss something like this for the world!  Isn't that right, Rumble?”

“Uhhhhh, sure...” Rumble said before glancing nervously across the line-up.  A filly peaked from beside Rarity and waved at him.  He waved back, blushing.

Cloud Chaser nudged him.  “Better get your coat to turn pale again, or else you'll ruin the photo!”

“Huh?!”  Rumble jumped and frowned.  “I will not!”

Cloud Chaser and Flicker giggled, shuffling a bit to make room for Blossomforth and Thunderlane.

“Ugh, I can never get my mane right for these sorts of shoots,” Blossomforth muttered.

“Don't sweat it,” Thunderlane said.  “You'll be okay.  You're flexible.”

“Yeah, sure, handsome.”  She stuck her tongue out at him.  “Make sure the camera gets your good side.”

“Hah.”  Thunderlane snorted.  “Every side is my good side.”

“Ugh,” Ambrosia uttered a few spaces away.  She glanced at the stallion at her side.  “Thank gawdess you ain't full of horse hockey like Thicklane over there.”  She blinked.  “Darlin'?”

Morning Dew's legs buckled beneath him as his head nodded off.

“Pssst!”  Ambrosia thwapped him with her snow-white tail.  “Yer faintin' again!”

Morning Dew shot up instantly with a grin.  “Made you look.”

“Oh, carn sarn it!”  Ambrosia grumbled as the ponies immediately surrounding the couple chuckled.

“Sorry.  Couldn't resist.”  He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek, to which Ambrosia blushed.

“Surely we can finish making this picture?  I must return to my hut and tend to a bubbling mixture!”

“Just a second, Zecora!”  Twilight turned once more toward the photographer.  “Ms. Breeze?  What about now?  Are we good?”

“Yes!  I do believe I finally have you all in frame!”  Scarlet said, waving a hoof over her squinting face.  “Hey!  You two!  Married couple!”

“Erm...”  Caramel stammered.

“We're not married yet!” Wind Whistler exclaimed.

“You won't make it out of this photo shoot alive if you don't stop nuzzling each other and face the camera!”  Several Ponyvilleans laughed as Scarlet continued, “I put you in the center of the shot for a reason!  Now face the lens and smiled!  You're the symbol of Ponyville's future!  Let the Enquirer know how happy you are and smile!”

“If they smiled anymore, their jaws would fall off,” Rainbow Dash said with a devilish smirk.

“Can that really happen?!” Pinkie Pie gasped.  “Oh no!  How many ponies have I hurt?!”

Several more ponies laughed until Scarlet's voice silenced them.  “Okay!  We're ready!”

“What about the photographer?” Fluttershy suddenly said.

“Hey!  She's right!”  Twilight exclaimed with a bright grin.  “You should be standing in the frame with us!”  The crowd murmured and nodded in agreement.

“Heh... That's a nice sentiment,” Scarlet replied.  “But it wouldn't be very professional of me...”

“Since when did that stop anypony?” Remarked a cheerful voice.  The Mayor marched into view, standing beside Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash.  “I, for one, think she should be immortalized along with the rest of us.  After all, she is family.”

Several ponies cheered and goaded Scarlet on.  The earth ponies stomped their hooves while the pegasi whooped and whistled.

Blushing, Scarlet relented, waving her forelimbs.  “Alright, alright!  If you insist.”

“Yeeeeha!”  Applejack added, motioning the pony forward.  “Come and join us, sugarcube!”

“But it's not enough that I just set up the shot!  This camera doesn't have a timer,” Scarlet said with a concerned look on her face.  “Somepony has to be out of shot to take the photo!”

The villagers exchanged curious, thoughtful glances.  They murmured amongst themselves, fidgeting.

“I'll do it.”

The crowd looked in one direction.  I happened be standing in the path of their gaze.  I smiled and lowered the hood from over my horn.

“Sorry.  I didn't mean to pry.  Looks like you got some sort of group photo taking place.”

“Uhhh...” Rainbow Dash raised an eyebrow.  “You think?”

“Who are those two unicorns?” Derpy asked.

Dinky leaned up to her.  “It's only one, mother...”

Derpy closed one eye and smiled brightly.  “Oh!  Hi there!  Just passing through?”

I took a deep breath, smiling.  “You could say that.  How can I help?”

“Well, if you're up to it...”  Scarlet pointed at the camera.  “See that button?  I need you to press it when I tell you to.  We need more than one shot, though, so it might take more than a few minutes.”  She smiled nervously.  “Is... is that too much to ask?”

“Don't fret.”  I waved a hoof and trotted over, shrugging off the cold from my shoulders.  “I'd be more than happy to.”

“Great!”  Pinkie Pie exclaimed.  “Come and join us, Scar-Scar!”

Scarlet groaned and trotted over in a slump.  “I really, really hope that ponies don't start calling me that permanently.”

“Why not?”  The Mayor smiled and draped a hoof over the younger mare's shoulder.  “It's endearing.”

“It's silly and stupid...”

“Hmmm... Welcome back to Ponyville.”  She winked through her bifocals.  “Would you rather be called 'the Mayor's Daughter' for forever?”

Scarlet blushed slightly.  She shook her head.  “Nah.  I can live with what I have to live with.”

“Sounds like an adventure already.”  The Mayor glanced up and nodded at me.  “We're ready!”

“You hear that, everypony?”  Twilight stood tall and proud as dozens of her friends and neighbors copied her posture beside her.  “This is it!”

Scarlet nodded my way.  “Thank you so much for all your help, Miss...”

“Hey...”  I shrugged and rested my hoof over the button.  “What's in a name? Preserve your memories.”  Clearing my throat, I leaned forward and squinted through the viewfinder, capturing the whole of Ponyville like a tiny crowd on a dusty stage.  “Now say cheese!”

“Cheeeeeeese.”

The camera's shutter resounded with a ghostly click.
> Waiting for a Spark - Unfinished Chapter One
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


I've already talked extensively about this story in some stupid blog.  Meh.  Not much else to say except... it goes nowhere.

It was also something of an experiment to see if I could write short, minimalistic prose.  I think I failed.

Also angsty Twilight Sparkle.







When Lone Star woke up, she forgot what she was dreaming about, but it didn't matter.  She greeted the pale rays of a Monday morning sunrise with a sigh.  Sliding out of bed, the unicorn trotted across her empty apartment and prepared for a busy day of classes.  Breakfast was simple: a bowl of oats and celery.  She packed a daffodil sandwich for later in the day.

Squinting into a bedroom mirror, the young filly regarded a lavender blur staring back at her.  Quietly, with ritualistic lethargy, Lone Star clutched a brush in the crook of her hoof and smoothed the violet streaks in her mane.  Grasping a pin, she pulled the length of her hair into a bun, exposing her slender neck.  Finally, she reached into a drawer, removed a pair of glasses, and planted the spectacles on the bridge of her nose.  In the mirror, a violet-eyed unicorn came into focus, staring back with an eternally deadpan expression.  There was a black knob resting at the end of the pony's horn.  It was a black cap made out of arcane metals, and Lone Star had memorized the tiny runes etched into it like the back of her hoof.

With a lonesome breath, the unicorn shuffled to the front end of her tiny apartment.  She took her daffodil sandwich, along with several textbooks and a bundle of written scrolls, and slid them all into a pale saddlebag.  These, she slid over her flank with practiced ease.  With a last-second adjustment of her eyeglasses, Lone Star opened the door to her apartment, locked it behind her, and stepped out onto the echoing streets of uptown Canterlot.

The cobblestone paths leading up to Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns were filled to the brim with young ponies.  Between several alabaster storefronts full of Canterlotlian antiquity, the brightly-coated colts and fillies trotted leisurely to their first classes of the day.  They broke out into random conversations that filled the dazzling avenues of the royal city with gossip, politics, and laughter.  Nopony talked to Lone Star.

Her spectacled eyes swam memorized patterns across the sidewalk cracks that led to her early morning astronomy class.  Ascending to the third floor of the grandiose college building, Lone Star sat in the middle of the room.  That Monday was the scheduled turn-in for the semester's final essay.  Every other unicorn shuffled their astronomy papers magically, using kindergarten level telekinesis to slip a monogrammed seal over their written reports.  Lone Star took an extra minute to seal her paper, rolling the parchment up and applying the finishing touches by bare hoof and mouth.  She finished in time to hoof over her thick bundle of writing to the passing professor.  The essay had taken the better part of three consecutive evenings for her to finish.  She breathed with a nervous shudder, the knob at the end of her horn bobbing awkwardly in the classroom air.

The professor gave a brief and unimportant lecture about the Wednesday's study on Canis Major.  Astronomy class ended, and Lone Star shuffled out along with every other pony.  Navigating the cluttered hallway full of trotting, murmuring unicorns, the lavender filly made a bee-line for her class on Ancient Sorcery.  The day's topic was on Second Age Empiricist Lunar Enchantment.  It was the one moment in the day when Lone Star felt most awake.  The class ended far sooner than she had hoped, and in a slow shuffle she made her way to the front lawn of the campus, where she sat alone beneath an apple tree and ate her daffodil sandwich over an old book written on the topic of the Aurora Borealis.  She heard laughter and giggling.  Lone Star glanced across the lawn to see a young filly playfully shoving away a flirtatious stallion.  The two ponies giggled, their coats turning red, as the midday Sun shone over their bright and happy coats.  Lone Star returned her gaze to her book, but for some reason found the words hard to keep track of.

After lunch, there were three more classes: Advanced Spatial Geometry, Sub-Equestrian Sociology, and finally Intermediary Neo-Alchemy.  During the last course, Lone Star worked alone, having an entire laboratory bench of materials at her disposal.  She was so engrossed in transmuting a block of stone into granite through enchanted chemicals that she hadn't realized the rest of the class had cleared out until the professor cleared her throat and gently urged the young filly to finish with her experimentation.

The abrupt end to her lab work threw Lone Star off balance, so that she stumbled homeward in an awkward gait, her nose scrunched up as she smelled the lingering scent of chemicals wafting off her lavender coat.  She was residually aware of posh Canterlotlian citizens giving her a second glance through her peripheral.  Her cheeks went red and she hurried her hoofsteps until she was safely upon the threshold of her apartment.  Once safely inside with the door shut behind her, Lone Star slumped to her haunches, letting all of the sights and colors and sounds of the day filter out of her in a long and shuddering exhale.  With a limp hoof, she pulled the pin out of her hair and let her long mane flow free.  There were too many hours left in the day.  She strolled liquidly through the cramped apartment, not bothering to strip of her saddlebag until she was halfway to her bedroom.

The afternoon was spent primarily at the kitchen table, performing homework and scheduling the rest of the week.  With expert precision, Lone Star stood before a white board hanging on the wall.  With a marker clasped between two teeth, the unicorn scribbled neatly the itinerary for the next few days to follow.  Everyday was ordinary, except for Saturday—which was marked with the illustration of a crescent moon.  Lone Star briefly paused to stare at it, and a sad lump formed in her throat.

Night came far too slowly.  Lone Star took a bath under dim lantern light, spending an extended period of time in the hot basin of water.  Cleaned three times over, she eventually stepped out, dried herself, and headed for bed.  Planting her glasses back into their respective drawers, she extinguished the last candle in her apartment and slid under the covers.  Everything was dead silent, and Lone Star's violet eyes were wide open.  She tried to go to sleep, but every second that the silence persisted, a distant and imaginary ringing sound bled into her ears, as if the walls of her apartment were grinding against each other.  With a meditative breath, the unicorn student eventually forced her eyes shut, performing several rudimentary geometric calculations in her head, mentally preparing for the homework she had to complete over the next thirty-six hours.

Tuesday morning arrived as anticlimactically as it ever did.  Again, Lone Star was certain that she had dreamt of something important.  She tossed away any notion of nocturnal visions as she tossed the bedsheets off her and got up for the day.  After eating breakfast, pulling her mane into a bun, and slipping on her thick glasses, Lone Star hoisted the saddlebag over her spine and sauntered once more onto the ivory streets of the sepulcher city.

Her classes were hardly interesting on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  First she attended a course on Equestrian Statistics, then two separate classes on Arcane Biology that were so similar that she hardly believed she actually paid for both of them.  The fourth class was on Draconian Physiology, which actually kept her interest for a spell.  The fifth class, a course on Equestrian Politics, would have been completely uneventful, hadn't the professor suddenly broke into tears before the entire classroom while going on a tangent about Princess Luna.  Lone Star felt her heart beating hard for the first time that afternoon.  It almost felt like the awkwardness that had stabbed her upon waking up, as if something dreadful was missing to have made her pulse race so much.  Whatever the case, the professor swiftly composed herself, and the class ended on a neutral note.  Lone Star no longer had an excuse to be distracted.

After her courses were finished, Lone Star took a long detour on the way home.  There was a tranquil hum to the dying afternoon, as if the cloudy heights of Canterlot were mourning a deep loss that only she knew about.  Everypony around her was smiling and chattering about one cheerful thing or another, and in a broad glance they all appeared to be missing something.  Lone Star said nothing, for she knew that she would be at a loss to tell them just what the grand secret was.  She didn't understand it herself; she didn't understand a lot of things.  

One thing was sure: there was homework to be done.  Lone Star wandered home.  For hours, she sat at her kitchen table, pouring over geometric equations and reading tome after tome on Equestrian history.  Slumber came only when she let it.  Her bath was a short, blissfully hot thing, and suddenly she was back beneath the covers in the darkness, assaulted from all sides by the dreadfully ringing silence of her tiny home.  There was no more homework to be completed, so for sanity's sake the unicorn pretended she hadn't finished it to begin with, and she repeated the mental exercises in her head until sleep was veritably forced upon her.

Wednesday morning rolled through her bedroom window.  Lone Star said nothing to the shadows.  She ate.  She did her hair.  She put on her glasses, and walked out the door.  On her way to the college campus, she passed by a series of Canterlotlian citizens dressed in plain black robes.  She watched as the mournful unicorns marched in a cold parade towards the East Wing of the Royal Palace, telekinetically levitating an array of tiny flames before them.  Under a murmur of reverent chants, they made their way into a heavily guarded chamber flanked by banners bearing the image of a crescent moon.  For the second time that week, Lone Star felt a sad lump forming in her throat.  It grew all the heavier when she realized that she had actually counted the consecutive occasions it had happened.  With a cleansing sigh, she swiftly trotted her lonesome way to astronomy class.

The essays had been graded already.  Lone Star was actually surprised with the professor's swiftness in that regard.  A chorus of mixed cheers and groans filled the room as several unicorn students were unveiled their latest scholastic fate.  The lavender unicorn fidgeted in her seat, gripping the desktop with firm hooves.  The teacher's assistant sashayed down the rows of desks with a swish of her blonde tail hairs. She was snickering and casting a sly smirk by the time she reached Lone Star's seat.  When Lone Star received her graded paper, she realized why.  Her score was well within the sixty percentile, hardly passing.  It was the second time in her entire college career that she had gotten such a dismal score, and the filly felt as if her heart was about to burst out of her numb chest.  The professor spent the rest of the hour lecturing on Canis Major, but Lone Star could barely pay attention.  She burned holes through her desktop with twitching eyes as the wheels turned in her beleaguered mind, attempting to figure out what horrible mistake she had made to receive such a disastrous grade.

She hadn't even realized the class had ended when the professor's voice broke through her cloud of thought.  “Miss Star?”

She jerked, startled, nearly falling out of her seat.  Gulping a dry throat, she gazed pensively up at her teacher.  “Y-Yes, Doctor Sundust?”

“No doubt you are angrily vexxed to have received such a low score as that which I gave you, young filly,” the elder stallion remarked with a wave of his horn.

“Erm... H-Hardly, sir.  I'm not at all angry.  I-I just—”

“If you pay attention to my notations, Miss Star, you'll see that I found almost every one of your focus points to be on par with the subject matter of your essay.  The report was almost completely devoid of errors, which is remarkable for a pony of your age—with or without your obvious limitations...”

Lone Star bit her lip, feeling the weight of the metal knob pulling on her horn after hearing the professor's last few words.  “I... uhm... I-I'm glad that you think so, sir—”

“But the primary requirement of the assignment clearly stated that the report should not exceed twenty pages.  You turned in thirty-six pages, Miss Star.”  The educated stallion adjusted his own spectacles and gave the lavender unicorn a pitiable stare.  “While I respect your diligence and effort, you must also learn that many scientific organizations out there that could utilize your talent beyond the classroom will require brevity as much as if not more so than poignancy.  You have so much potential, Miss Star.  Learn to focus it, and you will achieve far better results.”

“I was only endeavoring to fully explain the difference between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor—”

“Focus, my dear.  Without conciseness, where would the greatest minds of Equestria be today?”

Lone Star exhaled long and hard, bowing her rune-capped horn.  “Yes, Doctor Sundust.  I understand.”

After classes, after a shuffling canter home, after the sun went down, Lone Star stood alone in her kitchen, plastering the failed paper across a wooden cabinet, so that it was in open view from almost every angle of the tiny apartment.  She stared at it; she had to stare at it.  It was her entire life, enveloped in thirty-six pages, splashed all over with red ink corrections like so many wincing creases in her furrowed brow.  Gazing at it long enough, her vision blurred, and she saw beyond the shadows of her room—like staring into the missing gap of a forgotten dream—and momentarily saw two withering plants in the quivering arms of a sobbing equine.

With a forced blink, she once again stood in the frigid confines of her lonesome kitchen.  The bath that followed was a swift, unnerving dunk in warm waters.  Lone Star shivered her way into sleep, immune to the silence engulfing her.  She clutched the bedsheets tightly to herself, imagining that they were limbs that didn't belong to her.

Thursday morning arrived, and Lone Star got up faster than usual.  She remembered suddenly that beyond classes, beyond lunch, beyond the rigid routine of college courses, a trip to the library awaited her.  On the way out, nearly dropping the glasses on her nose, she was once again stabbed by the burning red image of the dangling paper off her kitchen cabinet.  Under the cold kiss of a gray morning, Lone Star doubted very much that she could possibly forget her failure, even if she had buried it in the heart of the Canterlotlian Mountains.

Ponies laugh at her horn
Library trip (Look under 'Twilight Sparkle')
Looking through telescope
Looking through telescope at ponies
Princess Luna
Trip to park
Sobbing to sleep
Letter and green flame

	
> Background Pony - "Deleted Scene"
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was originally written for a blog on the 1st year anniversary of Background Pony's first upload.  The blog can be found here.





Fifty-two weeks ago, I enjoyed one of the happiest times of my entire life.

It started when I took a shower, and like all brainstorming sessions, an idea flew into my skull like Oswald's bullet.  I took a walk the next evening, strolling around barefoot along the sidewalk outside my house.  I mentally hammered together the making of what could be potentially be an awesome, introspective fanfic series.  I designed a first chapter that could stand alone as a one-shot in the event that my plan--which was completely impulsive and unedited--might not fall through.

Whatever the outcome, I went ahead and posted the resulting product on April 5th, 2012.  The reaction that I received was nothing like I could have possibly anticipated.  I had gotten a decent number of hipster followers for previous trainwrecks before, but it paled in comparison to the sheer volume of response I got to this story about a mint green unicorn wearing a hoodie.  It was, quite frankly, the most exposure and biggest pop I had ever gotten for any single thing I had done on the Internet.

Needless to say, this gave me a great high.  I felt good about myself, like I had contributed something to the Mos Eisley of our collective subconscious that marsupials actually cared about en masse.  This made my days brighter, my outlook happier, and it enthused me for the next few following weeks as--for the most part--I remained constant in pumping out new chapters.

For better or for worse, Background Pony is what it is.  It's anything but perfect, but it did get me on the fanfiction map.  As much as I try to deny it, everything I've written before or sense has paled in comparison.  And I do owe the legacy of the fic for getting me in touch with such cool cats as Propsmaster, Razgriz, and TheBrianJ.  It's also gotten me closer to the likes of theworstwriter and Warden.  It allowed me to ascend to such popularity that people have made translations of it in multiple languages, not to mention audio reads and fantastic comics.  And, last but certainly not least, it did introduce me to Ponky.

A year later, and I am currently the third most subscribed lemur on this site of pastel colored talking equines.  I can't honestly say that I'm a better writer, but I certainly am a more experienced one, for what it's worth, and most definitely filled with gratitude.  I thank you kindly for having faith in me, that my literature may still continue in some fashion to entertain, humor, and perhaps even enlighten some, all, or bits and pieces of you.

Writing MLPfiction is currently and will continue to be the most rewarding thing in my life for the time being.  Yes, everything ends and/or is replaced, but for right now, I'm extremely gratified to be here, and I'm glad to have made many awesome acquaintances in the process.

So, as I've come to the anniversary of Background Pony (and the anniversary of some other, more stupid things), I felt that it was fitting that I try and attempt something commemorative.  Naturally, I got lazy, and I let this day sneak up on me.  But I wasn't entirely unprepared.

For the longest time, there was a scene in Background Pony that I always wished to write.  It was a singular event within the narrative, and yet for some reason I wanted it to be a standalone chapter.  But as the installments to the fic blurred by, getting increasingly larger with each update, I realized that the original vision of the scene made it far too short to stand on its own.  What was more, it couldn't thematically fit into any of the other "episodes" of the fic that I had planned (yes, believe it or not, everything was indeed planned).

So, around the time I got to chapter 8 (the Morning Dew one), I made the decision to remove the scene/chapter from the fic altogether.  Instead, I borrowed bits and pieces of it and scattered it all throughout the rest of the story.  I felt that this was the best thing to do, since there was no conceptual or structural way of inserting the scene without making stuff super awkward.  And, besides, it didn't really amount to much character development in my head anyways.

But I did describe the scene to a marsupial or two, and they told me that it was good enough to see the light of day.  And though I couldn't do it before Background Pony ended, right here and now--on the fic's anniversary--I feel like I might as well share it.

What follows, then, is an approximation of what the original scene was.  I didn't go hardcore in structuring it, mind you.  I quite literally wrote it today in the span of four hours.  What's more, since this was ultimately a "deleted scene," don't be surprised if you see some tropes that were ultimately used elsewhere in the fic.  I simply wrote this from memory as it was originally intended, and I think it came out more or less as it was supposed to.  But, then again, a lot of the meat of my crapola emerges as I go through the process of hammering it out via a keyboard.

So, for what it's worth, enjoy this--or not.  Think of it as an AU take on what could have happened to Lyra at one time.  Or, better yet, it could just as well be something she never wrote down about in her journal.  It's an unsung memory, as t'were, and thankfully I'm cold hearted enough of a flankhole to deliver it unto you.

Live long and dash apples.
-SS&E





It was the best kind of music and the worst kind of music.  It was the type of music that destroys and renews all at once, that tears one apart and puts the pieces back together only for the melodic circle of fire to catch ablaze yet again.  I stood along the wall, listening to it, drinking it in, trying to find the source of its inspiration through the sheer notes themselves.  Every song has its anchor, like a lit buoy floating in tempestuous waves, casting a guiding light.

All the while, the reception blossomed all around me.  The Town Hall building glittered with festive laughter, sashaying hooves, and felicitous toasts.  Glasses of punch and cider refracted the lanternlight, forming an otherworldly kaleidoscope dancing across the walls and ceiling beams.

It was the tail-end of a wedding.  Who had gotten married?  To be honest, I only residually knew.  That's a sin, in a way, for a pony like me to be so ignorant.  Still, the couple was from out of town, having visited Ponyville simply because some of their friends lived here, and also because this is quite simply the most beautiful spot in all of Equestria.  The groom said so himself; I liked him instantly.

It also helped that he was a distant relative to Blossomforth.  I stood in the wedding hall not too far from where she and Thunderlane stood when the couple's vows were being exchanged.  I smiled when they smiled, applauded when they applaued, and even shared a tear or two.  In times like these, I dream of sharing more than all of that—like maybe a friendly hug, but I know where my limit is.  A stranger is still a stranger, no matter how empathic she may appear to be.

So, I stood alone, and yet I was anything but.  Several celebrators and dancers smiled at me as they passed by.  Many of them repeated themselves, naturally, but I wasn't one to protest.  Their circular dance moves had a poetic mechanization, and the manner in which they paused to smile, bow, or curtsey my way was with perfect timing, as if I was a spring of the same fabulous cogwork.

I tried not to shiver, but despite all of the heartwarming sights, the evening was still unbearably cold.  I didn't dare wear my hoodie to an event like this.  Even if I was a comparative bum to these equines, it helped immensely not to look like one.  No, I had Rarity's fantastic scarlet sweater adorning me, along with a yellow scarf and a floral headdress that I had bought the previous afternoon from Roseluck's store in the marketplace.  It looked quaint enough, I suppose, even if I felt comparatively under-dressed alongside so many dazzling suits and gowns.  Nopony gave me a second glance, for reasons other than the obvious, and I wasn't about to feel remorseful.  Besides, Pinkie Pie was floundering somewhere near the punch bowl, and she was naked as sin.

From where I stood, I also saw a gaggle of other familiar faces.  Rarity was there, naturally, dressed to outshine everypony just short of the newlywed bride.  She gossiped giddily from where she stood next to Milky White, Cheerilee, and a very noticeably squirming Fluttershy.  The town's animal tamer glanced from group to group, her aquamarine eyes being saturated in the thick of the crowd.

I followed her lonesome gaze, and finally understood what they were anchored to.  The band's music had taken on a slower, much more intimate tone.  Pairs of ponies danced together in the center of the hall, forming a wholesome halo around where the bride and groom were positioned, nuzzling with soft smiles as they closed their eyes and inhaled the air, the moment, and each other's scents.  I saw Blossomforth and Thunderlane sharing a tender embrace in mid-step.  Not that far away from them, Caramel and Wind Whistler sashayed together.

It was certainly a tranquil scene, both delicate and dazzling.  I could see why as softie such as Fluttershy was so deeply moved.  I also understood why neither Applejack nor Rainbow Dash were present, and I was beginning to realize why I didn't want to be present either.

Gazing at the couples, at the way in which their faces locked with one another, at the mutual reflection that glittered in their sparkling eyes, I began to feel a tremor.  It was subtle at first, rising from beyond the surface like a wagon full of gold as it crested a hill.  But then, it gained momentum, charging forward with rhythmic, turbulent bumps, just like my heartbeat—for it was my heartbeat.

I was in another world, an alien place that could afford such beautiful, warm things.  I saw one shiver after another ricochet through the dancing crowd like a pestilence, and I came to understand what a frigid, bitter dagger my presence was in the middle of all that mirth.  I shouldn't have been there; I had no reason to be there.  But, in spite of my better judgment, I stayed.  I stayed and I gazed and I exhaled, wondering, pondering, almost feeling.

So, as one can imagine, it was something of a thunderous shock to my system when one single body—like a comet across the cosmos—swam through the heavenly soup towards me and me alone.  At first, I reasoned that it had to have been an accident, that this equine was simply threading his way towards a restroom, an exit, anything but the universe's most unassuming wallflower in the history of both existence and nonexistence.  And yet, he spoke, his voice like the crackling embers of a roasting fireplace, deep and warm and most decidedly aimed at me.

"Hello, darling.  You waiting on somepony?"

I glanced at him, and I saw a pair of mint green shapes reflecting off of chestnut brown eyes.  He had a short, well-trimmed mane, dark and mysterious, like the knowing grin that dripped off his chiseled muzzle.  He smiled at me like I was some sort of succulent dessert.  If I said absolutely nothing, I suddenly had every expectation that he might gobble me whole right then and there.  I wasn't intimidated; quite the contrary, I was stupidly amused, at least at first.

"No," I said, returning the smile just as cheesily as he had bequeathed it.  "Nopony in particular."

"Oh?  Well that's a shame," he said, his eyes remaining thin and ravenous.  "You're far too beautiful to be alone here."

I chuckled—snickered, even.  I glanced down at my hooves as I adjusted my weight against the wall I was leaning on.  "I bet you say that to all the mares."

"Only to the ones who steal my breath away," he said, chuckling just as merrily.  "Are you one of the bridesmaids?"

"Sadly, no, good sir."

"Because I don't remember seeing you arrive at the start of the ceremony.

I took a deep breath and said, "Of that, I can be pretty certain."

"You must not be from around here."

I shrugged.  "I frequent this part of Equestria occasionally," I said.  A wave of shivers came.  I felt myself tightening my muscles so as not to show it.  What for?  There was no reason to put on airs, was there?  "I just happened to be in the right place and at the right time."

"A fan of ceremonies, I take it?"

I gazed towards the dancing crowd.  "I... enjoy all things that celebrate life."  I gulped hard.  "I try to remain positive."

"A wise policy," he said, nodding.  "I think it was Neightzsche who compared life to an 'open sea,' through which we could set sail with happiness and great expectation."

I gave him a double-take.  I squinted.  "You... read up on Neigthzschean philosophy?"

He shrugged with a smirk.  "A few quotes of his, here or there.  I'm a lot more partial to Camule."

I blinked.  A sly smirk crossed my lips.  "You don't say...?"

"Forgive me if that sounded random," he said.  "You just strike me as a soul who likes to ponder.  You have a certain, intellectual glimmer to your eyes.  A pony can see it from across the hall."  He chuckled dryly.  "Heck, a pony could see that pretty, amber gaze from just about anywhere."

I had to stop those eyelids in question from fluttering.  I stifled a giggle, shaking my head as I leaned more heavily against the wall.  This stallion was good: I had to give him that at least.  I knew I wasn't about to give him anything else.

He still persisted, of course.  "Are you really here by yourself?" his tone was almost whimpering.

"Yes," I droned.  "I most certainly am."

"I guess we're in the same boat," he said with a smirk.

"And just what sea have we both cast off in, hmmm?"

"Only the most boring of waters," he replied, his voice dry and metallic to match mine.  "You ever hang out someplace where you're surrounded by so many ponies, and yet you feel as though you can't reach out to a single one of them?"

I felt a lump forming in my throat.  I tried to avoid the sight of every happy couple in that place; I failed.  "It's like being a ghost in a place that is too blissful to deserve a haunting..."  I sighed.  "You want things to be different, and yet you feel bad for wanting something like that to begin with."

He actually didn't have an immediate response to that.  His next breath was a faltering one.  "Huh... I guess I never really saw things that way."

I glanced up at him.  "Hmmm?"

He shrugged, smiling calmly at me.  "Life gets tough—sad, even, but I'd rather be dead than allow myself to get to the point where I see any chance at exultation as something to be ashamed of."

I blinked.  My gaze fell to the wayside as I swallowed and uttered, "Right..."

"And I'm not ashamed to say that I'm happy to have met you, Miss...?"

My nostrils flared, and yet it came out.  "Lyra.  Lyra Heartstrings."

I swear, there was something harmonious in his tone as he said, "That's quite the beautiful name, Miss Heartstrings."  His smile could cut diamonds; it was almost slicing me open. "You can call me Cedar Brown, or you can call a cab."

I couldn't help it.  I laughed, and I enjoyed not being able to do anything but laugh.  I enjoyed it...

He did too, and his chuckles were twice as merry as mine.  "But, more than anything," he said in as handsome a tone as a living organism could muster.  "I would love to have the opportunity to share this dance with you."  He extended a hoof, like a lifeline bobbing towards me from the living crowd of ponies, warmth, and shuffling limbs.  "If you would be so gracious."

I looked at his hoof, then up at his placid face.  Now, I've never been a stupid mare, regardless of the situation—be it cold or warm.  I understood what he was up to; I knew his game.  It just so happened that I was in the precise condition to be both aware of and immune to his lure.  My life was already cursed.  Nothing would ever blossom from his unorthodox ploy, his gentlecolt escapade in the midst of somepony else's wedding.  If I was any other living pony, I could have either ignored him, or flat-out knocked him to the floor.

Instead, like a mad pony, I took a path straight down the middle, and I took it blindly.  For he was offering something as delicious and yet as superficial as apple skin, and I nibbled on the bait only because I knew it for what it was: an artifice.  And in a life defined by the sighs between shivers, I've come to understand the best and the least that I can afford, as well as how I choose to enjoy or not enjoy it.

"Alright, Mr. Brown," I said softly.  "Or, should I say, 'Cedar?'"  It was a sultry voice that I knew would steal his attention doubly times the degree to which he had attempted to steal mine.  "I would love to dance with you."

If he was surprised at my acceptance, he didn't show it.  There was a twinkle to his eyes, but it ended as swiftly as it began, like he had switched souls with another devil so that he could transfer the energy from his charms to his dance moves.  He gently took my hoof in the crook of his and pulled me towards him.  Together, we shuffled towards the center of the floor.  That was when the shivers tripled, for I was utterly surrounded by ponies.  It was the most crowded situation I had been in since the Summer Sun Celebration, when my perilous purgatory began.

He must have sensed it.  Whoever Cedar Brown was, he was two parts stallion, but easily eight parts magic.  In a hushed tone, he pulled me close—but not too close.  We nuzzled at the end of a breath, distant, yet warm enough to be called "intimate."  I stared into his unblinking eyes and saw a scared little foal swimming blissfully in a chestnut sea.  He smiled, like he realized I could see myself, and his deep voice kept me afloat.  "Just stay close," he said, allowing my weight to rest on his body as we swayed back and forth.  "The music and I will do the rest."

I could have burned alive.  Instead, I leaned against him.  I felt Cedar's heartbeat, and it was an eerie thing.  I realized then and there, that in over a year of meandering through the frosty lengths of Ponyville, gazing at ponies from afar, pondering on all the textures of life that had bled away from me, I had not felt a single pony's pulse.  I suddenly felt unreal, alien, like an unearthly creature that had been deprived of something so simple, so warm, like this—a singular moment—a breath in time that I was already mourning, for I knew my lungs would be emptied of it, and all I would have left to do was whimper.

Instead, my ears danced as we danced, pirouetting around his words as he fluttered them down towards me.  "You have a unique grace about you, Miss Heartstrings.  If I may be so bold, I'd guess you were from Trottingham circles."

"C-Canterlot, actually," I stammered, as a foal would.  Like so many fanciful daydreams in grade school, this was happening, and yet it wasn't.  I knew it would annihilate itself at the end of the next dance move, at the next movement of the instrumental, upon the glint of a full moon and all the damnable forces that loomed beyond it, unseen and unsung.  "I've never been to Trottingham, and I doubt I ever will."  I gulped, stumbling a bit, only for his graceful moves to compensate for it.  "It's too far away for me..."

"Oh?" he remarked, gazing at me in mid-sway.  "You afraid of going long distances?"

"Fear has nothing to do with it," I said.

"What, then?  I'm curous."

I shuddered.  "Fate."

He smiled at me.  "You only deserve the most beautiful of destinies, Miss Heartstrings."

I smirked back.  "Or—let me guess—the most handsomest."

"Heheh... Now let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?"

I was briefly naive enough to flinch at that.  "Sorry..."

His soft chuckle devoured my hearing.  "I'm only teasing.  Truly, having this dance with you has made my evening."

Quite frankly, I wanted more than anything for him to be quiet.  I didn't want him to have a voice, only a presence, something I could lean up against.  And I did so, limply, like a maiden might drape off her captor, for I knew that this was anything but that.  I tried so hard not to rely on what I knew.  I was so sick of knowing, of thinking, of dreaming up ideas and thoughts and speculations, and not one of them having this—this warmth, this touch, this heartbeat.

And I realized that I had been there before, in a phantom sense, curled up against a pillow or the edge of my cot instead of the chest of a stranger named Cedar Brown.  I had been in that quiet, sacred place, with only my tears to christen the moment, with nothing but a bucket of shattered hopes to pull the delusion apart.  I had cast the dimming spotlight on ponies from my past and present, but never any from my future, for I did not have one.  Not with the colts I had crushes on as a filly, not with the stallions I crossed paths with in college, and not with—

A painful gasp escaped my mouth.  I bit on my lips until they nearly bled.  In the fuzzy darkness afforded by my eyelids, I saw his golden colt, his ocean blue eyes.  He hoofed me a flower—a golden tulip—but with how blackly the universe had bled, it looked like a pale lily from across the fog.  I was drifting away from him, away from everything.  I had entertained this fantasy, this stupid moment of errant whimsy, and I was falling off the edge of myself.  My cohesive anchor to decency was all but crumbled.

I did not know who this Cedar Brown.  Regardless of who or what he thought I was, he would forever be far from the truth.  This was simply for the sole fact that he could not grasp the truth.  Nopony could—nopony but me.  And as the one soul capable of comprehending her curse and the responsibilities that came with it, I was momentarily and blissfully ignorant of its consequences.

But that was a lie...

I knew exactly where this could go.  I knew all of the dark, sordid, and even saucy avenues down which this could lead.  What's more, I knew that—in spite of all of my accursed liberties—there was no way in Tartarus I would ever allow myself to live with the memory of any single one of them, for it was my task—and my fate—to do so.

Even a haunted town requires an omniscient steward.

"How are you enjoying your evening now, darling?" he asked, his voice full of mirth.

My voice was completely lacking it as I breathily replied, "I feel..."  I gulped.  I looked at my reflection once more in his chestnut eyes, and they were far paler than before.  "I f-feel..."  A painful wince shot through me.  He was taller than me, bigger than me, and muscular to boot.  Still, all I could see at the moment was a happily ignorant lamb, one that I had nearly led to slaughter.  The unsung abyss that loomed beneath me was far larger than him, it was larger than anything, and even the most harmonious laughter was but a pindrop in that limitless, frigid chasm.  "I feel thirsty," I ultimately said.

He raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

I nodded slowly.  "I... would love to get to know you more, Mr Cedar," I said in a murmuring voice.  I turned and gestured towards a concession table at the far end of the reception hall.  If this was any other life, I'd be a mare digging her own grave.  "Would you be a gentlecolt and kindly fetch us some punch?  I'll be waiting over here by the tables.  We can chat."  I gulped and managed a steady smile.  "And talk more about philosophy... and less about Trottingham."

He blinked at me.  His next smile was a twitching one.  I saw it, though I doubt he saw me see it.  The moment had passed; I had no use for him anymore.  I had no use for anything but sighs.

"As you wish, Miss Heartstrings," he said.  He gave a slight bow—a modest one, at least—and he trotted out of my life.

I gazed at him, and a vaporous breath of air trailed after his handsome black tail.  I shuddered through the resulting chills, then hobbled my way like a sweatered scarecrow out from the thick of the slowly dancing crowd.

I was no less than ten paces from the wall when I heard a familiar bit of speech from far behind me:  "Hello, darling.  You waiting on somepony?"

I turned around.  In a numb breath, I watched as he towered over another mare who was standing innocently alone beside the food table.  She gave the stallion a sly smirk and replied between sips of punch, "Nope.  Most certainly not waiting for anyone."

"Oh?"  Cedar grinned a princely grin, leaning further towards her, beaming.  "Well that's a shame, because you're far too pretty to be alone here."

"Is that so?  I bet you say that to all the mares."

"Hmmm... Only the ones who steal my breath away..."

I allowed my gaze to drip away from him and towards the floor.  When I breathed, it wasn't a sad breath.  I quite simply didn't have time to feel anything, for no sooner was I making my way for the distant exit then I heard—

"Oh, I can't believe it!"  The voice shot out from the far end of the dance hall like cannonfire.  "And of all places too!"

A nervous murmur rolled through the crowd.  The band kept playing, but several dancers parted ways as an angry, angry pony stomped through the densest part of the crowd.  She made a bee-line straight for Cedar, her eyes boiling like hot coals were set within her skull.  She wasn't dressed like any of the other wedding attendees.  She wasn't dressed to do anything but snarl.

"You!  When I came home and found you gone, Cedar, I expected the bar or some putrid back alley!  But here?!"  Her brow furrowed as her hairs stood on end.  "This is stooping to a new low!  Even for you!"

"Uhhh..."  Cedar smirked helplessly, glancing at all of the ponies' heads who were glancing over.  "Uhmm..."  In perfect nonchalance, he picked up a glass of punch in the crook of his hoof and shrugged.  "Can I help you?"

She viciously swatted the glass out of his grip, summoning a gasp from a nearby mare.  "Stuff it, Cedar!  I can't believe I ever actually believed you when you said you were done with these games!"

"What game?!" he cackled, grinning still.  "I'm just here to enjoy the festivities!"

"You're here to enjoy something alright!"  She leaned towards him, hissing through her teeth.  "Who's this lady, huh?!  You're second or third victim of the night?"

"I... I-I'm sorry..." The one mare shuffled away from the scene, shaking her head.  "I knew n-nothing about this.  I wasn't even interested—"

"Don't you apologize.  You have nothing to be sorry for."  The angry pony turned from her, glaring back at Cedar.  "It's this snake in a grass who's beyond forgiveness.  What's the matter, darling?  Was your jailtime in Fillydelphia not enough to get it through your thick skull just how big of a problem you've got?"

He leaned forward and tried in futility to whisper.  "Look, Silver Step, this is not the time nor the place—"

"We're married, Cedar!" Silver Step barked back at him.  "It is always the time and the place!  But you can't seem to get that, now can you?!"

Suddenly, Cedar was frowning, leaning over Silver Step like a canine preparing to snap its prey's neck to bits.  "Will you shut your damn trap?!  Goddess!  All you've done since we moved here was drown me with your stupid whining!"

"And just what were you doing here, huh?!"

"I was being friendly!  Getting to know the locals!  That's what you've wanted from the beginning, right?!"

"Ha!  Being friendly, my flank!  You're a dirty scoundrel, Cedar.  Let's go home.  Now."

"You can't make me do anything."

"Can I?"

By this point, the music had actually tapered off.  Several ponies muttered, exchanging worried looks, including the bride and groom.  From across the crowd, Thunderlane's gaze met Caramel's.  Both stallions nodded in one accord.  Clearing their throats, they mutually swam through the crowd and stood like a solid wall before Cedar.

"Listen, sir..."  Caramel began.

Thunderlane finished with an icy tone, "We think it's about time you left."

"Pfft!"  Cedar gawked at them.  "Oh, do you now?!"

Thunderlane glared.  He loosened the collar around his neck while his wings stretched out, glinting menacingly in the lantern light.

"Heh..."  Cedar grinded a hoof against the floor.  "I'd like to see you try, pal—"

"Cedar..."  Silver Step muttered, glaring calmly at him.  "Do what the stallions say.  Or do you want to get your flanked whooped as badly as that one time in Fillydelphia?"

Cedar seethed, heaved, and snarled, "It never fails, does it?"  He spat at his wife.  "You selfish, goddess-forsaken mule!"  Several mares in the crowd gasped as he angrily stormed out with Silver Step hot on his tail.  "Starve of me bits... starve me of sanity... and still you're not satisfied!  Do all of Equestria a favor and go jump off a cliff already!"

"Oh no you don't!"  Silver Step's voice was already fading as she galloped furiously after him.  "You don't get to talk to me like that!  Not after all I've sacrificed to get you out from behind bars..."

The vacuum left was instantly filled with hushed murmurs.  Caramel fidgeted awkwardly while Wind Whistler trotted up and rested a hoof on his shoulder.  In the meantime, Thunderflane flapped his wings, turned around, and sported courageous smile.

"What are you guys and gals loitering around for?"  His teeth glistened as he pumped a fist.  "This is the best night in forever!  So let's keep on celebrating!  Who's with me?"

Several mares cheered. Stallions whistled.  Everyone clapped their hooves against the floor as the awkwardness melted beneath a rising tumult of chuckles and merriment.  Soon, the music resumed, and the crowd swayed to an upbeat tune.

I barely registered it.  I was leaning against a table at this point, breathless.  I shuddered from waves of numbness coursing through me.  I ran a hoof through my mane, and it felt as though I was touching pure ice.

How could I actually have sympathized with him?  I knew nothing would go anywhere, but that was a slim excuse at best.  I had feared—so deeply and intensely dreaded that I might shatter him, that the cursed weight of my pariah state might have taken advantage of his supposed good grace and left nothing but pulverised bits of amnesiac confusion.

Had I sunken so far in despair that I could see no wrong in other ponies, that it all had to be within me?  Did this mean that the curse was winning?  That all of my pondering and experimentation had been for naught?

The world used to be such a beautiful, pristine place.  I wanted so much for it to be that way again.  But if the moment came when true magnificence appeared to me, would I have the sight to see it?  Or would I be blind to rapture, just as Cedar was blind to his own villainy?

The most powerful demons and angels are the ones who don't ascertain their power but still wield it capably.  I knew that I would never become a saint, but it killed me to think that I had fallen into such a deep abyss that I started to repent for nothing.  I wanted so badly to be a good pony, and yet everything I did was starting to make me feel guilty, as if I was just as awful as Cedar.

And to what end?  It was all so confusing... too, too confusing...

I was about to collapse when a pink shape cartwheeled my way, bouncing in tune with the pulsating music.  "Woohoo!  Talk about an exciting evening, huh?!"  Pinkie Pie glanced at me and jabbed my side with an elbow.  "Hey there, Lady Mintagram!  You diggin' the scene?  Better bring a shovel!"  She curled a hoof to her chin and giggled gleefully.  "Heeheehee!"

"I..."  I gulped a lump down my throat, but it refused to go away.  "I'm sorry.  I... I-I'm not really here to celebrate..."

"Oh?  Then what else are you here for?!  To get hitched?!"

I said nothing.  I clenched my eyes shut and rested my head against the table.  I didn't try to hide it.  I didn't try to hide anything.

I felt her presence growing warmer, which is how I knew she was leaning over me, most likely blinking in confusion.  "Jee, it sure is all gray and lonesome over here."  She caught my shivers as she said, "Is everything cool, or just plain cold?"

"I... I'm fine..." I managed a wavering voice.  In the darkness, I still saw a mint green foal treading water within Cedar's eyes, and I wanted to drown it.  "Really, Miss Pie... I'll b-be okay..."

She should have left.  She didn't.  I felt a gentle hoof on my shoulder.

"You know, if Auntie Pinkie didn't know better, I'd say that somepony could use a hug."

It was the first time I remembered laughing at something she said and feeling good about it.  I looked up, my vision foggy.  She shone like a pink lantern through it all, and the little foal swam towards it instead.  "Yes, Miss Pie..." I murmured, sniffling.  "I... I-I think that pony c-could..."

Maybe she was smiling; maybe she wasn't.  All I knew was the force with which I allowed myself to fall into Pinkie's embrace.  It was somehow softer and warmer than the loneliest of dreams, and I melted in the center of it, leaking tears over her shoulder as I allowed the kindness of a stranger to take me away.  It burned both the angel and the demon in a wholesome crucible, so that I might gather up the pony from the ashes.


> A Waste of Space
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was written spontaneously in a span of two hours on April 1st.  This story could have gone in a million different ways, but I ultimately settled for something super simple.  Partially because I was lazy, partially because I knew people would mostly not understand what I was unleashing on the Internet.

Before poni poni poni, I wrote a shitton of Teen Titans fanfiction.  It was all horrible stuff, just like the stuff I'm writing now is horrible.  I did, however, enjoy writing the stuff that I did, and I met a lot of fantastic friends and even had a message board dedicated to my work for a year or two.

But, all things must pass, and soon I lost my will to write all of the epic superhero stuff.  Still, the legacy of the characters and Gary Stuisms that I dealt with stayed nestled in my heart, as well as in many deep-hearted conversations with blood brother(s) across the Net.  For years, I tried and tried to revive the epic shiet of my past, but it went nowhere.

As my thirtieth birthday rolled around, I was starting to feel stupidly nostalgic (I wonder why), so I thought that the first of April would be an opportune moment to write something in a blog that was as awkward and sentimental as this.  I didn't expect many people to understand it, but that was fine.  It was written almost entirely for myself.

Special mention:  The character of "Bard" belongs to my good friend and life-partner, Lord Belgarion.  The dude's a better writer than me, and he's really dayum good at fantasy.  Check out the Larin Invasion.  You won't be disappointed.






The tower is a creepy and lonely place, much like the world under the dark veil that had been draw over my black eyes.  Snarling, I shredded the awning fabric apart with Myrkblade and glared towards where my attacker was perched.

“Somehow, you always fart your way out of my traps, ghost boy,” Jinx hissed with a sly grin.  She forward-flipped off the third story balcony, twirled across the rubble-strewn intersection towards me, and skidded to a stop with both wrists flung forward. “Haaaa!”

A wave of pink hex flew my way, lighting up the night's sky.  I sliced it in half with my warbling blade, but the resulting blow knocked me back on my boots.  I slid past Cyborg who was currently entangled with Wildebeest.

“Nnnngh!”  Vic shouted, his red eye pulsing as he summoned a sonic wave of energy through his limbs.  “I am sick... and tired... of this BULL!”  What followed was an echo of pulverising sound as he flung his fist across Wildebeest's chin and followed it up with glowing blue cannon aimed straight into the villain's bovine muzzle.  “Suck on some decibles, you walking Burger King special!”

The sonic blast sent the hulking, horned brawler flying backwards and into a semi-truck engine left abandoned in the middle of the city street.  A green gorilla stumbled over and bent a metal streetsign around Wildebeest to hold him in place.  Shrinking down to an emerald elf, Beast Boy frowned Cyborg's way.

“Could we kick butt with slightly less meat jokes?”

“Buzz off, BB!”  Cyborg grumbled, eyeing the rooftops for Jinx.  “I'm not in the mood!”

“Seriously, dude!”  Beast Boy pointed.  “Just switch off the Lifetime App in your operating system—”  Right at that moment, Wildebeest snapped the metal streetsign like tinfoil and grabbed Beast Boy from behind.  “Aaaaugh!  Holy cow!  Holy cow!” Beast Boy flailed.

“Hang on, grass stain!”  Cyborg began, squinting his human eye as he aimed the cannon at Wildebeest from afar.  “Plug your ears—”  He stuttered as I blurred past him.

In a wave of smoke, I ported in between Beast Boy and Wildebeest and rematerialized with an upswing of my sword.  Beast Boy fell harmlessly to the ground while Wildebeest stumbled backwards over the semi truck engine.

“N-never mind!” Beast Boy stammered, panting for breath.  “Noir's got it.”

“Awwwww...”  Cyborg's face drooped as he lowered the rifle.  “But Noir's always got it—Gaah!”  He grunted as a laser blast hit him in the back.

I gasped and glanced over my shoulder, sweating.

High above the rooftops of the main fight, a familiar blonde figure stood with a hulking rifle.  “Piss on my cattle, will ya?” Pulsade uttered in a British accent.

“Haaaugh!”  A caped figure descended upon her.

With a gasp, Pulsade expertly twirled the rifle and deflected Robin's diving attack.  She flipped a switch, extending an electrified bayonet that she used to slash and parry the Boy Wonder's staff strikes.

I breathed with relief, only to have Wildebeest's returning fist sail deep into my gut.  The breath flew from my lungs as he then grabbed me and suplexed my body viciously through a newspaper stand.  As the sparks of pain cleared, I saw the lithe figure of Jinx firing pink light at a green kangaroo before peering over her shoulder to shout at the heavyset cowpersonthingy.

“Enough with this lame dance, WB!  Grab the computer modules and let's jet!”

Wildebeest saluted.  I struggled to get out, but was too encumbered by the heavy splinters leftover from the newspaper stand.  I watched helplessly as he reached into the back of the semi truck trailer, tore the doors off, and prepared to make off with the metahuman thieves' bounty—

“Not so fast...” Growled a feminine voice from above.  The night's sky grew even darker as a robed figure descended like a hellish fowl from the burning heavens.  “Azarath Metrion Zinthos!”

A crack of thunder struck the crowded intersection.  Cars and motorcycles fell in opposite directions as a wave of black telekinesis wormed its way towards Wildebeest and knocked him onto his tail.  Computer cores fell loosely out of the back of the semi-truck as Jinx skidded to a stop beside her large partner.

“Darn it!  Is cow tipping your kyrptonite or whatcrap?”  She flew a wrist up at Raven.  “Hey you!  Yes, you!” Charing up a pulse of hex, she flung it the heroine's way.  “Looks like your entrance is as lame as your fashion sense!  Haaah!”

Raven calmly watched as the beam of fuschia energy soared towards her.  With a calm breath, she levitated to the side, revealing an angry Tamaranian with glowing green eyes, already firing an even bigger volley of emerald wrath.  “Raaaaugh!”  Starfire's projectile easily flew through Jinx's discharge and rocketed towards the street.

The cat-eyed witched gasped.  “OhblessedHecate!”  She dove out of the way as the starbolt exploded, sending chunks of asphalt flying every which way.

Through the falling debris, I shook the wreckage of the newspaper stand off me and kipped up to my heels.  I saw Jinx sliding to a stop beside me.  Smoke poured from beneath my shades as I pounced her.

“Huh?” she spun around, then raised to wrists of burning pink energy.  “Ugh, how I hate this part.”

I slashed and slashed and slashed at her multiple times.  Sparks spat off of our connecting weapons.  We stumbled past Wildebeest locking horns with a green triceratops while Raven and Starfire joined Robin in subduing Pulsade on the rooftops. Finally, when I tried porting behind Jinx to smack the hilt of my sword against her skull, she through my metal prosthetic into an armbar and shouted towards the skies.

“Pulsade!  It's now or never!”

“Right with ya, love!”  Pulsade deflected one of Starfire's starbolts, hopped over Raven, and fired her rifle high into the air.  A flair flew towards the stars, fluctuated, and exploded.

“Now what in the world did she just—?”  Cyborg began, only to be thrown to the ground by a large, concussive blast.  “Whoah damn!”

The blast had a pulsating light to it that instantly blinded me.  I stumbled to my knees in aching pain—only to feel Jinx's kick to my chin.  I spat blood as I fell to the concrete, losing my grip to Myrkblade.

“That did it, Leslie!” Jinx's high-pitch voice chirped.  “They're down!  Help me and WB grab the stuff!”

“Hold your bloody horses!  I'm coming!”

“Nnngh—Rob!” Cyborg's voice shouted across the blinding pain.  “Ya hear that?!  They're gonna get away!”

“Not if we can help it, Titans!”  Robin's voice echoed through the city air.  “I was anticipating a trick like this!  We need our ace in the hole!  We need our wildcard!”

Upon hearing that, I couldn't help but smile.  My vision was already clearing as I stood heroically upon two legs with Myrkblade billowing with onyx fury—

“Rainbow Dash!”  Robin then shouted.  “Go!”

“Time to take out the Counter Red Aviary trash!” cracked a raspy voice, followed by billowing winds and thunder.  I did a double-take as a spectral blur surged past me, gathering up flakes of gravel, streetlights, and manhole covers.

Wildebeest and Jinx paused in picking at the truck trailer's bounty.  They looked over with stupid expressions, their eyes reflecting the incoming rocket of pony.

“Yaaaaaaaugh!” Rainbow Dash twirled so that she was flying towards them with her rear legs extended menacingly.  They each got a hoof to the chin and fell through the body of a shattering car at full impact.

At that moment, Pulsade had hopped down. She cocked her rifle and gazed towards the truck.  “What the devil?”

Rainbow Dash flew, grabbed a streetlamp with her hooves, spun around it, and sailed towards the blonde assassin like a prismatic pinball.

“Huh?”  Pulsade blinked, then sighed.  “Oh bollocks.”

Much comical onomatopoeia was to be had when Rainbow's limbs came into contact with the villain's cranium.  She fell to the floor besides my boots, groaning as the lights went out in her brain.  “Unnngh...”

“Heh!  Alriiiight!”  Rainbow Dash touched down, her tail flicking as a pair of sparkling ruby eyes gazed up at me above a devilish smirk.  “I could totally get used to this job!”

“Glorious!”  Starfire touched down, cupping two hands together as she grinned ecstatically.  “The manner in which you dispensed with those evil-doers was as magical as it was painful!”

“Yes.”  Rainbow Dash nodded, gazing up at us.  “Yes it was.”

“Sweet!”  Beast Boy dashed over in cheetah form and bounced up as an elf, pumping a fist in the air.  “Way to make the night go by faster, girl!  Here!”  He flung his palm out straight.  “Gimme... er... uhhh...”  His bottom tooth glistened in the moonlight as his brow scrunched up in thought.  He then brightened with a brilliant smile.  “Gimme one!”

Rainbow Dash chuckled and slapped her hoof against his hand.  “You know, for a talking green monkey with a severe underbite, you're not too shabby.”

“Did you hear that?!”  Beast Boy smirked over at Raven.  “I just moved up a rung of the ladder!  I'm—like—the Anti-Monitor of Shabbiness!  Hah!  Get it?”

“Uhhh...”  Raven's voice droned.   She pivoted about and floated towards Jinx and Wildebeest.  “I'm gonna be over here where the battered and comatose bodies are.”

“Way ahead of you,” Robin said, whipping out a pair of silver handcuffs.  He smirked from under his mask.  “Way to go, team.  Especially you, Rainbow Dash.”  He saluted from a distance.  “Way to be a real team player.”

“Yeah!”  Cyborg grinned as he squatted low to pet her mane.  “Rainbow Dash is best wildcard!”

“Awwww shucks...”  Rainbow Dash's cheeks went rosy as she kicked at the rubble-strewn street with an errant hoof.  “You guys flatter me.”  Just then, her eyes flattered.  “Say, I'm starved!  Who wants to eat?”

“This calls for the pizza of victory!” Starfire spun like a princess in the air.  Without hesitation, she shot herself like an amber bullet towards the big, silver “T” at the far end of a glittering bay.  “I shall proceed with the telephoning!”

In the meantime, Beast Boy and Cyborg were lifting a giggling Rainbow Dash over their heads.

I watched from afar in silence.  I glanced down at my sword.  It had taken a dull, wooden texture without the glossy power of murk to pour through it.  With a quiet sigh, I sheathed it and marched after the group.


-T-T-T-T-T-T-


The doors to the Tower's main room slid open with a hiss.  Fluttershy perked up from where she  sat on a pile of folded blankets towards the edge of the couch.

“Did you stop the bad guys?” she asked breathily.

“Boo-ya!” Cyborg roared as he marched in through the automatic doors.  “We not only did that!  We clobbered them so hard, those punks will be feeling it all the way to Stonegate!”

“Oh no!”  Fluttershy covered her mouth with her hooves.  “You didn't hurt them seriously, did you?”

“Relax, darling,” Rarity said, jumping up onto the couch beside her and patting the pegasus' shoulder.  “They're simply being hyperbolic, as all dashing heroes are apt to do.”  She paused, then blinked elegantly towards us.  “That is correct, isn't it?”

“Oh, we were dashing, alright!”  Beast Boy smirked as he patted the hoof of the petite equine straddling his neck like a toddler.  “And my little pony here was the champion of the hour!  Isn't that right, dude?”

“Heheh...”  Rainbow Dash slicked her bangs back and folded her forelimbs.  “Check it out, guys.  I'm a 'dude.'”

“Don't get yer head too high up in the clouds, sugarcube,” spoke an orange mare with a ridiculous southern accent.  She squatted atop a stool besides the kitchen area.  “If what Sparrow says is true, there're more and worse bad eggs in this here town that'll take more than a little fistihooves to take down.”

“Pffft!  Get with the program, freckles!”  Rainbow Dash flew off of Beast Boy's shoulders and perched atop the stool next to Applejack.  “His name is 'Sparrow,' not Robin!  And besides, even if a crook shows up with the powers of Discord, we can totally take 'em out.”  She smiled brilliantly as the caped crusader passed by.  “Isn't that right, short-stuff?”

“Where there's trouble, the city knows who to call, and so do we, wildcard,” Robin said with a smirk.  He stopped in his steps to glance over towards the other side of the kitchen counter.  “Speaking of calls, how's the pizza coming, Starfire?”

“Shhhh!”  Starfire hissed, frowning as she held the phone to her palm.  “I am currently negotiating the toppings!”  She cradled it again to her ear.  “Yes.  Affirmative.  We would most definitely like the pies of pizza to be completely devoid of any horsemeat on this occasion.”

“Oh, and add sprinkles to it!”  Pinkie Pie chirped, bouncing atop the counter with a cartoonish spring sound repeated to absurd effect.  “A true pizza is nothing without the sprinkles!  Oh, and make the crust out of vanilla wafers!  Then we can pour milk on it and pretend that it's not an accident!”

“Oh, yes, most assuredly.  One moment, please.”  Starfire turned again to the phone.  “Would you be so terribly kind as to add a carton of milk to that?”  She waited as the voice on the other end squawked and squabbled.  Her brow furrowed in response.  “You mean that we have the option to have the milk delivered unfrozen?!”

Pinkie Pie gasped with a huge inhale.  “Oh, this is the most super-duper-terrific best week ever!”

“Heeheehee!”  Starfire yanked Pinkie over and nuzzled her cheek to fuzzy cheek.  “I have made a pony make the 'squeeing' sound!  My life is complete!”  The phone squawked again.  She did a double-take and frowned.  “No!  I repeat, there is no pony meat to be had in this order!”

“Twilight, how's it coming?” Robin asked, leaning against the back of a computer desk.

“This is absolutely fascinating!”  Twilight Sparkle stammered, her jaw hanging wide open as her violet eyes reflected a dazzling array of web browser windows shimmering before her across the huge monitor.  “How... How could a civilization possess something as amazing and vast as this 'Internet' and not somehow have achieved absolute peace and prosperity?”

“That's the funny thing about knowledge,” Robin said, glancing down at Twilight.  “The more you have of it, the more people you have who don't know what to do with it.  And very seldomly do they use what they learn for good.”

“And I'm guessing that's where individuals like you come in.”  Twilight's wings flexed as she turned to smile at the Boy Wonder.  “Vigilante justice is just one way of bypassing the red tape and cutting out the middlemare...”  She blushed slightly as she brought a hoof to her mouth.  “Ooops.  Eheh... force of habit.”

“Don't sweat it,” Robin said with a smirk.  “We're happy to have you six visiting us.”  He turned and looked towards the back of the Main Room.  “Isn't that right, Cyborg?”

“Dang straight!”  Cyborg picked up a gasping Rarity and held her by the upper body so that she dangled like a feline in his massive grip.  “I always built this tower to be big enough to house a bunch of cool heroes.  I guess it's just as good at corralling a herd, huh?”

“Hmmmph!”  Rarity frowned, her cheeks red.  “And just who gave you permission to lift me from my hooves like a white chesspiece?”

“Whoops...”  Cyborg's red eye flashed an exclamation point.  A sweatdrop rolled down his metal temple.  “My bad.”  He bent over—

“Mmm...”  Rarity squirmed.  “I didn't tell you to put me down...”

“Heh, well alright.”  Cyborg cradled her and scratched her fuzzy ears as she cooed with delight.  “Cuddle a horse, ride a cowboy.”  He winked across the room at a dark blue figure that was pouring herself tea.  “Am I right, Raven?”

“Speak for yourself, Tonto.”

“Love ya too, cutie.”

“Heh...”  Beast Boy was presently kneeling besides the couch, lovingly scratching Fluttershy underneath the chin.  “Who'd a thunk it that talking ponies would be the size of cats?  It's almost as if some eccentric god dreamed up this moment through an effluent keyboard in the sky.”

Fluttershy smiled and nuzzled his wrist before smiling up at him.  “Is it true that you can turn into any animal?”

Beast Boy winked slyly and cracked his knuckles.  “Especially the cute ones.  Got something in mind?”

“I've always... erm...”  Fluttershy squirmed on the couch.  “Somewhat secretly wanted to meet an adult dragon who didn't want to swallow me whole.”  She gulped.  “I figure that it might help me overcome my fear.”

“A dragon, huh?”  Beast Boy stood up and began flexing his limbs.  “Sounds exotic, but I've seen enough wyrd stuff with the Doom Patrol.  I bet I could pull it off—”

“Not inside the Main Room!” Robin grunted, pointing a gloved finger.

“Awwwww...”

“Well... uhm...”  Fluttershy gasped and perked up.  “How about a snapping turtle!  I've always wanted to cuddle one but... well... they're always so snappy...”

“One doubly-green turtle coming up!”  Beast Boy squeaked.  He spun like a ballerina before morphing into a spinning shell.  The thing plopped down and sprouted four limbs, a tail, and a head with an orange bandanna.

“Ohhhhh!”  Fluttershy easily scooped him up in two forelimbs and nuzzled him close.  “Hello, new friend!  I'd happily fight crime by your side!”

The teenage turtle croaked something in response.

All the while, I stood against a far wall, polishing Myrkblade with a metal hand.  A sigh escaped my lips as I watched Starfire and a pink pony order pizza.  A lavender alicorn was surfing IMDB while Robin had her look up Jackie Chan films.  Cyborg cradled a pale unicorn like an infant while a rainbow maned pegasus flirted openly with a horse wearing a cowboy hat.

Then, to my relief, Raven's pale face hovered into view.

“Well, you're certainly quiet today.”

I gazed steadily at her.  Slowly, I arched an eyebrow over my shades.

She rolled her eyes and droned, “Well, you know what I mean.”  She leaned against the wall beside me, sipping from a cup of tea.

I exhaled, sheathed Myrkblade, and flexed the metal digits of my prosthetic left hand.

“Surely I'm not the only one thinking this is all very strange,” Raven murmured to my side.  “A bunch of talking horses show up through a glowing trans-dimensional portal, and no less than three days later, Counter Red Aviary makes a strike in downtown.”

I shrugged.  I charaded a portly belly and pretended to click an invisible remote in my hand.

“Control Freak?”  Raven shook her head.  “I doubt he's responsible for this.  Besides, who ever heard of a nerdy, obese, hairy young adult being obsessed with pastel colored ponies?”  She took another sip, then played with the silken edges of her robe.  “Still... it is so unlikely, it could just be the sort of thing he'd do to distract us while villains go about their normal business.”

I blinked at that.

“Meh...”  She finished her tea and sighed.  “I'll talk to Robin about it later.  Right now, he's busy over there showing Princess Stephanie Mare the secrets to the Titan's Computer.  Which is... kind of dumb, if you think about it.”

I exhaled a breathy chuckle, nodding.  I turned to her and charaded a pair of rearing hooves before sporting a devilish smirk.

“Rainbow Dash?”  Raven raised an eyebrow.  “What about her?”  She glanced over to where the prismatic pegasus was flying circles above an angry Applejack, wearing her brow Stetson.  “I'm guessing you're not a fan.”

I shrugged, though my lips took on an undeniable grimace.

“Yeah, well, it's not like you could stay a wildcard forever, Noir,” she said, her tone not changing inflection in the least.  “Robin can only deal the same hand so often before he has to resort to bluffing.  I'm quite sure a pegasus was the last thing Counter Red Aviary expected.”  She traced the lid of her empty tea-cup with a gloved hand.  “Although, I'm certain Jinx would have surrendered the very moment she saw a unicorn, so maybe we should have taken Rarity,” she droned.

I stared blankly at her.

“That was a joke,” she said.  “I know you can't laugh, but isn't that—like—supposed to make you smile or something at least?”

I tried smiling.  I'm sure it looked like I was about to vomit.

“Hmmf...” She folded her arms beneath her cloak and gazed off.  “Well, at least Beast Boy gets to keep his day job.”

Just then, the doors to the main room opened with a hiss.

Cyborg looked up from scratching Rarity's fuzzy ears.  “S'up, Bard.  You missed all the fun.”

“Sorry, y'all,” a tall teenager wearing a black trenchcoat and a matching black hat strolled in with an exhausted swagger.  “I was out of town, helpin' Nicole and Tim with groceries when I got the call.  And then Kelly kept spamming my communicator with some crazy Super Mario fanart and—”  He froze in his steps.

The rest of the team stared back, along with the ponies they were cuddling.

“Awww, hell, no.”  Bard turned about-face and marched back into the elevator.  The doors closed coldly behind him.

Cyborg blinked.  Rarity cleared her throat.  “Oh.  Uhm... right,” he chuckled nervously.  “My bad.”  He resumed scratching her ears, producing a delightful “squee” from the unicorn's dainty throat.

“Right.  That's my cue.”  Raven shuffled off.  “I'll be in my room, like anyone cares.”

I bit my lip and stood there in the shadows, although it was hardly comforting for some reason.


-T-T-T-T-T-T-



A metal cylinder rose up, charging red energy.

I spun and struck it with the length of Myrkblade before it could fire the laser.

Just then, a second rod lifted up from the metal floor of the training room.

I backflipped, dodged the energy beam, and slammed my sword across it.  No sooner had I done this when two cylinders popped up, this time behind me.  I ducked their blasts, held my breath, and disappeared in a burst of smoke.

Materializing behind them, I kicked one and slashed one down the middle with my blade.  As I did so, an annoyingly loud buzz filled the arena.  I winced, standing up straight as the training simulator powered down all around me.

I wasn't supposed to have caused any permanent damage, but somehow, in the heat of the moment, I had forgotten to remove Myrkblade's lacerating edge.  I had let myself get distracted, and that wasn't a good thing.  I shuddered to think of what would have happened if I was in a real fight.  Even worse, I shuddered to think what Robin would do once he found out I destroyed training equipment.

Just why was I so distracted lately?  Well, aside from obvious, talking quadrupedal reasons.

It felt like there was more to these ponies' presence here than mere circumstance.  Their amorous nature and the way in which most of the team had taken a liking to them had seemed to... I dunno... felicitous?

Robin was usually too skeptical to take anything at face value.  Cyborg never let any strangers around his computer equipment.  Beast Boy rarely ever turned into a turtle.  And Starfire—well—she always got excited, but about milk and pizza?  She had to get her Tamaranian senses drunk on Dr. Pepper before she'd ever... whoah... now those are some memories I don't want to have back.

I just feel so... anxious around these little horses.  I'm not sure what it is.  It's times like these where I wish I could talk to my friend, or at least have one of them walk up to me out of nowhere, read my mind, and ask—

“Is everything alright?” cracked a ridiculously adoracute voice.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.  With a sigh, I turned around and gazed at a cat-sized figure with four hooves and a mane that looked like the boot screen to a Texas Instruments Home Computer.

“The rest of your friends are upstairs, hanging out.  Well...”  Rainbow Dash's tail flicked as her ruby eyes darted left and right.  “All but the tall dude with the hat that looks like Applejack's.  But still...”  She smiled up at me with that happy blue face of hers.  “You wanna join us?  We've got pizza and stuff.  And Beast Boy was talking about something called 'Cards Against Humanity' before the robot dude threw him against the wall.”

I smiled nervously and extended my metal hand to motion her along without me—

“Wowwwww...”  She gripped it with two hooves.  For a horse's fetlocks, her grip was stupidly soft, like I was being gripped by a plushie doll.  “So I guess that one dude isn't the only one made out of metal.”  She flexed the fingers with her muzzle before stifling a giggle.  “That's so cool!  I bet you could punch your way through a million clouds!”  She glanced up at me with bright eyes.  “How'd you get it, huh?”

I bit my lip.  My right hand's fingers tightened instinctually around the hilt of Myrkblade.

She glanced at the sword, then at my metal limb.  “Oh... Ouch...”  She stumbled back from my prosthetic as if it was diseased.  “Note to self, don't play around with swords unless you're good at it.”

I rolled my eyes under my shades, but still I couldn't help but smile.

“You're really good at what you do, aren't you?” Rainbow Dash asked.

My smile left as I leaned my head curiously to the side.

“I mean, kicking tail and slicing up the weapons of bad guys and stuff.”  She tried standing up on her rear legs.  What transpired was a quadruped's awkward attempt to charade several samurai moves.  “Hiyaaa!  Chaaa!  Chaaa!  Slasssssssh!  Clanggg!  Heheh...”  She plopped back down on all four.  “Cyborg showed me footage of you in action against these robots belonging to some jerkface named Slade.  You were pretty cool looking.”

I gulped and shrugged.

“No, really!  Cyborg's... like... really proud of you and stuff.  So's Robin and the rest.”  Rainbow Dash ran a hoof through her bangs and murmured aside, “They said that you did a bunch of wicked awesome things to help them out in more than one jam.  Y'know... when they needed help the most.”

I took a deep breath.  My gaze wandered down to my prosthetic.  When I did, the metal fist was clenched.

“Ya gotta admire stuff like that,” Rainbow Dash said.  “Loyalty, I mean.”

I looked towards her in a blink.

She smiled, though this time the expression was far warmer, far more sincere.  “Heck, if the Elements of Harmony ever got in big trouble... there's no telling what I'd do for my friends.”  She bit her lip as she coiled her wings tight.  “Or what I'd give up.  Cuz... y'know, I may not say much about it... or s-say much at all, but I really care for them.”  She gulped and glanced up at me.  “Actions speak louder than words, don't you think?”

I said nothing.

“Well... uh... have fun ripping stuff to shreds!”  Rainbow Dash hovered up and smirked.  “I'd totally stick around and watch your awesome moves, but I'm super hungry.  Besides!”  She soared off down the hall adjacent to the training center.  “I've got some cards to toss against humanity!”

I watched as she flew away.  Slowly, I glanced at my left arm.  The metal knuckles glinted in the moonlight.  If I closed my eyes and relaxed, they almost felt like the real deal.  For once, I wasn't about to blame it on a phantom.



-T-T-T-T-T-T-



“I reckon it's just a phase,” Jonny drawled, tossing the ball up high.

It rattled in the rim before swishing through the net and making a hollow bouncing noise.  It rolled across the Tower's rooftop and stopped against my boot.  I kicked it up, rolled it over my metal arm, and passed it back to him.

Adjusting the brim of his hat, Bard dribbled the ball a few times and aimed towards the hoop.  “I mean, either it's that, or something's brainwashed all of our buddies something bad.”

The ball bounced like a brick off the rim.

“Awww shucks...”  He grabbed it and passed it to me.

I took it, dribbled it a point beyond the three-point line, and prepared my shot.

“I mean, for real, I've heard of April Fools' pranks that have made more sense than this,” he said, his hands on his trenchcoated hips.  “When was the last time you recall the rest of the team fallin' head over heels for somethin' so quick-like?”

I shrugged, then threaded the ball through the air.  It flew in a high arc before sinking gracefully through the basket.  I made a whistle to immitate a bombshell and glanced over at him.

“Pffft... Showoff.”  Bard picked up the ball and walked over to where I stood and made my last shot.  He dribbled it a few times and muttered, “Still, you gotta admit, this would be a rather funny prank.”  He smirked my way through his glasses.  “Ponymageddon was a work, brotha.”

I snicked breathily.

“Heheheheh...”  He shot for the basket.  “Annnnd...”

Nothing but net.

“Fire Russo!”  He pumped his fist with a goofy grin.  I bounced the ball to him and he took it to the opposite end of the windswept court to prepare an even trickier shot.  “Still, though, am I the only one with a wyrd feeling about all of this?  I mean, you feel it too, don't you?”

I gulped, but slowly, eventually nodded.

“I bet Raven's brooding over the same thing.  It's like something's in the air.”  He dribbled a few more times, then paused.  He gripped the ball under his arm and gazed towards me with a pained expression.  “It's like... we're thinner... colder.  Almost as if...” He swallowed dryly.   “As if we've been replaced, y'know?  I reckon that might be reachin' some...”

I was already shaking my head.

“No?”  He blinked, then shrugged.  “Well, good to realize I ain't the only one.”  This time, he heaved the ball.

It flew over the backboard completely.

“Dang it...”  He sighed, his arms slumping down by his side.  He lingered, as did I, and the breath that was shared between us was bizarrely warm.  “Noir, even if we were replaced, the Desperados would live on, don'tcha think?”

I looked at him.  I merely smirked.

“Heh...”  He ran a hand through his brown bangs.  “Guess it's only a pain to overthink it, huh?”

I gave him a mocking smile and charaded guitar-twanging.

“Pfft.  Hell, I'd find myself a bar to play music for money in, for sure.”  He pointed.  “As for you?  Please, casanova. Go find yourself a pole and a bunch of women and make change!”

I would have guffawed if I could.

“Ahem...”  He motioned towards the edge of the Tower.  “Get a move on, speedy.  You can fetch the ball way faster than I can and ya know it.”

Sighing, I blurred away as the cowboy said.


-T-T-T-T-T-T-



The tower was a creepy place, but not exactly lonely.  I strolled into the Main Room at least a good hour or two after the... “party” that had been enjoyed in my absence.  I stumbled through the dimly-lit vestiges of what looked like a horrible cavalry charge gone bad.  Cyborg, Beast Boy, Raven, and Robin lay asleep in various parts of the conjoined sofas, and tiny, colorful equines lay sprawled across their laps and torsos in dead slumber.

If I was still the Third Apprentice, I would have taken a snapshot and put it up on the Internet for bribe money, but it was late and I wasn't exactly feeling it.  I made my way towards the distant, heavenly image of the fridge until a small voice made a trilling sound beside me.

I paused and glanced down.

The orange pony—what was her name?—Applejack was lying on the outermost edge of the sofa.  Unlike Rainbow Dash, Rarity, and the others, she hadn't chosen a Titan's body to cuddle against.  She looked decidedly alone in her fitful sleep, not to mention cold.  I couldn't help but notice a steady tremble to her fuzzy limbs.

I blinked.  I turned and looked at a nest of blankets that had fallen to the floor.  Against my better judgement, I sighed, then picked up a thick comforter.  Gently—so as not to wake her—I layed the duvet over the blonde mare.

She unconsciously curled into the spread of warmth that was bequeathed her.  Just when I felt that the good deed was done, I tried walking away—only to have a pair of forelimbs clutch my wrist.

I stumbled, anchored in place.  I looked down at her.

“Mmmmfff...”  Applejack stirred.  A bead of moisture formed along her clenched eyelids.  Her mouth slowly moved.  “Don't... don't y'all fret.  I ain't lost...”  She nuzzled my wrist as if it was a foal.  “Big Mac... Granny... Apple Bl-Bloom... I miss y'all...”  She sniffled, then exhaled one last time as she fell once more into slumber.  “Gonna find ya...”

I bit my lip.  Slowly, like reaching my hand out of a grave, I stepped back from her.  I felt a pit in my stomach, something I hadn't sensed before around these equine strangers.

When I turned about, a pair of green almond eyes were staring me straight in the chest.  “And I thought your waifu wore a red cape and a blue miniskirt.”

I jumped back with a gasp, reaching for an invisible scabbard behind my back.  I had left Myrkblade on the mantle inside my basement room downstairs, but still that didn't stop me from nearly jumping out of my skin.

The Messenger?  What the hell was he doing here?!

“Eating up my cameo for what it's worth, of course,” the asian teenager said.  Cold starlight accentuated the green highlights to his spiked hair as he paced like a phantom around the table full of sleeping superheroes and ponies.  “It's an easy job, since you haven't filled it.  Yeesh... if you take this entire scene out of context, it'd land itself quite neatly on Deviantart's front page.  Heh... more like the 'Hey, I took a photo of my shriveled-up scrotum cuz it's totally for art' front page, amirite?”

He gazed at me.

I gazed at him.

“Yeesh.”  He shook a cold shudder off his green hoodie'd shoulders.  “Whose funeral is it?  Behind comedy's, that is?”  He reached into the fridge, grabbed a Dr. Pepper, took a swig, then exhaled before saying, “I bet you're wondering why I'm here to make your existence sexy once again.”

I nodded fervently.

“Don't you sweat your bishie pectorals off, Jordan,” he said with a nonchalant wave, stifling a burp as he placed the Dr. Pepper bottle down on the kitchen counter.  “Dagger isn't about to turn this city into a raid instance again.  Nor is Slade barking up Robin's tailpipe.  Really, I think we'd expect all of the kaizo bits of random fight scenes to be long dead and buried.  I should know.  I've smelled the dirt and worms.  They're fighting in the courts for the right to bear less arms and more engagement rings.”

I leaned my head curiously to the side.

He smiled and pointed at me.  “I know what you're thinking.  We've spent a good few days in the Boy Cave.  That's gotta give a pair of common blokes more than a mutual respect for Platonic idealism, with or without the shadow.”  He shuffled my way.  “You feel like a shadow, Noir.  Granted, you've always been that—a badass one, of course—but a lonely one?  Not with these—your friends, that is.  A funny thing, friendship is.  They make tons of sitcoms and afternoon specials about it, but they just can't give you the... the...”  He pinched his petite fingers together and lisped, “The magic that it's supposed to engender, am I right?  Emphasis on 'gender'—or has someone been seeing a surgeon in Hollywood as of late?”

I frowned and planted my hands against my hips.

“Alright, alright.  Fine.  I'll cut to the chase.”  He drifted over and ran a loving hand over Applejack's bangs.  The little mare hummed in her sleep.  “The truth is, oh ye wildcard of olde, that the six ponies here didn't randomly teleport into our world.”  He gazed up at me with hard, chiseled emeralds in his eyes.  “We trespasssed into theirs.”

My heart skipped a beat, then promptly sank.

“Don't you feel it?”  He strolled away from the couch and drifted past me like a ghost.  “How odd it is that we're here?  You and me?  After so many years, so many failed attempts to rise the sunken train wreck from the depths, so many absurd TF2 patches with the story remaining as dead as Lenin's forehead?”  He gazed briefly out the window, rocking back and forth on his sneaker's soles.  “I can't remember the last time I saw Rogue... or Tabby.”  He swallowed dryly.  “And yet I think about them daily, as if we just met yesterday.  But I know that can't be true.”

I bit my lip, weathering a cold shudder through my form.  I glanced at my metal arm, and once more it felt to me like it could very easily turn back to flesh in a blink.

It doesn't even hurt anymore, Ana.  Dear lord, what is happening to me...?

“The fact is, the universe does this occasionally,” he said in a dull tone that betrayed his usual, jovial nature.  “Like sparks in the darkness.  Here then, gone the next moment.  And what do we do in the meantime?  Do we dance?  Do we sob?  Or do we flounder in between?”  He turned towards me with a bittersweet smile.  “I dunno about you, but I like to choose the extreme that has more giggles to be had.”

I stared prolongedly at him.

He turned and gazed squarely back at me.  “Everyone and everything gets replaced, Noir.  But it's always for a reason, at least that's what I believe.  After all, why waste the moment to do something wonderful—especially when it's our last moment?  Would you know what to do with your time if you knew it was fleeting?”

I didn't have an answer to that, at least not one that could be spoken out loud.

“Well, I know what I'll be doing.”  He said, then saluted me as he walked over to a distant table.  I spotted a petite, equine figure sitting on a tower of phonebooks, her lime green horn levitating a pen as she scribbled words across a sheet of parchment.  “Hey there, stranger.  Whatcha doing?”

“Updating my journal,” muttered the unicorn in a voice that sounded like Jodie Foster in a blizzard.  I saw vaporous moisture escaping from her chattering lips as she furrowed her brow in thought.  “What is existence if one isn't sure of her or his permanence in the first place?”

“Oooooh!  Philosophy!  How juicy!  Or psuedo-juicy, not that I'm one to battle starships.”  Messenger slid over in the seat beside her and planted a hand on her hoodied'd shoulder.  “You ever read up into zen stuff?  It's pretty smexxy, even if you were born far away from sushi land.”

She paused, the gazed up at him with a sad face.  “You sure?  I'm... uh... not known for memorable conversations.”

He chuckled.  “Trust me.  I think we have all the time in the world.”

She blinked, then smiled, adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.  “Okay.  I'm all ears.”

“And what fuzzy ears they are,” the Messenger said, though his voice had become distant, for I was running breathlessly down the nearest stairwell.  “So, tell me, Angel, what's the sound of one hoof clapping...?”



-T-T-T-T-T-T-



The door chime rang.

A beat.

The panel slid open, and a pale face glared out with bleary eyes.

I stood before her door, catching my breath.

Raven blinked.  “Nnnngh...”  She opened the door all the way and shuffled tiredly out in only her black leotard.  “Alright...”  She stifled a yawn.  “Viper had better be slicing heads in downtown or some other terribly gruesome scenario, or else you just woke me out of a wonderful dream about becoming the newest Cellist for Rasputina for a reason—”

Her words came short, just as the pupils in her eyes shrank.

This was probably because I was hugging her.

“Uhhh...”  Her hands rose up and gripped my shoulders.  “Noir...?”  I heard the gulp of her confused breath.  “Jordan, what is... why are...”  Her eyes glowed.  “You know I can totally destroy you for this...”

I closed my eyes.  I knew.  I knew everything, but it didn't matter.  I felt my heart beating, and I knew she could feel it too.

Her mouth parted open.  “It...”  She stammered suddenly, a frighteningly awkward voice for someone as balanced as her.  “It all isn't a coincidence, is it?”

I slowly... slowly shook my head.

“This Tower... this team... this moment...?”

I was silent as death.

She wasn't.  Suddenly, she was hugging me back, and I heard a shakiness in her voice.  “I kn-know I say this often, but I'm not scared.”  She rested her head against my shoulder.  “But only because I know you're not...”

I smiled.  I took my shades off and glanced at her silken blue hair one last time.  Then, I shut these black eyes, and embraced the darkness along with her.

When it swept through us, it was a deliciously nebulous thing, like a fog passing by two lighthouses in the dark, wafting over them like smoke, and brushing them away into the blackest of sighs.





“And then I was like—Wham!  Smack!  Take that, you jerks!”  Rainbow Dash exclaimed, hovering above a table in Sugarcube Corner as her friends gawked at her.  “Hah!  How's that for an ace in the hole!”

“Uhhhh...”  Rarity blinked dizzily.

“It was so totally awesome!”

“Darling, I hate to sound uncouth...”  Rarity squinted.  “But what are you talking about?”

“Huh?”  Rainbow Dash plopped down in her seat.  “Well, you know!  About how I was... I was...”  Her words trailed off, as did the darting twitch in her ruby eyes.  “Huh...”

Fluttershy rubbed her cheek, her eyes looking sad and empty.  “I... was nuzzling someone...”  She gulped.  “Tank?  Is Tank around...?”

“More... sprinkles...”  Pinkie Pie murmured, her ears drooping as she searched the table of cups and saucers with a vacant expression.  “Cheese and tofu.  Absorbs milk...”

“Huh?” Rainbow glanced across the way at her.  “What about milk?”

“Oh, nothing.  Just being random...”  Then Pinkie Pie winced.  “I am being random, aren't I?”

“Girls...”  Twilight fidgeted, rubbing an aching horn.  “Did you all just feel that?  I... I can't be the only one...”

“I feel it too...”  Rarity murmured aloud.  “Almost as if... as if...”  She heard a clinking noise.  She and everypony else looked over.  “Applejack?”

Applejack was cradling a pair of sunglasses that Rainbow Dash had flown over to their daily meeting.  Her lips hung open as she reached a hoof up and rubbed her own cheek, nuzzling it like a phantom limb.  “It's... all a work, brother...”

“Huh?”  Rainbow Dash frowned.  “The hay are you going on about, AJ?”

“Applejack?”  Fluttershy leaned forward with a concerned expression.  “Are you crying...?”

“I...” Applejack sniffled as a tear rolled down her cheek.  “I reckon I don't rightly know...”  She hugged the shades to her chest and smiled painfully.  “All I know is... I'm glad that y'all are here, and I'd hate for any single one of you to be replaced.”

“Awwww...”  Twilight smiled and leaned over to nuzzle her.  “Applejack...”

“Why would we ever be replaced, darling?” Rarity said, holding Applejack from behind.

“I...”  Applejack shuddered, gazing at her sad reflection in the shades.  “I don't know.  But, somehow, if it did happen... I g-guess it'd be mighty silly to be afraid of it...”
> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is unfinished, but I don't think it was ever born to begin with.

The history behind this is long and sordid.  It began as a fake gag fic that would be linked to randomly from the main body of EoP's failed Kaizo Petra arc.  I threw it in via a hyperlink, suggesting that Scootaloo possessed a copy of the pulp fiction novel in her airship.  I giggled like a schoolgirl.  Candlestick head was not amused.

Later, I reassembled the crack!fic pieces on a whim and interwove them between a seemingly unrelated slice-of-life fic idea about Scootaloo returning home to Ponyville after being gone for several years, then... having two separate affairs with... grown-up Dinky and milf Cheerilee?

Yeah...

Needless to say, this crud never went anywhere, which is probably why I tried slapping the experimental shiet up on Imploding Colon's name and not SS&E.  I took it off around the time I wrote Gift, as I realized the structure of Gift's narrative was stupidly similar to the Scootaloo portions of this... travesty.  It's all for the best.  IC is best as a vessel for the Austraeoh series and nothing else.

Still, the actual WEREWOLF bits amuse me to no end, and it harkens back to days when I would write crack!fics for the lulz (as opposed to now, when I wrote crack!fics for the subs... meh).






The Werewolves Came on a Friday


a novel by Pony Riley



Chapter One:  The Bloodying



        It was a dark and stormy night.  Yori Bits and Gallant Hooves were on a date.  At that very moment, they were parking their wagon atop Bridle Point, overlooking the glittering vista of Wellingtrot.  Gallant was in the process of nuzzling the nape of Yori's neck, but she was too busy staring up at the moon.

        “Honey, I can't think with you breathing on me,” Yori boredly murmured, a tad bit flushed.

        “Mmmm...” Gallant throated.  “I can hardly breathe with you thinking.”

        “There's something wyrd about the moon tonight,” Yori said in an ominous voice.  She possessed a long, curly mane that was blue on the left side and green on the right, and her eyes held alternating pupils within the same beatific spectrum.  Her coat was a majestic silken texture that changed colors with her moods, but only when she was earnest, and right then she was yellow with contemplation.  As Gallant lustfully leaned into her, Yori gazed with sparkling soul-mirrors into the great ivory depths of the lunar orb highlighting the black canvas night.  “Do you remember the prophecy, Gallant?  About how the werewolves will come on a Friday?”

        “Oh darling, I was hoping we would come on a Friday...”

        “This is serious, Gallant!”  She exclaimed, turning turquoise, a dominant trait her mother had genetically hoofed down to the young filly before she inexplicably died in a tragic whaling accident.  “My village was attacked by werewolves when I was a child, and it happened on a full moon!”

        “Honey, relax,” Gallant smiled and wagged his eyebrows like the suave stallion he was.  He leaned a forelimb around her as the two reclined in the front of the wooden wagon under starlight and shooting stars.  “That was a long time ago, and we agreed never to talk about it since you came out of the clinic.”

        Yori shuddered and looked at her trembling hooves.  “They told me I was crazy.  And then they all died.”

        “Besides, tonight is a Thursday!”  Gallant simpered.  “What's the worst that could happen?”

        Just then, there was a howling, faint and foreboding, and it came from the distance.  Yori heard it.  She wondered if Gallant heard it too.  “Did you hear that howling?”

        “Sugar lumpkins, there's gonna be howling alright.  Hah hah hah!”

        “I'm serious!”  Yori said, once again turquoise.  “It's almost as if—”  Her blue and green eyes widened.  “Oh no... Midnight has struck!”

        “Yeah, so?”

        “Don't you get it?!”  She looked at him horror.  Lightning struck and illuminated the far corners of her suddenly cyan face.  “It is now... FRIDAY.”

        “Yeah, well, thank Celestia-Raahghgglglglghghhgh!!”  Gallant garbled, his eyes exploding as a pair of claws protruded through his skull.

        Yori screamed.

        Gallant's upper cranium was dislodged from his mouth as a pawed hand reached through, severing his voice box and spilling shreds of his trachea out all over the reins of the wagon.  He bled and bled, bursting open from behind, because a werewolf was suddenly there.  What's more, the werewolf was shredding through the back of the sputtering stallion, because he could.

        Yori bellowed.

        Gallant's neck was sliced down the center.  His blood spilled all over the wagon's seat, floor, and plywood.  There was not a spot that wasn't covered in blood, there was that much of it.  A few other random juices joined the mix, because the werewolf was next tearing into his intestines and dislodging them one spongy rope at a time, doing a lot of growling in between and maybe some hissing laughter.

        Yori shrieked.

        Gallant wasn't done bleeding, not by a long shot.  If a pony could be paid in bleeding, he would be a millionaire.  His limbs split apart and his hooves shattered like kidney stones as the hairy lycanthrope finished bursting through his torso, only to explode out the other side with a laughing cackle.

        Yori hollered.  She scrambled for the door to the wagon as the lycanthrope drooled after her.  Several knife-licking seconds passed, and finally she opened the wagon.  Gallons of blood poured out as she scrambled onto the grass, bathed in the stuff.  She couldn't tell what her emotion was because her entire coat was covered in crimson.  The werewolf glared at her, its fiery eyes burning like twin torches of searing infernos.  Frightened, she scrambled onto all fours and galloped down the hill of Bridle Point.  On either side of her, wagons full of starcrossed lovers shook and splattered red juices everywhere as one or both of the neck-licking occupants succumbed to the power of the moon.

        “Oh no!”  Yori sobbed in mid-canter.  “All of the lovers are turning into werewolves!”

        Hearing a rising cacophony of hungry howling behind her, she ran as fast as she could into the country roads.  She saw an overturned wagon full of unicorns being pounced on by their fanged infant children.  The asphalt pooled over with blood and it was all very wet.

        “Oh no!”  Yori gasped.  “The babies are werewolves!”

        She ran swiftly into town, blazing her way—bloody and screaming—into downtown Wellingtrot.  She hopped over half-eaten and slaughtered sheep, only to hear a distant flock of cawing noises from high up above.  Gazing into the moonlit sky, she saw several black figures morphing in midair, exchanging feathers for wagging tails and claws.

        “Oh no!”  Yori whimpered.  “The crows are becoming werewolves!”

        The world thundered and echoed with the falling bodies of avian lycanthropes striking the ground on either side of her.  Roofs caved in, park benches exploded, and wagon alarms went off from the multiple impacting bodies.  Horrified beyond belief, Yori sprinted towards her apartment, her blue and green mane hair glittering in the wind like a comet-tail of candy coated hysteria.  Just as she arrived at the front gates of her home, she heard a loud honking sound.  She spun around and gasped, breathlessly, the air leaving her lungs, without a word.

        A huge truck was plowing through several trees and barreling towards her.  There was a struggling going on in the driver's seat, and the windshield was being painted with wet, red, crimson blood.

        “Oh no!”  Yori cried.  “The semi truck drivers are werewolving too!”  She fumbled for her keys, and then realized something more horrifying than all that had happened on that stormy night previous.  “I left my keys in the wagon!”

        The semi truck bore down on the helpless damsel of a mare.  She cowered against the door to her home, her only escape, and screamed long and hard into the hot, scary, throbbing night.

        “Nooooooooooooooooo!”

        And then everything was nothing but truck.

> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	At last, Scootaloo was home, but it didn't seem to make a difference.  Her violet eyes held the same jaded glint that had possessed her during the entire cross-country train ride.  She stood at the edge of the depot to Ponyville, staring at every building and golden-thatched roof.  The smells and sounds of the place were assaulting her from all angles.  She remained steadfast, her aged legs firm and muscular from years of labor.

With a tug of her saddlebag, she trotted forward through town.  The blue sky hung bright overhead, evoking memories both good and bittersweet.  She saw little foals—joyous blank flanks—scampering past her path, and a chill ran through her body.

Sugarcube Corner was gone.  In its place was a salad diner, its exterior metallic finish in sharp contrast to the rustic aesthetic of the rest of the village.  A few more buildings stood out just as sharply, places she hardly recognized, but Scootaloo ignored them all the same.  She headed towards the centerpiece of town, a tall, five-story treehouse that still miraculously stood in the middle of Ponyville.

She walked through the door with a ringing bell.  She didn't believe it until she saw it with her own eyes, but every book and shelf was gone.  Instead, there was a lounge, a cafe, and a coffee bar.  A well-dressed filly about five years younger than Scootaloo stood behind the counter, smiling at the approaching customer.

“Hello, ma'am.  Welcome to Harmony's Rest.  We happen to have some vacancy at the moment!”

“Yes, I would like to have a room, please,” Scootaloo said in a calm tone.

The mare took a look at Scootaloo's folded wings and spoke without losing her programmed grin.  “On the top floor, perhaps?  The upper branch has a room with a balcony, perfect for pegasus take-off!”

Scootaloo exhaled gently and returned a weak smile.  “A bottom floor will be just fine, provided it's cheaper.”

“Ah.  Well, I think I have a place just for you, then.”  The mare scribbled in a notebook.  “Will this be a short stay?”

Scootaloo shook her head.  “A long one.  Thank you.”  She slid the bits over, signed her hoof, and took the keys.

“I do hope you enjoy your stay at Harmony's Rest!” the mare remarked with a curtsey.  “This place is a landmark in town!  It used to be a library!”

“Yes,” Scootaloo said with a quiet nod.  “I know.”

Slowly, she trotted across the hotel and found her room.  She slid the door open with a creak.  Despite years of service as an inn, it still had a dusty smell to it.  If Scootaloo closed her eyes, she could imagine hundreds upon hundreds of royal scrolls being engulfed in green flame.  It brought a sigh from her mouth.

She shut the door behind her.  Without thinking, she checked, double-checked, and triple-checked the lock.  Satisfied, she shuffled over to the bed on the other end of the tiny room and simply fell back onto its covers.  She spent a few minutes staring at the ceiling, her face still as stone.

Eventually, she stirred.  She got up, stripped of her saddlebag, and started emptying the contents all over the room.  Soon, she got comfortable, or something close to it.  After inspecting the bathroom and facilities, she trotted over to a glass door that had been carved out of the side of the tree trunk.  Sliding it open, the sounds of Ponyville's hustle and bustle wafted into the hotel room.  A tiny picket fence enclosure gave her room an exterior “yard” no bigger than she could buck her rear limbs.  But there was still something quaint and simple about it, and it had a good view of downtown.

The sun was setting.  Families and their foals were playing out in the street, enjoying a game of hoofball.  In the distance, chimneys started exhaling smoke into the air, filling the autumn sky with a country toastiness.  The smell of baked goods and home-cooked dinner drifted across the idyllic township to greet her.

She knew that it was time to relax.

Trotting back to the bed, she reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a book.  It was a very old thing, a threadbare paperback pulp fiction novel.  The edges of the cover were starting to bend and tear; the ridiculously epic cover art featuring flames and lycanthropes was faded.  But it brought the first sincere grin to Scootaloo's face in ages.

Sitting down, surrounded by the scents of the past, Scootaloo opened the book and read until sunlight could only afford her a glimpse of her memories.
> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Werewolves Came on a Friday


a novel by Pony Riley



Chapter Nine:  The Mirrors of the Reflective Soul Shine



        Yori Bits stumbled into the bathroom of a decrepit, ninth floor apartment building in the center of Wellingtrot.  Laying the splintery baseball bat atop a towel rack, she flicked a nearby switch and leaned over the sink.  Turning the faucet on, she splashed water over her muzzle and gazed under cold, blue, flickering light into the cracked mirror before her.

        The mare was a disheveled mess.  Yori's blue and green mane was tangled with frayed strands.  Her white tank top dangled in bloody tatters around her upper limbs.

        “A city full of lycanthropes, and all I have left is a baseball bat and two cans of mace.”  She hissed and spat blood into the faucet.  “At least in the clinic, I had scalpels,” she managed to say before gulping.  “And then everypony died.”

        Howling noises lit the urbanscape outside the window.  The translucent sheet of glass flickered from the strobe of a distant police wagon.  She heard sirens competing with the beastly shrieks, then gunshots, then nothing.

        “Dear Epona, what I wouldn't give for a bottle of Jockey Daniels.”

        Just then, a crackling sound burst in front of her.  With a girlish shriek, Yori Bits fell down onto her haunches.  She clung the baseball bat in two hooves, gazing bright-eyed through disheveled mane hair, looking quite sexy.

        New fissures were forming in the glass surface of the mirror.  As the bathroom light flickered paler shades across the room, she saw the unmistakable formation of a crystalline snout in the reflective sheet.

        “Oh no!”  Yori whimpered.  “The mirror is a lycanthrope!”

        With a howling noise, the mirror leapt down from the wall and took on the shape of a hunchbacked wolf.  Its fractured joints creaked and rattled as it leered over the mare and raised a vicious, crystalline paw to slice her throat out from under her quivering chin.

        “Eeeyaaah!” She flinched under the flimsy shield of her baseball bat.

        Just then, something happened, and it happened loudly.  A stallion in Kevlar armor burst through the bathroom window and flew into the compartment under a shower of glass.  Sliding to a frictious stop, the muscular horse glanced up, snarling, his black mullet framing a scarred face under a leather-tight eyepatch.

        The mirror-wolf spun and roared at him.

        “Imperius Whinny!”  The stallion jumped across the bathroom, backflipped, and came down with a vicious knee drop across the mirror-wolf's snout.

        Shards of glass flew from the lycanthing as it spun twice, shook its head, and viciously charged back at the assailant.  Its translucent paws ripped loose tile from the ground as it snapped its fangs across the thick of the room.

        “Huttt!”  The armored horse hopped over the creature and tossed a fan of knives down at its reflective hide.

        Two daggers ripped the wolf's glass tail off.  That made it angry.  It spun, opened its mouth, and vomited a cloud of crystal bees at its foe.

        The stallion landed beside Yori, grabbed one of her cans of mace, bucked it high into the air, spun, and aimed a steel revolver so that its sight aligned with the cylindrical body of the thing just as the transparent insects clustered around it.  In slow motion, a bullet whizzed through the air, pierced the body of the pressurized can, and sent shrapnel flying all throughout the swarm so that all of the mirror-bees' stingers tore off and they died.

        The werewolf paused as if he was about to say something at that.  Precisely at that moment, time resumed to normal, and the stallion-in-Kevlar was bull-tackling the cretin.  The two surged ten, twenty, thirty feet across the bathroom until they both collapsed into the shower stall.  Gnarled hooves wrestled with glass limbs.

        “Yaaaaghraaaah!”  The stallion's one eye flared as it gripped the mirror-wolf in a leg-bar and repeatedly slammed its cracking skull into the walls.  Tile and plaster littered the shower stall as the horse then dragged the struggling monster towards the toilet.  The stallion lifted the seat and shoved the howling lycanthrope's glass mouth into the bowl.  He applied all his weight, gritting his teeth, reveling in the sputtering sounds of bubbles and panic.  For two minutes, the werewolf struggled and thrashed and kicked... but soon hung limply in the armored pony's grasp.

        Spitting on the translucent beast's hide, the stallion let go and trotted icily towards Yori, holstering his revolver.

        “Nghhhh... We were friggin' lucky to have silver plumbing,” he hissed, his one eye twitching.

        “What's going on here?!”  Yori wailed, frightened, her coat turning into a blistering yellow hue under her bloody, tattered tank top.  “Who are you?”

        “I've got a better friggin' question.”  The stallion throated, the veins showing under his skin.  “Who's the friggin' caterer of this friggin' party?!  Because where there was once a bowl of refreshments, the whole friggin' world has deposited a bunch of friggin' lycanponies!  And they're not friggin' easy to snack on!”

        “Lycanponies?!”  Yori gasped, her eyes twitching.  “You... You mean to say...?”

        “Yes, I friggin' do.”  The stallion plucked a toothpick from his lips, lit a cigar, and popped open a beer.  He squinted his one good eye out the shattered window and hissed through gritting teeth, “It's happening just like friggin' prophecied.  This is the friggin’ Werewolfing!”

        “Oh dear Celestia no!”

        “Stop being such a friggin' girl!”  The stallion tossed her a shotgun, produced a second one from under his armor, and popped a smoking shell loose.  “My name is Alan Whinnie.  Come with me if you want to live... to kill lycanponies!”

        

> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The next morning, you found yourself walking towards the edge of town.  You told yourself that it was just to pay a visit to Sweet Apple Acres.  Your mouth turned bitter at the thought of what it was being named now, but you refused to call it by that title.

Ultimately, you didn't go by the farm.  Instead, you trotted towards the west end of town.  You recognized every bend and bump and turn in the road.  You spotted age-old “ramps” in the dirt where you once lifted your scooter off the ground at maximum speed.  You used to get so much air, so much incredible height.  Now, as you passed by the gnarled oak and thick bushes, you realized that you only ever rose as high as the middle of an adult's leg.  For some reason, it made your hooves feel heavier.

Still, you pressed on.  With each curve of the road, your heart started beating faster and faster.  You knew where you would be coming to, and furthermore you knew how much you were going to hate yourself for allowing yourself to go there.  Still, you persisted.  Like a rising sun, the red building appeared around the bend.  Your heart skipped a beat.  It was still as bright and cheerful as you had always pictured it.

The place wasn't empty, too.  What day was it?  Was it Monday?  Tuesday?  Whatever the case, school was in session, and several fillies and colts scampered through the yard.  Their giggles were both music and misery to your ears.  You tried not to dwell on it.  You looked for her.

When at first you didn't see her, it was almost a relief.  You started realizing that there were dozens if not hundreds of other things you could have been doing that day.  In the end, all you wasted was a week and a few hundred bits.  It wasn't like the original plan.  There was no need to spend a month out here.  You didn't deserve that vacation.  There were places to go, duties to attend, a nation to protect.

But then—like a flash of ruby fire—she appeared.  You wanted to collapse, to giggle, to sob, to smile.  All you did was stand in place.  But that wasn't all she was doing.  She was walking among the children, speaking to them, smiling to them.  With a happy laugh and a chirping voice, she leaned over and nuzzled a few foals and shared in their joy and excitement of life.

You couldn't believe how young she still looked.  So young, so full of vibrant optimism and gentleness.  You could have recognized her from a mile away.  Could she still have recognized you?

“Scootaloo?!”

You twitched, realizing that a unicorn mare was gawking at you.  Her bright golden eyes blinked and her long blonde mane hung over a sweaty gray coat.

“Scoots?!”  Her smile was half as rich as the happiness dripping out of her voice.  “Scootaloo, is that really you?!”

You ripped your eyes off of the schoolyard.  You took a good, long look at the unicorn.  You saw her short horn, her amber eyes, her bulky mailbag, and you put two and two together.

“Hello, Dinky,” you said in a gentle tone, smiling for smiling's sake.  “It's been a while.”

“A while?!”  She exclaimed and leaned forward unabashedly to hug you.  “It's been ages!  How have you been?!”

“Oh, y'know.”  You shrugged.  “Alive.”

“Well... heehee... That's certainly good to hear!”  Dinky leaned back, clutching the saddlebag full of envelopes to herself.  “Wow, look at you!  You look like a marathon runner!”

“I've been keeping fit these days.”

“Cuz of the Guard, right?”

“Nnnngh...”  You sighed and eventually gave a relenting nod.  “Yeah.”

“Wow.  I always wondered if it was just a rumor.  Do they really send you to the Changeling lands?”

“I haven't seen any changelings,” you murmured.  “Not that I know of.”  The sounds of children's voices were dwindling.  You realized that they were being ushered into the schoolbuilding.  You started to stir impatiently, but felt that it was best to maintain politeness.  “Took your mother's job, I see.”

“Heh.  More or less.  I'm the assistant to the mailmare,” Dinky said, then winced.  “Only... he's not a mare.  But a stallion.”

“You sure about that?”

“Heehee—It's just that so many ponies around town are still used to saying that they 'depend on Ponyville's most trusted mailmare.'”

“She's left a fine legacy.”

“Mmmmhmmm...”  Dinky bit her lip, blushed, and smoothed a blonde lock back over her forehead.  “I've been earning the both of us bits.”

“You take care of her these days?”

“Er... Kind of...”  She fidgeted slightly.

You weren't sure what to say to that.

“But, I still have plenty of free time!”  Dinky exclaimed, smiling brightly.  “We should totally hang out!  How long are you here for?”

“I'm... staying for a while...”

“Oh?  With family?”

You tried not to react too sharply.  “There's a hotel in downtown where... uhm... where they used to—”

“Oh, yes.  Heehee.  That place has a nice cafe,” Dinky said, smiling gently.  “So, is it a week or...?”

“Uhm...”  You turned and looked at the schoolbuilding again.  The foals were all gone.  The door was being shut.  You saw the hint of a bright pink mane, then nothing.  “I figure about a month.  I've been long overdue for this vacation.”

“I'd love to chat and catch up on things!”

You took a deep breath and looked Dinky in the face.  She was younger than you and most of the fillies you hung out with when you lived here.  If anything, she was the tiny blank flank that always wanted to tag along.  Still...

“Yeah.  How about tomorrow?”

“Heee!  Sounds great!”  She bounced, but tried to compose herself.  “Uhm... Well.  I've got letters to deliver.”

You nodded.  “And I've got some reading to do.”

“Oh... Uh... Reading!”  Dinky smiled nervously and waved a hoof.  “Yaay!  Uhm... Too bad you can't do that at the hotel anymore, huh?”

“Heh... See ya, Dinky.”

“It's... It's really nice to see you around, Scoots,” she said.

“Scootaloo.”

“Oh.  Uhm... Alright.  Scootaloo.”  She waved one last time, swiveled about, and trotted briskly down the road.

You were already trotting in the opposite direction.  Your head was full of the school building.  You clenched your eyes, walking blind, hoping that the darkness would wash away the image in your brain.  It didn't.

So, you found a park.  You found a bench.  You sat down, pulled out your book, opened it, and filled your brain with something else instead.
> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 5
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Werewolves Came on a Friday


a novel by Pony Riley



Chapter Fifteen:  Of Love and Dancing



The sound of howling wolves sounded off outside with a woeful sound.  Yori Bits trotted through the decrepit hallway of a ten story building, unaware of the noise.  Maybe she was deaf, or perhaps she was just too pretty to care.

        “So many ponies are gone,” she mumbled in exposition.  Her glittering shiny immaculate aquamarine hair was tousled.  A frumpy hoodie clung to her curvaceous equine figure in all the right places, and she was sweating just to pass the time.  “I never got to close their eyes and kiss them goodbye.  It would be like giving a lullaby, only more gangrene.”

        She stumbled into an abandoned ballet studio.  The mirrors along the balance bars shined moonlight all around like an inverse eggshell prism kaleidoscope.  Yori Bits heard the haunted giggles of tiny foals in leotards, only she didn’t, because they were ghost fillies.

        “I was allowed to go to ballet recitals once,” Yori Bits said.  “I could never balance on two hooves the way I was asked to.  And then everypony died.”

        Just then, glass shattered all across the room.  Alan Whinnie dove in through one of the mirrors, somersaulted, and shook the shards off.  “I found some friggin’ food,” he grunted, tossing her canned spinach.  “Friggin’ vending machine is running off of solar power.”

        Yori Bits blinked awkwardly at that.  Her coat turned a gentle mahogany as she fumbled with her can before ultimately reaching for a baton from a nearby closet and using it to smash the thing open.  “But... How can solar panels get power from the moonlight of endless lycannight?”

        “It’s all part of the friggin’ prophecy of this friggin’ generation of ours,” Alan grunted, adjusting his emerald beret and pivoting his cigarette to the opposite side of the mouth from the toothpick.  “Even the friggin’ vending machine was giving me friggin’ attitude.”  He popped a beer can open and took a sip.  “So I killed its children.”

        “You are so amazingly brave, Alan Whinnie,” Yori said between spinaching.  “I can’t believe that you took out a mermathrope all on your own.”

        “It burns the colon grease straight out of me that they’ve learned to friggin’ swim!” he spat.  “And here I was hoping that we’d escape the continent by friggin’ boat.”  He leered towards the shadows, twirling a shotgun as he gulped the last of his beer and flicked his cigarette.  “Not that it would have made any friggin’ difference.  With our luck, they’ll have taken over Chyneigh by now.  Yellow River ponies make the best friggin’ werewolves, on account of stocking up on gold instead of friggin’ silver.”

        “You strike me as very old, Alan,” Yori throated, “Even though you are totally a hunk of delectable stallion sausage.”

        “I’ve fought the Chyneigh ponies before,” he slurred, his eyes shrinking into the abysmal chasm shadows of his soul.  The ballet studio flexed around him and turned into a canvas of his waking nightmares.  “They came out of the holes like friggin’ cacti during spawning season.  Every friggin’ palm tree belonged to them.  Why not?  They’d already pissed on every bush.”  His irises shrunk even further, turning into dagger sharp machete fangs of contemplation.  “And then there was this one village, the village that was on fire.  There was a pony dancing there, in the village, the village that was on fire...”

        “Why, Alan, have you read ‘The Things They Semi-Autobiographically Carried With Poetic License’ by Trot O’Brien?’”

        “What the crap, kid?  Did they make a friggin’ movie out of that or what?”  By that point, Alan Whinnie’s irises had shrunk so far that they disappeared.  There was a disgusting pop sound, and his head jolted back as with sniper fire.  The explanation became apparent when his beret fell off his hat and clung to the wall without falling off.”

        “Oh no!”  Yori Bits shrieked and pointed at the article, shrieking.  “Mr. Whinnie!  Your hat!  It’s a lycanthrope!”

        Reflexively, the beret sprouted eight furry legs, howled, and crawled up the wall.

        “I friggin’ knew it!”  Alan pulled a grenade launcher out from his armpit and took aim at the archniwolf.  “Eat forty-odd years of pent up, retired, genocidal asswhoop!”  He pulled the trigger.  “With a side order of die!”

        He launched the grenade.  The explosive didn’t reach the monster, or if it did, it wasn’t very effective.  Whatever the case, the beretwolfspider was obviously not in the mood, so it scurried out of the way of the blast, crawled up the ceiling, yanked a ventilation shaft open, reached into the insulation, pulled out a long length of fiberglass, rolled it up real tight, created a pink bludgeon, leapt down off the ceiling, and slapped viciously it across Alan Whinnie’s fetlocks.

        “Crud cereal!” He grunted as he fell towards the ground.  “I hate reloading!”

        “Oh no!”  Yori Bits shrieked, her hoodie hanging diagonally off from her slick velvety blue shoulders in the pale gossamer moonlight of horrific night.  “I should have paid more attention when we were fighting the werewolfipede in the Equestrian Hat Repository!”

        “Get with the friggin’ program!” Alan Whinnie shouted.  Before he could ready his grenade launcher, the beretspidercanine leapt atop him.  Alan struggled, wrestling against the thing’s drooling fangs and mandibles with his bare hooves.  “Graaaaaaaarrauuuugggghuuuuuraaaah!”

        “If only there was a divine spirit of intervention that would respond to my desperate cue!” Yori Bits murmured.

        Just then, quite divinely, the sound of creepy piano music wafted through the abandoned ballet studio.  It sounded like it was being performed under water; that’s why it was creepy.  However, the ghosts that appeared were not under water.  They were in the dance studio, and they were foals, and smoke was coming out of their black eyes that matched the color of their leotards.  Also it was still Friday.

        “We have sensed the Werewolfing with our heavenly granted lycantennae.  As part of the prophecy, we must intervene upon the Chosen Filly of Beautiful Destiny.”

        “Oh my stars!” Yori cooed.  “They are ghost ballet fillies, bound to the quest of fighting canine evil out of their immeasurable love of the dance!”

        “Graaaaalluugaaaaaagaaa!” Alan replied with his legs full of spider.

        “Please!”  Yori pointed and pleaded and sobbed and smiled.  “Save them with your love!”

        “We are enamored!”  And the ghost foals joined hooves and slippers and more or less... rotated towards the monster in a blurred fashion.  “Buhhhhh!”

        The fillies’ soft, pink, translucent bodies ripped through the abdomen of the spiderhat like a satin buzz saw.  It wasn’t until its legs started to melt that it realized it was being lacerated.  So, to cover all bases, it exploded.

        “Fraaaaaarrauuulluuuugh!”  Alan Whinnie shouted as the blast wave blew a hole in the wall and sent him and the two ghost ballet fillies sailing into the grimy street full of werewolves below.  “Graaaaaaaugh--Meet me in the friggin’ arcade on the far end of town!”

        “Alan Whinnie, wait!” Yori shrieked, reaching out towards him with a shivering hoof.  She paused, blinked, and stammered, “I’m the Chosen Filly?”

        And then Alan hit concrete.



> The Werewolves Came on a Friday pt 6
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	You had the book opened before you.  The light beside the bed flickered.  Lifting your eyes, you gave the bulb a disgruntled look.  Why they decided to wire electricity through this treehouse was beyond you.  You fiddled with the bulb, but it didn't become any brighter.

Groaning, you slapped the book down and rested back in the bed in the middle of the cramped hotel room.  You heard music from beyond the sliding glass door: perhaps one of the restaurants that had evolved since Ponyville became a tourist destination.  Glancing out, you saw light dimming.  Evening had fallen again, and you had accomplished nothing.  Most ponies took vacations in bizarre, far-off, exotic locales.  This evidently was not the case with you.

Groaning, overwhelmed with the scents of the lonesome day, you got up from bed and trudged into the bathroom.  You took a shower, and it was a long, steamy, lethargic experience.  Most of it was spent with you squatting on your haunches, leaning against the tile and sighing.

It occurred to you that you might be using too much of the hotel's generous facilities.  You cut the warm shower short and spent an extraordinary amount of time drying and then brushing your mane.  You lingered before the mirror, staring at your features.  The years were decidedly marked on your face and neck.  There were the signs of bruises, of scars, and over a dozen scrapes.  You weren't an ugly mare by any stretch, but you found yourself at a loss to call the reflection anything remotely beautiful.

You remembered the path you walked that day.  You remembered stumbling upon the schoolyard.  You remembered how bright the ruby color was, like cherries in a basket, and just as sweet.

And then you saw the scars again.  Shutting your eyes, you turned from the mirror.  You limped towards bed, shutting off every light along the way.  You were clean from the shower, as spotless as the day you were born, but somehow you couldn't help but feel extraordinarily filthy.

You collapsed on the bed.  The book was in the way.  There was no more time for reading.  You didn't want to invite anything that might make you think, not when all you needed was to feel.

And you did feel.  And you hated yourself for doing it, because that's when the tears started.  There was a sniffling sound, like there was a softer, gentler pony weeping in the room beside you.  But you knew better than to assume that you were anything but alone.

“I wish...”

You reached up, grabbed a hoof-full of pillows, and hugged it to your chest.

“I wish that I could love you...”

You clenched your eyes shut and surrendered to the darkness.  The music was a continent away now.  Ponyville had melted with your tears.  You only wished that your voice could go with it.

“I-I just wish that I could love you...”

You cried yourself asleep.
> "True Fire" - aka my failed commission fic for Warden
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Aside from "I Remember Rainbow Dash," this is quite easily my worst failure in the fandom.  Months ago, I got on this huge "lulz I can totally do commissions" kick.  To that end, I asked a SATGF lemur--namely Worsty--to provide me with a prompt so I could practice writing someone else's story idea on the fly.  He gave me the blueprint for what would become "The Numbers Don't Lie."  Whelp, we all know how that went.

I was feeling pretty jazzed, like I could take on the world of writing prompts.  So, I asked Worsty to tag someone.  He chose Warden.  Warden mulled the idea over, and ultimately gave me a story idea about Spike being framed for setting the village on fire, then having Rarity represent him in a trial to defend himself, with his future citizenship in Ponyville on the line.  In other words, it was the making of a courtroom drama, with the potential for dramatic shenanigans to rise up later and unravel new legs of the mystery.

I thought it was a nifty idea, not to mention challenging.  So, I made it my goal to work on it.

I didn't even remotely come close to that goal.

You see, there's a reason why I write so much poni poni poni fiction and not--say--Star Trek or M*A*S*H or Xavier Renegade Angel stuff.  I'm a stupid goddam idiot.  Stupid goddam idiots can't write court dramas and somehow make them digestible.

So, what was I to do?  I nevertheless tackled the task, but anyone can see where I kept bumping my head into shiet, trying to make things sound logical and intelligent when I actually had no dayum clue what I was doing.  The biggest problem, really, is that I shot myself in the foot in terms of pacing.  I was obviously going to go beyond the normal limits of a commission fic, for I had chosen to write the story (and the court trial) as viscerally as possible.  And, y'know, that's boring as balls, not to mention predictable.

I stumbled so much over this prompt.  I approached it, abandoned it, approached it again, abandoned it again.  It was never Warden's fault, really.  I just chose the wrong way to go about it and I couldn't for the life of me retrace my steps.  He didn't seem to care much, though.  What I mean to say is, it wasn't that huge of a deal to him, but I was making it a huge deal, as if I had committed to something that I absolutely had to do, but it was tearing up my e-dick each time I so much as sat down to the thing.

Such is the price of excessive hubris, I guess.  This "exercise" taught me, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I do not have what it takes to write other people's story ideas on the fly.  I am simply not commission material, for I cannot make myself write something by principal.  If I am not interested in the story, the sparks just won't fly.  It's as simple as that.   Until I somehow tackle that hump, I can't even pretend to call myself a good writer.  I have been and (for the foreseeable future) shall continue to be amateur at best.

I'm slapping all of the garbage I managed to put together here.  Don't expect any formatting or proper indentation or wutnot.  Why?  Cuz damn this story to Incan Hell.





       "Fillies and gentlecolts of the jury." Adjusting the bifocals over her looming eyes, the judge pivoted to her right and faced twelve ponies seated behind a wooden barricade. "You have seen the evidence that's been brought forth to this case. You have heard the personal testimonies of the eyewitnesses who were present at the scene of devastation that transpired three months ago on the afternoon of August the twelfth. The task ahead of each and every one of you is an important one. As Ponyvillean citizens, and as Equestrian royal subjects, it is your sworn duty to examine the facts that have been presented in this case. After careful deliberation, you shall present the court a verdict that will determine the guilt or innocence of the defendant who now sits before you."

        Fighting a shivering breath, Spike bravely tilted his scaled chin up. From where he sat in the courtroom, he saw the prosecution's bench to his right. The ponies there sat like tightly-suited statues, their faces neutral and cold as they kept their gazes locked on the robed mare presiding above. Beyond them, twelve strangers sat, and they were more frightening in their quiet disposition than any snarling monster or ravenous creature that Spike had seen in all his young life.

        Wincing, he flashed his green eyes once more to the tabletop right in front of him. His vision turned misty as a sore lump formed in his throat.. Just then, he felt a reassuring hoof on his shoulder. Looking up, Spike found the gentle blue eyes of Rarity reflecting his nervous expression. She smiled, a blissfully brief thing, and she resumed sitting at attention beside the other lawyer next to her. Both ponies listened intently to the judge's directions to the jury. Spike tried listening as well, but the sound of his own heartbeat chased most of the words away. Everything felt cold, and yet slippery, like a chilly winter evening, freezing him through his scales. It took all his strength to remain seated and still within that hard, wooden chair in the center of the Ponyville Court House.

        "It is your task to determine, beyond reasonable doubt, whether or not the defendant is guilty of the following three crimes." The judge read off a sheet of paper in her aged hooves. "Arson: wherein the accused is responsible for the willful destruction of public and personal property by fire. Assault and battery: wherein the accused is responsible for the willful harm brought upon fellow equine citizens." After a deep breath, the judge added, "And attempted murder: wherein the accused brought harm upon fellow citizens with the willfull intent of ending their lives."

        As the judge continued speaking, Spike glanced over his shoulder. He saw many faces in the crowd, and most of them harder than diamonds. Of the entire group, the only ones who weren't frowning in his direction were a small bunch located towards the back. The pink shape of a bouncy mare tried waving excitedly, but her orange companion urged her to stay still. Spike's gaze wandered past Pinkie Pie, Applejack, Rainbow Dash and a tearful Fluttershy... until he spotted a lavender face in the crowd whose eyes were nearly as vulnerable as his. He made visual contact with Twilight, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't summon a smile any more than she could.

        "If you the jury find the defendant not guilty of all three of these crimes," said the judge, "then he shall be cleared of all charges and freed from detention to once again enjoy the liberties of a Ponyvillean citizen."

        She adjusted her glasses and leaned forward in her seat.

        "However, if you the jury find the defendant guilty of all three crimes, two of the crimes, or even just one of these charges, then Ponyvillean law states that the court must abide by the Equestrian Security Act, which was established twelve hundred years ago by the Grand Canterlot Court. Within Article IV of the Equestrian Security Act, there is a precedent that states that 'all beastly citizens, classified as canine, feline, serpentine, draconian, centaurian, orcish, or avian, who possess sentience to the degree that they can ascertain the politics and legalities of Equestrian citizenry, who are then determined to be a danger unto the equine populace for reasons related to savage nature, hazardous aura, unpredictable behavior, proclivity to violent crimes or general menace to the society, must thereby be expunged from said society for the safety of the equine citizens who are incapable of individually protecting themselves from such beastly qualities.'"

        Spike clenched his jaw, feeling the eyes of countless ponies upon him. He tried his best not to dig his claws into the edge of the table before him and his two well-dressed representatives.

        The judge continued. "Since the time of his hatching, the Royal Court of Canterlot has officially stated that the defendant is both of draconian descent and capable of sentience. It falls within the definition of the law of this court that the defendant, if found guilty, will be subject to the precedent set forth by Article IV of the Equestrian Security Act. Thus, if you the jury find the defendant guilty of one, two, or all three of the crimes that he is charged with, then the lawful punishment shall be absolute banishment from Equestrian society, which includes forced and strictly adhered expulsion from all equine townships, villages, colonies, farms, and outposts within the known world that fall under Celestial Rule for the rest of the defendant's natural born existence. The defendant will not be allowed to venture into any public Equestrian establishment ever again, or else risk being subjected to forced relocation or even brute force as administered by the local police, the Royal Canterlot Guard, or the various subsidiary branches of the Equestrian Military. He will, however, be allowed to dwell anywhere else within the known world beyond Equestrian Borders, where he will be subject to external law, or lack thereof."

        Placing her papers down, the judge folded her hooves atop the lofty bench and bore a serious expression.

        "It is my duty to remind the jury that the verdict delivered must be determined beyond reasonable doubt. If the defendant is to be found guilty of any single crime, it must involve a unanimous vote by all members with the sincere conviction that he absolutely and unequivocably committed that which he has been accused of, as presented to you by the evidence and testimonies you have witnessed. If the jury determines from the facts presented that there is not enough information to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant has committed these crimes, then the jury will have grounds to deliver a verdict of 'not guilty.' A verdict of 'not guilty' means that the jury finds that the evidence and testimonies are not enough to provide proof of the actual wrongdoings of the accused, and the defendant shall remain innocent within the eyes of the court."

        There was a brief pause as the judge allowed the jury to digest those words. A few voices in the dead-still courtroom coughed, but otherwise is was as quiet as a flooded grave. At last, the judge picked up the gavel in the crook of her hoof and spoke yet again.

        "Now, the bailiff shall guide you the jury to a room where you will proceed with deliberation. If you fail to reach your verdicts by sundown today, you shall be escorted to your sequestered housing, and come morning of the following day, you shall be brought back to the court to continue seeking your verdicts. In the event that your verdicts cannot be reached after several attempts at deliberation, it is the task of the forepony of the jury to inform the court, and a 'hung jury' shall be declared."

        She slapped the gavel down and stood up.

        "You are dismissed."

        The room immediately broke into hushed murmurs. Spike felt the world rise up around him while he remained glued to his seat. He fidgeted, watching as the jury filed out one by one through a side door beyond their barricade. Leading them was a purple-coated unicorn in a police uniform. All it took was one stabbing glance from the bailiff's forest green eyes, and Spike instantly looked away from her, cringeing.

        "Spike?" Rarity's voice murmured from above. Once again, he felt her gentle hoof on his shoulder. "What is it?"

        "N-nothing," he murmured. "Just..." He sighed. "I'm so tired of seeing uniforms all the time..."

        Just as he said this, two straight-faced stallions wearing gear identical to the bailiff's strolled up, looming like monoliths.

        "Whoops..." He gulped nervously. "Guess I spoke too soon..."

        "Miss Rarity," spoke the defense lawyer beside her. He was a young, frail thing with a mat of brown mane hair and a thick pair of glasses. Leaning in, he said, "It's best we not linger for too long with the whole court watching. Remember Magnet vs Ponyville?"

        Rarity shuddered. "You're right, Eagle. Let's not put on a show." Clearing her throat, she stood up, levitating a briefcase beside her finely suited self. "Come along, Spike. The jury has a place to go, and so do we."

        Spike gave a nervous nod, standing up. Almost immediately, the guards took position on either side of him, as if they were about to sandwich the young dragon. He shuddered, but nevertheless strolled towards a side door with an anxious shuffle. He heard the hoofsteps of Rarity and the other lawyer behind him. Looking to his left, he squinted past the limbs of the guards, catching hints and glimpses of the grand courtroom beyond.

        Most of the ponies had shuffled out. Some of them remained seated, as if waiting for curtains to fall. Spike saw emotionally distraught equines, and those citizens saw him. It was not a pleasant set of staring faces: Spike spotted furrowed brows, eyes stabbing him like daggers, and glaring ponies with their bodies patched up in various places from month-old burns and scrapes.

        Behind an angrily muttering group of citizens, Spike spotted the familiar shades of his closest friends. Applejack and Pinkie Pie were busy hugging Fluttershy close, comforting her as she buried her quietly sobbing face into their shoulders. Rainbow Dash hovered in the corner beside the Equestrian flag, frowning with her forelimbs crossed. Twilight sat in the middle walkway, her gaze fallen helplessly to the tile floor and her ears drooped under a forlorn cloud of hopelessness. Spike noticed her head tilting up, and his heart jumped upon almost seeing her glistening violet eyes.

        Then he saw nothing, for he was being escorted down a long, barren walkway. The guards on either side of Spike made loud clopping noises as their hooves echoed through the long chamber. Their gait closed in even tighter as they led him down an all-too-familiar stairwell and into the grim basement beyond.

        "Really, guys," Spike couldn't help but murmur, his scaled jaws tight. "It's not like I'm gonna hurt you. Seriously..."

        "Spike, dear..." Rarity's voice floated overhead, reminding Spike that he wasn't half as alone as he had thought. The tone was both chiding and loving; there was no denying the grimness to it, to everything.

        Spike sighed into the shadows of the place as they arrived at a glass-reinforced door. A stallion knocked on it. A few seconds later, a slit slid open, revealing the squinting eyes of a guard on the other side. The slit closed shut. Several locks buzzed and clattered, and soon the heavy metal door swung open. The guards resumed their steady march, forcing Spike to waddle along in between them. The solemn parade shuffled along two guard stations, past no less than three tightly-uniformed ponies on watch, and at last through another metal door.

        Here, two jail cells resided, each reinforced by thick iron bars. There were no windows in either chamber: only twin overhead lights and a rotating fan positioned above a simple mattress next to a small toilet.

        One of the guards fumbled through a set of keys before unlocking a cell. Spike didn't need any guidance at this point. As soon as the loud grinding sound of the sliding bars ceased, he shuffled limply towards the mattress in the corner of the chamber. The guard stared pointedly at Spike's two representatives.

        Swallowing, Rarity turned to her partner. "Legal Eagle, there's undoubtedly going to be a great deal of press outside the courthouse."

        Eagle awkwardly blinked from beneath his glasses. "But I thought we had decided that we weren't going to entertain any questions from the media..."

        "It would at least be showing a good face to appear and politely refuse to make comments," Rarity said as she softly trotted into the cell after Spike. "The public doesn't need to think that we're silently brooding over the deliberation, especially after the way they've tried sensationalizing things."

        Legal Eagle took a long, deep breath. He adjusted his collar and nodded. "Very well, Rarity. You know best. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything about the jury's progress." He swiveled about to trot back upstairs along with a guard.

        "And Eagle?"

        He paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Hmmm?"

        She smiled at him. "Thank you so very much. For everything."

        He blinked, then smiled gently back. "I'm proud to be working on this case. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else." He tilted his head and spoke into the cell, "Hang in there, Spike. I know you've been having a wild ride, but we're going to get you through this. I promise." He trotted away, his hooves making cold echoes against the walls of the detention chamber.

        Spike simply sat on the mattress and curled up, hugging his scaled knees to his chest.

        Rarity blinked at him. With a quiet breath, she turned and gazed at the guard.

        He nodded back, then slid the barred door shut. Quietly, the stallion trotted away, though his presence still lingered just around the corner of the detention center. The other guards' shadows mingled along the fringes of the place, adding to the sleeplessness that permeated the white concrete walls and cold stale floors.

        Rarity shuffled over to the mattress. Slowly, she sat down beside Spike, exhaling the stress and tension of the day. It did little to relieve either of them. Rarity fidgeted, adjusting the collar of her suit and fluffing her bunned mane. Her eyes were cold, icy blue things as she gazed forward in contemplation.

        After a long space in time, Spike murmured over his hugged knees. "He doesn't believe I'm innocent, does he?"

        "Hmmm?" Rarity turned towards him. She raised an eyebrow. "Legal Eagle?"

        "Yeah..."

        "Don't be ridiculous, darling!" She smiled. "He and I go way back in our days together at Trottingham University. He's never taken a case unless he completely and utterly believes in it. I've told you so when all of this started!"

        "I know. It's just that he's so serious and by the book. It's hard to think that he believes in me at times," Spike said. Suffering a cold chill, he glanced into the corner of the detention cell. "I'm starting to think that nopony believes in me anymore."

        "How could you say that?!" Rarity exclaimed. "Your friends believe in you! Half of the witnesses most certainly believe in you!" She added with a smile, "I believe in you!"

        "And what of the jury, huh?" Spike glanced up, his purple brow furrowed. "You so sure that they believe in me?"

        "Oh, b-but of course, dear!"

        "Then why are you and everypony I know so... so..." He winced as he finally hissed, "So gloomy?"

        Rarity opened her mouth to speak. She lingered, squirming where she sat. Finally, after a nervous swallow, she spoke in an alarmingly somber tone. "Spike, so much of the prosecution's case rests upon circumstantial evidence. It is the jury's job to remove all shred of doubt in their deliberation, and I daresay that the facts Eagle and I have presented make that an impossible thing to do."

        "Then how come everypony on the jury looks at me like I'm something evil?"

        Rarity's voice took on a merry tone, "They most certainly do not!"

        "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one they've been glaring at the whole time."

        "Spike..."

        "You're not the one whom everyone thinks is dangerous to the very ponies he loves to hang out with." He swung his legs and jumped down onto the floor, pacing anxiously. "You're not the one whom everyone is afraid of, who they swore they saw doing bad things."

        "Spike, please, you must remain calm—"

        "You haven't had burnt buildings and hurt ponies tacked onto your name!" he grumbled, swiveling around to frown at her. "Rarity, even if things somehow go my way, everypony's still gonna think I'm evil for as long as I live!"

        Rarity's face took on a pained expression. She suddenly had to avoid his gaze.

        With a sigh, he rubbed one arm with a clawed hand and stared at the floor. "Face it, Rarity. I am guilty." He clenched his teeth, then said, "I'm guilty of being born a dragon..."

        She sighed. Her eyes were moist, but nevertheless she kept a calm demeanor as she stood up from the cot and trotted over. "Spike, look at me."

        He didn't at first, not until she squatted before him and tilted his chin up.

        She smiled, a generous yet painful thing. "You may think that you're alone, but you're not. I will be with you every step of the way."

        "And if they all decide that I'm guilty and should be banished—?"

        "That won't happen, Spike," Rarity said firmly, her jaw clenched in a righteous frown. "And even if it does somehow come to that, I will appeal like there is no tomorrow. I'll take the fight all the way to the Court of Canterlot!"

        "But what if it does happen anyway, Rarity?" Spike gripped her forelimb in a pair of squeezing hands. His voice wavered. "Will I ever get to see you guys again?"

        She smiled, then leaned in to nuzzle him. "Oh Spike, nothing could ever separate us. Nothing. You're still my precious little Spikey Wikey, after all."

        "Brrrrr..." Spike shuddered. "Thank goodness you don't call me that in the court."

        "Hmmmm..." She smiled, stifling a chuckle. "No, I suppose that would not go over well with the judge."

        His lips curved for the briefest of moments, but all too quickly he cleared his throat and said, "I don't... uhhh... suppose that..."

        "What, Spike?"

        He kicked at the floor with one foot and fiddled with his tail. "That they m-might let me see Twilight again?"

        Rarity sighed defeatedly. "I'm afraid not during deliberation, Spike."

        "Yeah..." He winced and glanced towards the far end of the cell. "I sort of figured..." He gulped. "You can't hang out here forever yourself, now can you?"

        "As much as I would like to, Spike, I'm afraid they will have to separate us sooner than later."

        "So, what, then?" He blinked at her. "I'm gonna be all on my lonesome when the jury makes a decision?"

        "Oh, I'll likely get to visit you again before that."

        "Really?" He leaned forward. "You think it's gonna take them that long?"

        Rarity smirked proudly. "I would like to think that Legal Eagle and yours truly gave them a most astounding presentation of the facts, wouldn't you say?"

        "Oh, uh... r-right, er... that is..." Spike fidgeted. "I-I wasn't trying to complain about the way you two have represented me and stuff—"

        "Oh Spike..." She ran a hoof along his green spines. "You really must stop second-guessing yourself. I was merely attempting to be good-humored."

        "Ah... right..." He nodded with a shuddering, half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. Eventually, he murmured, "I'm really going to miss all the ways you and the other girls would tease me." He gulped. "I never thought I'd say that, but... it's t-true..."

        The cell was quiet for a while. Eventually, Rarity spoke up.

        "Spike, do you remember what we talked about a few days ago?"

        He glanced up at her with soft, green eyes.

        With a serious expression, she pulled out a series of sheets from her envelope along with a pen. She rested them in a neat pile on the corner of his cot.

        He glanced between the stationary and her. Sighing, he muttered, "Really, Rarity? This again?"

        "Spike..."

        "We've been through this. I'm not about to stoop to begging or any of that junk."

        "This has nothing to do with begging, Spike."

        "Doesn't it, though?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "As far as the court's concerned, either I'm a terrible monster, or I'm a huge baby. I don't want to act like either! I didn't do anything to this town or any of my pony friends! I know this! So why should I do something desperate about it?!"

        "This has nothing to do with desperation," Rarity said. She pointed at the letters. "It is simply the smart thing to do, Spike. As hard as Eagle and I have worked to defend you, the case may still fall into hooves far mightier than ours."

        He bit his lip and said, "But I thought you said that it wouldn't change the verdict at all."

        "No, but it most certainly wouldn't hurt, Spike," Rarity said softly, gazing at him with a sincere expression. "And, who knows? Maybe you'll find that you simply need to express your feelings."

        "What feelings?" he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "I know when my luck's run out. If the jury finds me guilty, I've got nothing."

        "You have your words, Spike," Rarity said. "And I think they deserve to be shared just as much as you deserve justice."

        He said nothing, even as she drifted over to rest a hoof on his shoulder one last time.

        "If not for yourself, then do it for me, Spike," she remarked. "And for Twilight... and for your friends. We want you to stay with us just as much as you do."

        He slowly, limply nodded.

        "What do you say...?"

        Eventually, he looked up. He said, "I think... uh... I think I n-need to be alone for a bit."

        Rarity reflected his expression with gentle blue eyes. She agreed with a nod. "Very well. Are you certain you don't wish me to stay with you a little longer?"

        "It's okay, Rarity." He patted her hoof and gave a grateful smile. "Go. Go see Sweetie Belle. I know you've been missing out on a ton of chances to be with her lately and, well, who am I to keep you?"

        She opened her mouth to protest, but lingered. Ultimately, she gave him a soft smile. "Alright, then." She made to leave, but a tiny purple weight tugged on her.

        "Whatever happens, Rarity," he said, his voice softer than falling snow. "I want you to know that I'm thankful. And..." He hissed through clenched teeth and stammered, "And I... I-I..."

        She silenced him with a tender-hearted nuzzle, whispering, "I know, Spike." Her eyelashes fluttered, enchanting the otherwise melancholic moment. "You don't have to tell me twice." She gestured one last time towards the corner of the bed. "Prove it. Give the letter a try."

        And like that, they parted ways. Rarity called the guard, and the answering stallion broke the silence with the rattling noise of the opening and shutting jail door. Soon, Spike was alone in the cell, with only a bundle of blank sheets to keep him company. He waddled back and forth, pacing across the lengths of the cell, pretending with all his might to be ignoring the papers.

        He failed.

        Soon enough, with a defeated groan, he shuffled over to the mattress, plopped down, and placed the first of several sheets before him. It wasn't until he held the pen in his clawed grip that he felt the coldness of the room settle through to his bones. Each breath was more painful than the one previous, and it welled moisture in the corners of his eyes. In a blink, Spike thought of Twilight, and he forced his gaze dry.

        Clearing his throat, he stroked the pen across the paper, and began writing.



        Dear Princess Celestia,

        I've been putting this off for a long time. Just what is this, anyway? Well, it's a letter, of course. But I'm not sure it's the kind of letter that Rarity, Twilight, and the others want me to write. Everypony has been begging that I write you, and I guess I can kind of understand why. It's not just because you're the Princess of Equestria, but because we have a nifty past together. I never thought much about it, but it was actually pretty cool to hang out with you as much as I did. I don't think I ever really realized how amazing that was until I started living far away from Canterlot along with Twilight, and everypony around here gasped in delight and bowed low whenever you showed up. You're a pretty big deal here in Ponyville, your Highness. I mean, of course you are. You're the Princess.

        So yeah, anyway, you probably heard about what happened in Ponyville. Heck, I'm guessing all of Equestria has heard by now. I don't think it ever stops freaking me out: to think that so many ponies are angry at me or are afraid of me. All of my life, I only ever wanted to do nice things for ponies. I've seen crazy things happen—bad and frightening things—but not once did I think that I would be placed into the center of it all. I mean, sure, I've done some pretty stupid things in my life, stuff that I've truly been guilty of, like messing up things in the library or eating too much ice cream or trying to make it look like Owlicious ate a mouse when he really didn't. But this? I never expected this, and it really stinks, cuz I totally didn't do any of the things ponies are accusing me of, and it hurts me every time to think about it. I haven't told Rarity or Twilight, but it keeps me up at night. But I guess anypony could have guessed that.

        Rarity pretty much wants me to make a plea with you. She explained all of the super technical stuff about it, and I only got bits and pieces. But, from what I understand, if the Ponyville jury finds me guilty, nothing can change the decision they've made. But, I guess there's some sort of "appeals" process that can go all the way to the Court of Canterlot, and even all the way to you. So, like, if I write to you about my situation ahead of time, you and your royal authority might be able to make it so that my verdict doesn't exactly get me banished from Ponyville. And that sounds kind of cool, actually. If most of the ponies in town don't like me, I guess I could live with that, so long as I get to hang out with my friends or whatever.

        You're probably wondering why I haven't written to you sooner. No doubt Twilight has told you tons about what's going on. I'm glad that nopony has forced me to write you, though Rarity almost did just now. I can't blame her, really. The jury's deciding my future and stuff after all.

        It's hard to explain, Your Highness, but even if you could help me, I don't don't think it would change things. Does that make sense at all to you? It really doesn't make sense to me. I've been spending so many nights in this jail cell, that I might as well be as guilty as everypony thinks I am. Yeah, I know, they call it "detention," but it's pretty much a prison. It looks like a jail cell, it smells like a jail cell, it feels like a jail cell; it's jail.

        Anyways, so what if things go the way Rarity, Legal Eagle and I hope? Yeah, that'd be cool. I'd do anything to be free from this place, from feeling like I'm some monster that has to be locked up. But will all of the bad stuff really go away?

        I just feel so... so ugly. Well, no, I guess that's not the way to put it. Rarity told me that I have words to share, but I only have one: "ugly." Ugly, ugly, ugly—this whole thing is ugly. And even if I come out of all this as "not guilty," I really don't think I'll ever be able to wash all the ugliness off.

        So, you see, I don't feel like I can ask anything from you, Your Highness. I don't want to change who and what these ponies are, even if just to change what they think of me. Something terrible happened to them, to the whole village, and I really wanna know what caused it, but I can't because everyone is too busy pointing their hooves in my direction. In a way, I kind of feel like it's my fault that the real cause for the bad stuff in Ponyville hasn't been discovered. If I wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time, then maybe something good could have been done about it. Instead, I'm here in this jail cell, all of Ponyville is buzzing about me, and everything is just so... ugly.

        I'm so glad for what Rarity has done for me. Could you let her know that yourself when you get the chance, Your Highness? I know that's a strange request, even a selfish one, but there are times when I think she doesn't believe me, or believe the way I feel about things.

        She says that I'm not alone, and that I'll never be alone. But that's not true, is it? I never thought about it much before, but it's on my mind all the time now. I am alone. I've always been alone.

        Twilight's taken care of me, sure. I know that her friends have been there to support me as well. You yourself have graced me with your awesomeness. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm alone, that I'm still just a dragon, and that in the end—when everything is measured up against everything—I'm a monster, or at least a monster in the making.

        And, really, Your Highness, who's to know? I've heard the stuff that the prosecution has said. I've heard the words spoken when witnesses were examined and cross-examined and... and I'm starting to wonder.

        What if I am guilty? What if I'm guilty and I just don't know it?

        It's so hard to think clearly about it anymore. My memory is so cloudy and full of all the crazy junk that's gone on in court and all the ugliness of it all. Maybe Rarity is right about one thing, though. Maybe writing to you about it—or just writing—can help me figure it all out, in a way that neither the lawyers or the jury or the judge can figure it all out.

        As far as I can recall, everything started about four months ago, with the mother of all headaches...

































        "Unnnghh..." Spike groaned, his clenched eyes stirring as he clawed at the corners of his tiny bed inside Twilight's upstairs room. "Mmmf... guh..."

        His lids opened, revealing two bleary eyeslits.

        "Please tell me this is from all the sapphire pizza that I ate last night," he muttered, reaching a hand up to his skull. The purple scales were burning hot. What's more, the green spines were positively scorching. A hiss of steam emanated from where his claws made contact. "Owch!" He winced, curling even tighter into a fetal position. "Ohhhh... don't tell me I've got a fever too..."

        Rolling over, he tried sleeping it off. However, slumber would not come. His nostrils kept flaring, and he resisted the terrible urge to sneeze. As the weariness cleared from his throbbing head, he became aware of a sulfuric smell about the place.

        Tilting his head up, he glanced at the edges of his bed. The wicker framework was charred black. As a matter of fact, burn marks stained the wooden floor of Twilight's bedroom immediately surrounding him.

        "Huh...?"

        He sniffed... then sniffed again. As the bedroom around him came into focus, it immediately lost that focus, for there was smoke clouding about the ceiling. In a blink or two, Spike caught the undeniable sight of Twilight's rug burning in a wild blaze.

        "Whoah!" He jumped—only to slam backwards into the hoofrest of Twilight's bed. He winced, his world turning bright from the terrible migraine that was aggrivated by the headbump. "Unghh—Ah jeez!" He stood up and waddled numbly towards the flickering fire. "Uhhh... Uhhh..." He danced left and right from one foot to another, biting on his claws. Shivering, he called towards the far end of the treehouse. "Twilight?! Uhhh... Twiliiiiight?! We've got a little problem up heeeeere!"

        With a burst of orange heat, the fire consumed the other half of the rug.

        "Ack! More like a b-big problem!" Spike stammered.

        He spun around, looking for something—anything—that could put out the blaze. He spotted a vase of flowers. Picking it up, he spun and shook the glass basin at the burning rug. An array of plastic stems with dry styrofoam roots clattered innocuously across the floor.

        "Darn it!" he squeaked.

        Tossing the vase aside, Spike spotted a thick duvet lying over the back of a reading chair. Grabbing it, he flung the thick length of the fabric over the blaze, then proceeded to stomp all over the top of it, starving the flames underneath. Soon, a stream of smoke squeezed out the edge of the duvet, and dissolved into a brown haze.

        Spike panted and panted, wiping the sweat off his feverish brow. Hesitantly, he peeled the duvet up by its edges, wincing at the sight that graced him beneath.

        The rug was burned through and through. Upon closer examination, Spike spotted a fine, powdery ash. When he ran his clawed fingers through the sifting sediment, he couldn't help but marvel at its unique color.

        "It's... it's green," he muttered to himself. "Is this...?" He gulped. "Could it...?"

        Another wave of smoke struck his nostrils. He stared blankly at the rug; it wasn't burning. After a few moments of blank thought, he jumped straight up with a gasp.

        "There's another fire!"

        Like a purple blur, he dashed downstairs.

        Almost tripping a few times, Spike paused to shout, "Twilight! Twilight, where are you?! There's a fire!" At last, he stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, freezing in his tracks. "Ahhh—jee-jee—jee!"

        An emormous bookcase had been knocked over completely in the center of the library's main reading room. Not only were the contents of the shelves spilled out all over the floor, but—

        "The books!" Spike gasped, dashing immediately into action.

        A thick cloud of smoke threatened to choke him as he flew towards the edge of the burning pile of tomes. He pulled out as many as he could, but flinched as he found the fire spreading immediately before him. Looking all around, he saw a mop and a bucket lying in the center of the room. In a blink, he had tossed the mop loose and was running to the nearest bathroom with the bucket. He filled the container up faster than he had filled any basin in his life, and by the time he returned, the fire had almost spread to the drapes lining a nearby window.

        "Come on... Come on..." He held his breath as he gave the water a good toss. Half of the blazes were stuffed out, and the rest he gave a good stomping with his thick-scaled dragon's feet. "Nnngh! Ghhh! Out! Out! Out!" He slumped down once the fire was reduced to a smoldering bed of ashes. "Yeesh... what in the... I mean how in the...?"

        Spike froze in place. His nostrils flared once more, for he was yet again smelling smoke, and it was far more pungent than ever this time.

        "Huh?" He looked around, hugging the pale to his scaled chest. "It isn't from inside. What gives?"

        The smell intensified, but this time it was not alone. Something pierced the walls of the place, making the windows rattle within their panes. It was a sound of some sort: reverberating, piercing. Spike looked outside, but all he could see was a heavy mist wafting over the streets of Ponyville. Nervously, he waddled towards the door, surprised to see the entrance hanging slightly ajar on its hinges.

        He brought a clawed hand to the knob, but suddenly paused. A trio of deep gashes had been carved into the wooden finish of the door. His mouth hung open, but he had no words to label the awkward sight. Leaning forward, he gripped the door, and swung the squeaky thing open.

        His face was immediately bathed in heat. Thunderous crackling lit his ear, punctuated by errant screams and a dozen voices shouting for help, water, and rescue. Then, there was the ringing noise of his very own bucket falling down beside his feet.

        "Holy guacamole..." Spike murmured, his eyeslits shrinking as they reflected a veritable horizon of dancing green flame. "How in the heck...?!"

        A trio of stallions charged past him, all heaving a giant trough of splashing water. Their eyes were wide with panic and their coats were covered in soot. Gazing after them, Spike saw a pair of ponies trotting in the opposite direction with a gurney stretched between them. Atop the stretcher was a whimpering mare who was busy clutching her blood-red elbow in agony.

        Spike covered his mouth with a clawed hand, trying to hold in his lunch. He heard a loud voice shouting towards the north, and his heart raced.

        "M-Miss Cheerilee!" he exclaimed.

        Spike dashed immediately out of the treehouse—but he skidded in his tracks, spun about, and ran back to pick up his pail. Once more, he charged into the madness. Trees were smoldering left and right. The Equestrian Flag flew loosely by, its billowing edges spitting ash and tatters. Waves of smoke dipped low, parting ways to reveal thick droves of stallions and mares gathered at building fronts, dousing the windows with hoses of gushing water.

        Spike gritted his teeth. He didn't know where to go first; Cheerilee's shouts rang in his ears, and he ultimately zig-zagged in random directions, utterly choked by the bedlam on all sides.

        Just then, a wailing sob sounded off from his right. Spike spun his head to look, gasping aloud as he stopped in his tracks. The second story of Sugarcube Corner was ablaze. The burning wooden effigy of an enormous cupcake fell with a sparkling crash. Just a few inches away, miraculously untouched by the falling debris, was Pumpkin Cake. She sat in the grass alone, covered in soot, and lost in hysterics.

        "Pumpkin!" Spike dashed over. "Oh jeez! What are you doing out here—?"

        "D-darling, it's okay!" sputtered a familiar voice. Spike saw Mrs. Cake hobbling over with a terrible limp. Her left rear leg was bleeding terribly, but that didn't stop her from picking Pumpkin up in one swoop. "Mommy's here! Oh, I searched everywhere for you, my baby girl!" She nuzzled the foal dearly as tears sprang from her eyes.

        "Oh good! You're in one piece!" Spike closed the distance and stood before her, panting. "Mrs. Cake, have you seen Twilight? There were two fires in the library when I woke up, and I just heard Cheerilee shouting and—a-and I don't know what's going on!"

        Mrs. Cake took one look at Spike, and her eyes exploded like she had seen a ghost. Hissing through clenched teeth, she held her sobbing infant close and bounded away as swiftly as two and a half limbs could afford her.

        "Whoah! Hey!" Spike reached out for her. "I didn't mean to spook you! Please, I wanna help!" He made to chase after her, but he heard Cheerilee's voice again. This time, her shouts were joined with several others. Grimacing, Spike forced himself to turn away from Mrs. Cake and ran in the direction of the yelling.

        Spike passed by several families who were huddled together, sobbing as they embraced along the fringes of burnt-out buildings. A wave of ash flew into Spike's face. He coughed and wheezed, waving his bucket in front of him like a clumsy, metal fan.

        "Unngh... What...?" He sniffed, making a face. "More sulfur? What happened here—?"

        "More water, everypony!" Cheerilee's frantic voice could be heard shouting. Gazing through the billowing smoke, Spike finally saw her standing before the Town Hall, directing local equines back and forth as they rushed to dip shallow pails into the village's fountain, collecting more and more water to toss at the flames. A group of young, shivering foals huddled between the schoolteacher and the fountain. "Stay where you are, children!" she exclaimed. "Away from the flames! Keep your heads low! Take short breaths! I promise, I'll get you back to your parents!" Cheerilee turned and shouted once more to the galloping mares and stallions. "Faster! We can't let this spread any further!"

        Spike ran towards her, but tripped on something. "Ummf!" He fell flat on his belly. Looking down, he saw that his foot was caught in a thin gash in the soil. What was more, several more gashes stretched out across the ash-littered courtyard, like scratch marks. "What is... Nnnngh—Not now!" He stumbled up to his two feet and ran towards Cheerilee. "Hey! Hey, Ms. Cheerilee!"

        "Someone shout out if you see the Mayor!" Cheerilee continued to yell, her mane a mess and her coat ruined in several places by first-degree burns. Despite her pain, she maintained strict control of the hectic situation. "She'll know what building we should save next! Just focus on the Town Hall for now—!"

        "Cheerilee! Hey!" Spike practically jumped in front of her, waving his stubby arms. "Have you seen Twilight?! If anypony can fix this in a jiffy, I bet she can!"

        Cheerilee glanced past Spike—then did a double-take. She stumbled back from him, her face full of horror, her jaw dropped.

        Spike gazed blankly at her. "Cheerilee? What's the matter—?"

        Several loud clangs and splashes echoed from behind him. Spike pivoted around. Three ponies had dropped their buckets, gawking fearfully at the young dragon.

        He squinted. "It... What...?"

        "M-Miss Cheerilee!" one of the foals stammered. She pointed a trembling hoof and began to cry. All of the huddled foals were breaking into traumatic sobs. "It's him! It's the one!"

        "I... I don't get it. What's 'the one?;" Spike turned to Cheerilee, but she was gone. He detected a ruby blur in his peripheral vision. Spinning around, he saw the schoolteacher dashing over to stand protectively in front of the sobbing cluster of children.

        She gulped and held a trembling hoof out towards him. "D-don't come any closer, Spike."

        "Cheerilee...?"

        "Please, just... j-just keep your distance," Cheerilee quivered to say. She swallowed deeply and squeaked, "Let's just wait f-for Twilight to get here. She'll fix you."

        Spike's eyes narrowed. "Fix me?"

        "Stay calm..."

        "Cheerilee, I can totally help you—" He took one step forward.

        Three foals shrieked at once. Cheerilee bore an instant frown as she shouted, "Back!"

        The little whelp hopped away from her, hugging his bucket so hard it crumpled down the middle. "Ch-Cheerilee?" Spike's teeth chattered. "I... I-I don't get it! Wh-what's wrong?"

        "Ms. Cheerilee!" Nurse Redheart's voice exclaimed. Spike turned to see her marching up with another paramedic, carrying a shivering, soot-stained body on a stretcher. "We're forming triage inside the bowling alley. It's the only side of the village that hasn't caught fire. If you see the Mayor, tell her that we should send the injured to the west side!"

        "Nurse Redheart, please go there as quickly as you can," Cheerilee said in a steady tone.

        "Huh?" Redheart blinked.

        Cheerilee's eyes silently swam in Spike's direction.

        Redheart followed them. She inhaled sharply, and her already alabaster coat paled even more. A tremble shook through her, jarring the patient on the stretcher.

        "Unnngh..." Wincing in pain, Roseluck turned over. Half of her face was charred black with burns. As soon as she saw Spike, her eyes widened, and her pained wails turned into shrieks of pure terror. "No! No! Not him! Get him away!"

        "Calm down," the other paramedic insisted. "You must stay—"

        "Get him out of here!" Roseluck shrieked, tears pouring into her wounded scabs as she thrashed on the stretcher, kicking her hooves at the air between the ponies and the speechless dragon. "I don't want to be anywhere near him! My home is gone! My skin—Unnnngh—Celestiaaa it hurtssss!"

        "Redheart—!" Cheerilee blurted.

        The two paramedics swiftly rushed the agonized mare away from the scene. Spike could barely see them at this point, for he had dropped the bucket and was feverishly scooting backwards from everypony. He bumped into a slab of granite. Looking up, he saw the statue of Princess Celestia, only the face had been obscured by a series of deep scratches. As a matter of fact, the entire effigy of the regal alicorn was marred with claw marks from mane to tail. And it wasn't just the statue, for Spike's eyes swam along a swath of destruction to see several small, deep gashes carved into the wood, soil, granite, and even the rooftops of the place. A low, whimpering voice poured out of him, and he spun one last time—only to be engulfed in the color of lavender.

        "Spike!" Twilight gasped, her mane disheveled as she levitated three enormous bathtubs of water all around her. Catching her breath, she gulped and said, "What's the matter?"

        His lips quivered. Without thinking, he plunged forward and hugged her close. His trembles shook into her, making the unicorn wobble on her hooves.

        "Oh Tw-Twilight..." Spike stifled a sob, his eyes clenched shut to hide the devastation. They failed. "I don't kn-know..."

        Twilight glanced at him, then at the line of ponies gazing in absolute silence at her trusted apprentice. With careful concentration, she lowered the three basins of water carefully to the ground and knelt down to grasp his shoulders. Forcing him to look up at her, she said, "Spike, what's happening around here?"

        "I... I-I woke up to a fire upstairs in the library," he stammered. He tried pointing home, but he couldn't tell north from south anymore; there was too much smoke and madness. "And I came out here, and everything was on fire out here too. And Mrs. Cake ran away from me, and Roseluck... sh-she's hurt... she's hurt bad... and... and..."

        "Spike, I need you to calm down," Twilight said, glancing fitfully between the blazing fires that needed to be put out and the panic-stricken dragon that needed to be consoled. "What do you mean Mrs. Cake ran from you—?"

        "Twilight! For crying out loud!" A blue blur settled in place overhead. Rainbow Dash's flapping wings momentarily cooled them as she frowned and grumbled, "What are you sitting around here for?! The Town Hall is the one thing that's spreading the blaze from the south end of town to the north! You need to put it out as soon as possible! On top of that, my team and I need more water for putting out the post office! You should be grabbing gallons from the lake for us by now!"

        "Rainbow, I..." Twilight winced as she held Spike close and looked up from the confusing scene. "Something's going on here—"

        "Spike? Is that you?!" Rainbow squinted down at him, then brightened. "Perfect! Listen you gotta send a letter to the Princess, pronto! We've got a huge situation here—"

        "No!" shouted a hysterical voice from the sidelines. Everypony—including Cheerilee's group—turned to see Mrs. Cake and her family standing to the side of a building beset with deep gashes and scorch marks. The mare hugged Pumpkin to her neck with one arm and pointed a furious hoof at Spike with the other. "Don't let him spit up one more breath of fire!"

        Like clockwork, several glaring ponies gathered beside her and shouted angrily into the air: "Yeah!" "Clamp his jaws shut!" "Take the dragon away!" "Enough is enough!"

        "Excuse me?!" Rainbow's voice cracked, her face frowning from where she hovered overhead. "Look, now's not the time for... wh-whatever this is! Don't you see that we've got a buckton of fires to put out?!"

        "No, don't you see?!" a stallion grunted as he marched within spitting distance of Twilight and pointed at the whelp in her arms. "We've got the problem right there!"

        Spike trembled, his eyes watering. Twilight hugged him and spun her shoulder protectively towards the rambunctious crowd. "What in Starswirl's name has gotten into you, everypony?!" She barked over the raging fires, frowning. "We're a team here!"

        "Some of us, certainly!" Mrs. Cake choked on a sob as she hugged her infant even tighter. Mr. Cake leaned in to nuzzle her as she breathily said, "At least those of us who aren't trying to roast the others to a crisp!"

        "Wh-what?!" Twilight gasped, her jaw hanging open wide. "That... th-that..." She blinked heavily. "What are you even trying to say?!"

        "I'm here, everypony!" the Mayor's voice called out from beyond the nearby alleyway. "Where is he?! I've got Ponyville's finest right here!"

        Mr. Cake spun and shouted to the air, "Just this way, officers!"

        Several more ponies shouted and pointed in Spike's direction.

        Twilight's gaze flashed numbly around. A thick wall of villagers marched forward, their angry frowns darker than the smoke billowing overhead. Spike clung to his mentor, trembling as the shadows of furious equines closed in from all around.

        In the meantime, Rainbow Dash wached the scene from up high. She hovered in a circle, her eyes sweeping across the sights of Ponyville, leaping from the green fires to the greener ash to the thin gashes in the buildings to the sobbing huddle of foals squatting directly behind Cheerilee. Just then, her face paled. In a sapphiric blur, Rainbow darted down and yanked Spike out from beneath Twilight's hooves.

        "What—?!" Twilight did a double-take. "Rainbow, what are you doing?!"

        "What do you think?!" With the whelp in her grasp, she, barreled about and rocketed over the flames, making for the far edges of Ponyville and beyond. "Hang tight, Spike! I'm getting you the hay out of here!"

        "But... b-but..." Spike reached down helplessly as the wind muted his stammering voice. "Twilight!"

        Her lavender shape was but a trembling drop in a great well of churning, stampeding bodies. Dozens upon hundreds of ponies shouted and shook their hooves furiously in the air. The unmistakable shapes of uniformed police stallions threaded through the thick mob, blowing shrilly on their whistles. Soon, everything was covered in a fine dark mist, billowing out from randomly scattered plumes of bright flame, all burning with a bright emerald.

        "Leaping lizards..." Spike exhaled bitterly, his eyes quivering as he hung from Rainbow's speedy grasp. "Ponyville... It's... It's..."

        "Yeah. Pretty much screwed, like everything else is today," Rainbow grunted. "But never you mind! I'm getting you the heck out of dodge!"

        Spike's mouth hung open. He blinked... then blinked again. A deep, bitter chill ran through his body. When the trembling reached his mouth, it flung the next few words out. "No, Rainbow..."

        She cast him a strange look in mid-flight. "Huh?!"

        "You gotta put me down..."

        "My flank, I do!" She frowned and shot forward even faster, blazing past the treetops below. "I need to take you far away from here until the craziness boils over—"

        "No, you need to put out those fires!" Spike shouted back in the windy altitude. "The ponies are depending on the likes of you to save the whole town!"

        "Not until I have you safe—"

        "Safe from what?" Spike twisted in her grip and yanked at her mane. "Rainbow! Come on! Put me down!"

        "Gaaah! Ow ow ow ow ow!" Rainbow hissed and winced from his clawed grip. "Unngh! Cut it out, will ya?! Oh for Pete's sake..." In a sudden nose-dive, Rainbow flung the two of them earthward. She slowed their descent just meters before slamming into the ground, ultimately perching at the very edge of Everfree Forest, far from the smell of the town's acrid smoke. "Spike, get a clue! You're totally in danger and crap!"

        "I'm in danger?!" Spike barked. Wriggling free of her grasp, he turned and pointed towards the burning rooftops in the distance. "Rainbow, all of my friends back there are hurting! I wanna help them!"

        "Yeah, well, too bad!" Rainbow sprouted her wings for emphasis as she grunted, "Cuz it looks to me like they wanna wring your neck!"

        "But that doesn't change the fact that I still care for them!" Spike exclaimed, clasping his hands together before the pegasus. "Rainbow, please. Fly us back and put out those fires, pronto! I'll stay out of everypony's way, I promise!"

        "Spike—Nghhh..." She face-hoofed and groaned. "I can't believe we're arguing about this. Spike, let's be real—"

        Just then, the air crackled as Twilight materialized in between them from a long-ranged teleport. They jumped back as she wobbled with momentary dizziness, shook her head, then spun to face them with a gasp. "Spike!" She frowned at Rainbow Dash. "Rainbow, what's going on?!"

        "You tell me!" Rainbow's voice cracked as she pointed at the whelp. "Your apprentice here is begging to go back to town!"

        "Look, Rainbow," Spike said, "I'm glad you saved me from that mob back there—"

        "It wasn't a mob!" Twilight exclaimed.

        "Uhhh... Equestria to Twilight!" Rainbow stared her down. "It was totally a mob!"

        "They were just confused!" Twilight said, though she was evidently hyperventilating. She tried to hide her anxiety by shouting, "Those fires came from nowhere and lots of ponies are hurt! They're panicking!"

        "Twilight, it was a mob and they wanted Spike!" Rainbow said, frowning. "And I think we all know why!"

        "But... But..." Twilight hissed through her teeth. Wincing, she brought a hoof over her brow and tried taking deep, deep breaths. "Okay. Okay... let's just look at this from a realistic point of view..."

        "Twilight, there's no time for that!" Rainbow's voice cracked. "Who's to know they haven't sent a whole bunch of police officers to come get him?!"

        "The p-police?!" Spike jumped.

        "Yes, Spike, the pony po-po!" Rainbow grunted. "Or did you not even think to consider them when you asked to be taken back to that snake pit?!"

        Spike gazed down at his clawed hands. He blinked, and in that blink he saw several buildings with tiny gashes carved into them. "Twilight..." he murmured.

        "I can meet with the Mayor," Twilight thought out loud. "I'll try to talk some sense into her..."

        "T-talk some sense?!" Rainbow balked as she hovered before her. "Do you even hear yourself?! You saw how nutso she had gone! Just like everypony else!"

        "Still..." Twilight gulped. "After all the stuff we've done for Ponyville—after all the things Spike has done to save the day when worst came to worst—you'd think she would listen to reason and—"

        "Twilight?" Spike sniffled, his eyes beginning to water. "What... wh-what if what happened to me on my l-last birthday is happening again?"

        Twilight looked at him. Her eyes softened. "Oh Spike, that's... th-that's impossible! I mean—"

        Rainbow's head tilted into Spike's view. "You haven't been hoarding any stuff lately, have you?"

        "Rainbow!" Twilight protested.

        "No! I haven't!" Spike fought tears as he crossed his heart. "Honest!"

        "It has to be something else!" Twilight exclaimed.

        "Like what?!" Rainbow shrugged from where she hovered. "If we have no clue, then what's the hope of convincing the townsfolk that nothing's screwy?!"

        "What if it is me?!" Spike whimpered. "What... what if this is some dragon thing that none of us even know about?!"

        "Oh Spike..." Twilight smiled painfully as she shook her head. "Even if you did lose control, you're so small and your lungs can only hold so much flame and—"

        "Twilight! Rainbow!" A voice chirped from above. A yellow figure flew into view. "Oh, will you please, please help me? The Mayor has asked me to—" Fluttershy stopped in midair, her eyes wide as she covered a gasping mouth. "Mmm! Sp-Spike!"

        Twilight and Rainbow followed the path of Fluttershy's quivering gaze. "It's okay, Fluttershy," Twilight said. "We brought Spike here because the ponies in town were acting really scary and—"

        "How... h-how did he...?" Fluttershy pointed a trembling hoof at Spike as she descended limply towards the forest floor. "Wh-where did he...?"

        "Calm down, Fluttershy!" Rainbow Dash exclaimed, gripping the pegasus' shoulders. "It's totally cool! Spike wouldn't hurt a fly! You know this!"

        "But... b-but..." Fluttershy stammered, her face twitching.

        "Fluttershy...?" Twilight leaned forward. "You were about to tell us something... about the Mayor..."

        Fluttershy gulped, not once taking her eyes off Spike as she said, "The Mayor had asked all p-pegasi who aren't fast enough to stop the fires to g-go looking for injured ponies. But not me."

        "What do you mean?" Rainbow Dash asked.

        "She told me personally to g-go looking for Spike, because as Ponyville's animal t-tamer I... I might be... erm..." She gulped. "I might be able to 'calm the beast down,' she said..."

        "'Calm... the beast?'" Twilight asked.

        "This is sooooo nuts!" Rainbow grunted, tossing her forelimbs. "What's gotten into everypony?! Why do they want Spike's head on a platter?!"

        "Mmmmm..." Fluttershy's cheeks went red as she hid her face behind a lock of pink mane.

        "Fluttershy...?" Twilight murmured.

        "Fluttershy, what is it?" Spike waddled forward a few steps. "Why are you... so fr-freaked out by me?"

        "Because..." Fluttershy's eyes watered as she fought rising sobs. "B-because I s-saw you, Spike. I saw you running around... breathing f-fire on the housetops. I saw it with my own eyes." She sniffed and hid her face in her forelimbs. "I d-didn't tell anypony, b-because I didn't want to believe it. Oh, Spike, please... pl-please tell me you d-didn't mean to do those horrible things. Please tell me it was just some magic spell or something that caused you to do it..."

        Spike's jaw dropped. He gazed helplessly at Twilight and Rainbow.

        Twilight had trotted over to Fluttershy's side. "Fluttershy, could... c-could this somehow have been your imagination or—?"

        Fluttershy merely flung herself into Twilight's forelimbs, forcing the unicorn to embrace her hysterically sobbing form. Biting her lip, Twilight gazed at the others.

        Rainbow was grimacing. "Okay... Okay, look... we just... uh... we just got to do what I was doing. We gotta take him someplace safe until this all settles and—"

        "No..."

        The ponies looked at Spike.

        His eyes were watering like Fluttershy's, but even then he stood tall and proud. "I don't care what Fluttershy saw. I don't care what Mrs. Cake or Roseluck or all the other upset ponies of Ponyville thought they saw." He gazed emphatically at his dear friends. "I didn't burn all of those houses down! And if for some crazy reason I did, I totally don't remember it."

        "You're saying..." Rainbow's eyes squinted. "...that this was some sort of spell or crud?"

        "I'm saying that I need to go back. I can't... I-I can't run from this, you guys!" Spike exclaimed, gesturing for emphasis. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do. Believe me. But the last thing I need to do is ditch the ponies I care for when so much bad has happened."

        "Spike..." Twilight patted Fluttershy's sobbing form as she gazed softly at him. "If you go back, you'll be facing more than angry ponies—"

        "They'll beat him to a purple pulp!" Rainbow said.

        Twilight merely frowned at her, then looked back at Spike. "They'll throw you in jail, Spike. You're likely prime suspect for all of the fires and hurt ponies and—"

        "Twilight, don't you wanna find out who really caused this?"

        Twilight bit her lip. She and Rainbow Dash nervously exchanged glances.

        Spike took a deep breath. Frowning, he bravely said, "Well, I totally do. And the more I cooperate, the more likely we are to find out what the truth is!"

        "Spike..." Rainbow protested one last time. "Think about this. Think hard. This isn't going to solve anything!"

        He exhaled heavily and said, "It'll solve more than if I ran away from it all."
        





























        The rotating fan hummed above the detention cell as Spike sat on the edge of his cot, continuing to write on the sheets that Rarity had left for him. Every now and then, he would pause, tapping the pen against his chin as he gazed off in thoughtful silence.

        Then, with a sigh, he scribbled further down the page, pouring his memories and feelings out one line at a time. In somber silence, he waited out the hours that it took for his verdict to be deliberated...



        There's a part of me that wishes I didn't make that super crazy decision to go back into town. I'm kind of ashamed to say that I really wanted to do what Rainbow Dash was suggesting. I wanted to run away, to leave all of that scariness behind, to distance myself from those burning buildings and hurt ponies. But I couldn't do that, your Highness. I just love Ponyville too much, and if there's anything I've learned from writing so many of Twilight's letters on friendship to you, it's that one must take responsibility for a lot of the things that happen in life.

        The ponies of Ponyville are my friends. The simple thought of possibly being connected to whatever hurt them freaked me out big-time. I felt it was necessary to be with them, solving the mystery of the fires along with everypony.

        Of course, if I knew what I knew now, that there was just so much cr—er... junk stacked up against me, then maybe I would have... I dunno.. gone about it a bit differently. Not that I would have hidden myself away or anything like that, but maybe I wouldn't have pretty much thrown myself at their mercy like some guilt-stricken fugitive.

        After all, though nothing horrible happened per se, I probably should have thought a bit more about... well... about how what I chose to do freaked out those closest to me...


        "Was it absolutely necessary to bind his hands like this?!" Twilight Sparkle angrily shouted. "Somepony, anypony, please explain to me why it was necessary to bind his hands together!"

        Spike sat on a bench in the jail cell of Ponyville's Police Department. He glanced at his purple wrists. Several tight loops of twine had been haphazardly wrapped around them. He knew that it took just a single bite from his fangs or one puff of green smoke from his lungs to undo them, but he did nothing. He merely sat where he was, sighing as his ears throbbed from yet another of Twilight's angry outbursts.

        "He's a baby dragon, for Celestia's sake!" Twilight barked, frowning at the company of uniformed ponies who stood outside the locked jail cell along with her. "This whole thing is nonsense! Even if he had it in him to go feral and attack all of us, he couldn't hurt a fly!"

        "Miss Sparkle, we understand that you're upset," the oldest and highest ranking of several police officers said. A placid expression stretched across his aged face. "But, quite frankly, we couldn't take any risks!" It had been a solid twenty-four hours since the last fire in town had been put out, and even down there in the basement of the police station, a smoky mist hung about the brightly-lit air. "We have over a dozen eyewitnesses claiming that they saw the dragon setting half the buildings in downtown ablaze. You hang out with the little guy all the time. Have you forgotten the large plumes of green smoke he's capable of spitting up?"

        "And have you forgotten that the only reason he's here is because he chose to come back?!" Twilight frowned, pointing into the cell. "Since when does a mindless arsonist return to the scene of the crime?!"

        "Twilight, please..." Spike smiled nervously from inside the cell. "I'm fine. They're only d-doing their job—"

        "No, they're just scared of something they don't understand!" Twilight retorted loudly, making him wince. "That's the real crux of what's going on here! Nopony understands anything!"

        "Miss Sparkle..." The older officer sighed, gesturing gently with his hooves. "Please, calm down. The department isn't completely unreasonable. We brought you down here for the whelp's sake. But if you're going to keep making a scene—"

        "No, you just have me here because you're afraid of him and you think I'm the only one who can hold him at bay!" She gritted her teeth. "Take those ridiculous binds off him now..."

        The officer stared squarely at her. "You know very well that I cannot do that. Just as you're loyal to the Princess with your correspondence, I'm bound to protect and serve the ponies of this town. Right now, we're in an emergency situation, and I can't untie the dragon any more than I would allow myself to unbind a timberwolf or a manticore or an ursa minor in our custody."

        "But... It... He..." Twilight sputtered. With a groan, she trudged through the group of officers and approached a gray figure seated on a stool in the corner of the room. "Ms. Mayor, please, reason with them..." Twilight pointed once more towards the jail cell. "My apprentice shouldn't have to be treated like some common beast!"

        Shifting uncomfortably in her fresh bandages and burn wounds, the Mayor avoided Twilight's gaze and said, "I'm afraid I am not in the position to agree with you, Miss Sparkle."

        Twilight's ears drooped. "What...?"

        The Mayor frowned as she spoke, "I know you care very much for Spike, and though there have been many times when he's served this community with unquestionable loyalty, his record hasn't exactly been spotless."

        "What are you saying?!" Twilight gasped. She blinked a few times, then narrowed her eyes. "Wait, do you mean—?"

        "Not a day has gone by when I haven't thought about the time he grew one hundred times his normal size and went on an unstoppable rampage..."

        "Rampage?!" Twilight squeaked. "He was suffering from a draconian ailment! And if you're going to give me an earful about the damage caused to the town's water tower and the rooftop of Sugarcube Corner, let me remind you that Princess Celestia more than covered for—"

        "This is different, Twilight, and you know it!" the Mayor said. With a somber exhale, she added, "What happened wasn't caused by a behemoth bent on hoarding random objects. Buildings were roasted aflame, royal statues were defaced..." Her eyes narrowed behind her bifocals. "...and ponies were hurt. Ponies were hurt badly."

        Twilight gulped, yet frowned as she said, "We have no direct proof that Spike caused any of that."

        "Don't we?" The Mayor cocked her head to the side. "Dozens of eyewitnesses? Buildings lit up by green flame with claw marks everywhere?"

        "All of that is circumstantial at best!"

        "I'm not about to take that risk," the Mayor said. "I'm sorry, Twilight, but there's too much at stake. Spike is an unpredictable element in this town. I won't feel safe—and I can name at least one hundred citizens who won't feel safe—unless he is forced to live elsewhere."

        Spike glanced up from his cell. His lips quivered.

        Twilight blinked wide. "You... y-you're talking banishment..."

        "I'm talking about what's necessary."

        "No, you're talking about needlessly cruel punishment for a young, helpless, infant whelp!" Twilight practically snarled as she gestured at the cell. "How could you treat him like that?! After all he's done as a loyal Ponyvillean citizen?!"

        "He has to be an equine to count as a citizen, Miss Sparkle."

        Twilight did a double-take. "Oh, you're kidding me! Is this what everything's coming to?"

        "I'm afraid she has a point, Miss Sparkle," the officer said. The unicorn spun to look at him as he said, "The little fella there doesn't exactly fall under standard Equestrian law."

        Twilight's brow furrowed. "Since when?!"

        The officer raised an eyebrow. "Since always. He's a dragon, Miss Sparkle. Surely you were aware of the risks that had to be taken when you brought him here from the spires of Canterlot to begin with."

        "I... I..." Twilight slumped to her haunches and ran a hoof through her bangs, gazing at the floor in silence. "I knew about the parameters, but... but I never thought..." She gulped, then gazed sadly towards the cells. "I never anticipated..."

        Spike hung his gaze in defeat.

        "It was bound to happen sooner or later, Miss Sparkle," the officer said. "A close friend, an apprentice, and even a foster child he may be, but he's still a dragon. And there's a long, sordid history of laws equipped to deal with individuals of draconian nature living amongst ponies, and not one of them grants the rights of citizenship."

        Just then, an elegant voice echoed into the basement chamber. "And yet, a dragon can be found to receive the representation of a pony citizen, if one went far enough to do the research."

        Everypony turned around to see a white unicorn trotting proudly down the steps from the first floor of the station. Accompanied by two officers and an attorney in a fine suit, Rarity tilted her nose up and levitated a scroll towards the center of the room.

        "I have here a letter from Judge Winters of the Ponyville Court. I do believe it specifically pertains to this pressing situation."

        "Rarity!" Twilight gasped, jumping up to her hooves. She seemed shocked to see the unicorn. "What are you doing here?! I mean... with... after what happened to..." She winced, avoiding Rarity's face for some reason

        "What...?" Spike jumped up, pressing himself up to the bars. "Rarity? What's going on?"

        The fashionista casted him a side glance and a refined smile. "Simply delivering a bountiful helping of justice, darling." Clearing her throat, she looked at the stallion in front of her. "Officer, be a good fellow and give that a thorough perusal, if you could..."

        The older pony grasped the scroll in midair. He unrolled it and squinted his eyes, reading down the lines. An officer or two read over his shoulders with blank expressions. After a few seconds, the stallion glanced up at Rarity. "When did Judge Winters sign this?"

        "Just this morning," spoke the attorney beside Rarity. "Miss Rarity held an interview with the judge shortly after she arrived at the courthouse. It appears, after doing some heavy research overnight, she found a relavent clause in the lawbooks on draconian representation that the rest of us missed."

        "Hmmm... How could you be blamed?" The officer nodded. "It'll make for a very rare case." He gestured towards two of his fellow officers. "Okay, boys. Let him out of there."

        "Excuse me?!" The Mayor jumped to her hooves, gasping. "Have you forgotten that we have a potentially dangerous beast in our midst?"

        Rarity tossed her mane in the Mayor's direciton. "Has anyone forgotten to tell you that you still smell like burnt cravette today?"

        The Mayor's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon...?"

        "It so happens that 'this dangerous beast' here was hatched within the walls of Canterlot's Educational District—Princess Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, to be exact—which, in case you have forgotten, falls within the boundaries of Celestia's personal real estate." Rarity motioned towards the jail cell as two officers began unlocking it. "As such, he is officially considered a royal subject, and is not to be treated like a common animal."

        The Mayor frowned. "The Princess' pet phoenix is also a 'royal subject,' but that doesn't change the fact that it's an animal, and a potentially dangerous one at that."

        "True, but Article IV Subsection B of the Equestrian Security Act states that the rights of citizenry can extend to all creatures of 'sentient nature,' which—believe it or not—is something you and Spikey Wikey here both have in common."

        "This is ridiculous! He's a dr-dragon!" The Mayor exclaimed. "Just two days ago, my town was burning and filled with distraught ponies, and you're trying to tell me that—"

        "If you got caught in dragon country, and you were accused of a crime, wouldn't you deserve the full extent of the law?"

        The Mayor took a deep, fuming breath. "It so happens that dragonkind isn't known for having laws..."

        "What a glorious blessing, then, that Spike is living under the boundaries of our system, within which a politician such as yourself has so righteously excelled," Rarity said, smiling smugly in her face.

        The barred doors of the cell slid loudly open. Spike bounded out—only to collapse under the close nuzzle of Twilight. She gave him a tearful smile, but it didn't last long. Two officers marched over and placed their hooves firmly on the whelp's shoulders.

        The older stallion stepped into the thick of the group. He turned to Rarity and the attorney next to her. "You do understand that I will still have to provide an escort at all times."

        "But of course, officer."

        "If I'm to understand the judge's instructions, he will be relocated to a detention cell—"

        "Which, if I've done my research correctly," Rarity spoke as she trotted through the group, "Is considerably less... nnngh... grim than this lowly hovel, though that is not saying much." Clearing her throat, she leaned over and spoke to the small dragon. "You must come along. But, more importantly, Spike, you must abide by all of the instructions provided you by the judge and these kindly officers who are only here to protect you. Do you understand?"

        Spike nodded shakily. He gulped and managed a weak smile. "Jee, thanks a lot, Rarity—"

        "Do not thank me yet," Rarity said as the group proceeded slowly up the steps leading away from the grungy jail cells. "This is but a first step in seeing justice served."

        "But it's still a step!" Twilight exclaimed as she trotted up quickly to keep up with the group. She smiled proudly at Rarity. "It's the only gesture that anypony has bothered to make since this craziness began!"

        "Quite frankly, nopony would have given it a thought," the attorney beside Rarity said. He glanced back with an awkward smirk while trotting. "It took a sharp mind to realize that the Equestrian Security Act had a loophole to get the dragon out of here—"

        "His name is Spike, sir," Rarity said.

        "Yes, of course. My apologies." The attorney cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, that's a sign of sharp legal skills if I ever witnessed them."

        "Rarity...?" Twilight blinked in mid-trot. "Where in all of your days of dress-making did you learn how to skim through the law books?"

        "That's just the thing, Twilight, dear..." Rarity tongued the inside of her mouth as she spoke aloud, "Contrary to popular belief, I did not exactly attend 'Dress-Making 101' in school, since no such learning course truly exists that can make an artist out of the inert mud of one's flagrant youth."

        "Oh?"

        "Haven't you talked to Fluttershy on the topic, dear?" Rarity smiled thinly as they clambered up the stairs. "I attended law school for the better part of my younger years. It was my parents' insistence, after all. You know how pressing one's family can be..."

        "Come to think of it, I do recall you talking a little bit about that!" Twilight exclaimed. She stifled a giggle. "Rarity, I don't care how you feel about your schooling, but you just saved the day!"

        "Only because it took some dashing flare to accomplish, is all," Rarity remarked.

        "So, uh..." Spike stammered as he struggled to step in line with the officers beside him. His bound hands squirmed together. "Since you're such an expert when it comes to the law and stuff, Rarity, do you know what happens next?"

        Rarity took a deep breath. "One thing at a time, Spike. There's still an awful lot to go through with the judge. As discouraging as it is to say, the Mayor isn't the only high ranking pony of these parts who is less than ecstatic about the prospect of taking this case through the courts."

        "You mean like an actual court case?" Twilight remarked. "But, Rarity, this... this would be an unprecedented circumstance!"

        "Huh?" Spike murmured, shaking nervously. "What do you mean?"

        "It means that there's never been a case like this before, Spike," Rarity said, gazing ahead of the group as they reached the first floor of the police station. Dozens of ponies froze to gawk incredulously at the procession. "It will take a certain degree of finesse to execute, especially on the defense's end."

        "There's hardly a soul in Ponyville who isn't gunning to see Spike get banished over what's happened," Twilight said. "Rarity, could we even find a pony willing to represent him?"

        Rarity took a deep breath as they approached the outer doors of the place. The light of day shone brightly on her, and she said, "Actually, come to think of it, I believe we just did..."


        I couldn't believe my luck, your Highness. Not only was I going to get a lawyer, but she was going to be none other than Rarity! I may have been in the pits because of what happened in Ponyville, but that was—like—the best news I could ever receive. I think I actually smiled nonstop for the first two or three days after I was dragged out of that jail. Sure, the detention cell that I was moved to inside the court building wasn't all that much better than the jail, but I guess it was the thought that counted. After all, I was about to be tried like any normal pony citizen.

        Yeesh. It's kind of gross to write it that way: "like any normal pony citizen." All my life, I never put much thought into how different I've been from all of my close friends, at least from a natural standpoint. Living in Canterlot Castle was easy, because ponies there were used to seeing baby dragons. I mean, there's a nursery in the Royal Wing full of eggs just like the one I was hatched from. I always knew that. Twilight never held back the truth about how I was born—at least how much of it she knew.

        Anyways, I grew up around ponies who knew all about me and how I came to be Twilight's assistant. So, like, everything was cool. I guess the fact that I've always been too small or puny to do anything dangerous has been a real big help.

        Then, when Twilight and I moved to Ponyville, things weren't all that different. Well, maybe they were a little bit different. Like Fluttershy, for instance. She gushed all over me the first time we met. And yet, there would still be moments when I'd accidentally sneak up on her and startle her. It was all because she had this fear of dragons. I really couldn't blame her. Ponyville is out in the country, and there are a lot less pegasus guards to ward off dragons when they migrate or go on big hunts.

        Still, Ponyville really wasn't all that different from Canterlot, at least in the way ponies treated me. Every now and then I would hear a couple of mares talking about how scary the Great Dragon Migration was or a stallion or two telling a casual tale of when pony knights would vanquish or slay dragons of olde, but none of that bothered me much. Not really.

        But to think that—all of this time—I haven't legally qualified as an Equestrian citizen? Because of the fact that I'm a dragon? Because I am somehow "beastly" in nature?

        I guess it goes without saying: Rarity's legal loophole came in the nick of time. It spared me from having to be treated like a dangerous dog foaming at the mouth, or some other nasty creature that needed to be put down. More importantly, I think what Rarity did kept me from having to feel the pain and frustration that would come with such treatment. Well, I feel it a little, especially now after how things have gone down. But I've meandered off the beaten path of this story enough as it is.

        So, yeah, Rarity pleaded for my case. From what I was told, the judge took some heavy convincing before she was willing to give me a full trial. A good week and a half passed before Rarity had any new developments to share with me. It boggled my mind just how long the whole process was taking. Weren't enough ponies hurt in this town? Weren't enough buildings burnt and destroyed? Didn't enough bad stuff happen that the public demanded justice? Why wait so long to give me a trial? The sooner we all got it over with, the sooner I could have been proclaimed innocent and then the citizens of Ponyville could have tried to chase down whoever was actually responsible for this mess.

        I started to have some less than pleasant thoughts. What if the ponies didn't want anyone else to be responsible for the fires and injuries suffered? What if they were convinced—beyond the reach of the justice system—that I was the one and only individual who caused all this craziness? Rarity tried explaining to me that, in Equestrian law, a citizen is "innocent" until proven "guilty." I've really wanted to believe that, your Highness. I really have. But as more time went by and the glares doubled and the long-winded hours of waiting tripled, I started to have my doubts. I was the only dragon in the area that anypony knew about. It's only natural that all hooves would be pointed at me. It wasn't so much that I was the smartest choice; I was simply the easiest choice.

        Well, Rarity certainly wasn't about to make it easy for them. I have always admired her in... my own ways, but I had no idea just how awesome she was until that week immediately following what happened in Ponyville. Rarity had said time and time again that her legal skills were super rusty compared to her dressmaking, but she could have fooled me. She spent hours and hours—losing beauty sleep and Boutique clients—just doing nothing but pouring through the books on law, coming up with advantages and angles and precedents to help my case. Not only was she spectacular at the task she had at hoof, but she was humble too. What I mean to say is that she realized one pony alone couldn't help me out of that situation. She needed assistance, and so she called in a friend from her law school days in Canterlot.


        "And after having this 'sapphire pizza'...." Legal Eagle adjusted the bifocals on the bridge of his nose and leaned over a levitating notebook full of notes. "What did you do?"

        "I went to bed," Spike said, shrugging from where he sat on the edge of his cot inside his detention cell. "I slept all night. From sundown to... to..." Spike scratched his head. "Come to think of it, when did all the bad stuff happen in Ponyville?"

        "Two o'clock in the afternoon, Spike." Rarity spoke emphatically from where she sat in the corner with a briefcase and a levitating notebook of her own. Her purple mane was tightened up in a bun—a noticeably unfashionable look for her. She tried to hide several days' lines of exhaustion on her pale face as she squinted across the way at the dragon. "We've been over this Celestia-knows how many times! It was just six minutes past two o'clock when the incident in Ponyville began. Mrs. Cake, the first pony you recall talking to, claims it was around ten minutes past three o'clock when she saw you with the bucket outside of Sugarcube Corner—or at least what was left of it."

        "And eyewitnesses claim that they saw a 'small figure with violet scales' breathing fire and tearing up the landscape as early as ten minutes after two o'clock," Legal Eagle added.

        Spike exchanged glances with both of them. "I don't get it. What are you trying to get at?"

        "Simply piecing the story together, Mr. Spike," Eagle said, scribbling into his notebook. His tone had a strangely melodic ring to it, as if the young stallion had to hum in between spoken words in order to concentrate on his work. "So far, you don't exactly have the strongest allibi for us to stand on. The prosecution has more than likely constructed their own version of the story by now, and they'll undoubtedly claim that your 'nap time' was taken up doing far less innocent things."

        "Th-they will?" Spike gulped, fidgeting with his clawed fingers. "Just who are we going up against, anyway?"

        "Three attorneys," Rarity remarked. "Though, their strength isn't in numbers." She sighed out the side of her muzzle as she stated, "Blind Justice is leading the case."

        "Who's Blind Justice?" Spike asked.

        Legal Eagle answered, his expression a little too enthusiastic, "Only the most irreputable prosecutor this side of Equestria! He's handled many famous cases, stuff that's being talked about in places as far away as Manehattan to this day, and he's won most of them too." The stallion polished his glasses while staring dazedly through the detention cell floor. "Ponyville vs Purple Prose. Ponyville vs Straight Edge. The Everfree Kidnappings Case..."

        "Whew..." Spike bit his lip. "I'm guessing he's happy to take on a case involving some 'horribly evil dragon.' It must be the perfect cap to a big career."

        "He's hardly a mustache-twirling villain, Spike," Rarity said. "I highly doubt Blind Justice is seeking fame in acting as lead prosecutor for this case."

        "Yeah. The stallion made national news after the Everfree Kidnapper was convicted," Eagle remarked. "He's already been to the top."

        "Then why's this case so important to him?" Spike asked.

        "Simply that his conviction is the same as ours," Eagle said, putting his glasses back on. "He's seeking the truth."

        "But... if a lawyer that impressive is on the other side..." Spike gulped. "How in the heck are we gonna get ponies to believe that I'm not guilty?"

        "By exposing the truth with far greater finesse than he ever could!" Rarity said, her nose tilted up as she bore the slightest of smirks. "Though, it would certainly help to have a little more faith in us, darling..."

        Spike hung his head, shivering a little. "I'm sorry..."

        "Don't be." Rarity rested a hoof on his shoulder. "You've been through a lot, but you must not get despondent. We will see you through this. The evidence lies between the lines set by the circumstantial observations made so far by those who only think they saw what they saw."

        Spike squinted curiously at her. "Is that why they're always saying that true justice is blind?"

        "Pony names aside, it's an accurate analogy," Rarity said with a grin.

        "The key here is to look beyond base assumptions and find facts within the evidence and testimonies available to us," Eagle said, flipping through his notebook. "While so many of the eyewitnesses are biased, we gotta pick and choose bits that we can toss at the jury, so that they can see without any obscurity or shred of doubt."

        "And if doubt is all they have to see or taste..." Rarity smiled. "Then we can use that to prove—"

        "—that I'm innocent?!" Spike exclaimed, leaning forward with a bright expression.

        Rarity fidgeted, fumbling for words. "Er... that you are 'not guilty,' Spike."

        He leaned back, blinking. "That's good enough... r-right?"

        "In most cases, pretty much," Legal Eagle thought aloud.

        "Speaking of the jury..." Spike leaned his head aside. "Have the ponies been chosen already?"

        "Almost, Spike," Rarity said.

        "Wow, still?" Spike folded his arms. "Does stuff like this have to take forever?"

        "The speedier a trial, the more unfair it's likely to be," Legal Eagle said. "At least that's been my experience. Believe it or not, the longer you have to wait for things to come into fruition, the more time you can spend counting your blessings."

        "Yeah, but I'm totally innocent!" Spike exclaimed. He pointed at himself and uttered, "While I'm sitting in here trying to defend myself, whoever or whatever's responsible for burning half of Ponyville could be out there, doing more terrible things... or preparing to!"

        "We're doing our best to get you through this safely—"

        "What about Ponyville's safety?! I mean, I'm glad that you've both found a way to help me out, but isn't everypony still in danger?"

        "Spike, darling, one thing at a time," Rarity insisted. "Yes, we all have the safety of Ponyville to uphold. But right now, all that my good friend and I here can do is ensure you receive the justice that you deserve. Ponyville will recover from what has happened, but something will be lost forever if you get banished from this place and we were unable to prevent it."

        Spike shuddered. "So, that's what's at stake here? I-I could get kicked out of town... out of Equestria... forever?"

        Legal Eagle took a deep breath. "Not if we have anything to do with it. Let's not dwell on that or Blind Justice or the real danger to Ponyville. Right now, let's continue to reconstruct the events of August the twelfth, so that we may have something to present the court." He flipped through his notebook yet again and leaned forward. "So, when you woke up from your long, long sleep, describe how you felt..."


        We reconstructed that awful day. And then we re-reconstructed it. And then we did it again and again until I could no longer sit straight. I was too anxious to fall asleep from tedium, so I sort of just sat there in a daze, listening as one pony I cared about and one I hardly even knew discussed both my recent past and my looming fate in hushed tones.

        In fact, the most I ever spoke to anypony ever was when I stood at court before the judge and personally declared myself as "not guilty." At that point, I thought the trial was going to go full-steam, but I was wrong. There was the process of presenting evidence and selecting the jury and establishing statement after statement...

        I never thought that stuff that would determine my legal fate could be something so horrifically boring. It didn't help that I was spending more time than I would have wished lying down on the cot in my detention cell, alone during all of those long nights, listening as the hours ticked by, trying to make sense of what was happening to me—of all confusing little things that I simply couldn't control.

        Thankfully, Rarity made the process as easy for me to understand as possible. She outlined the aspects of the trial one by one, making it simple enough for a dragon whelp as young as me to grasp. Apparently, several samples of burnt buildings were going to be presented as evidence, along with hard foam casts made of the countless "claw marks" that were found all over town. She told me that the prosecution was going to attempt connecting the scratches to the measurements made of my hands and feet shortly after I arrived in jail the night after all the bad stuff went down. As for the burn marks on the building samples, she claimed that Twilight was doing a whole ton of research and that she was already finding ways to refute whatever claims the prosecution was going to make.

        Apparently, there was a whole ton of witnesses being lined up to be questioned before the court. The prosecution was having a field day with picking all sorts of ponies who insisted they saw me doing terrible things across town. Rarity said that she and Legal Eagle had already drawn up a means of cross-examination to prove that they didn't see "me," per se, but something that couldn't be defined by them or testimony. Suddenly, it seemed like it was no longer a matter of proving I didn't do anything wrong, but rather that anyone or anything else was just as capable. It was then that I started to understand the whole "beyond a reasonable doubt" stuff, but it didn't really make me feel any more at ease about the case.

        I asked Rarity about who she and Eagle had chosen as witnesses for when it was our turn to present the case to the court. Twilight Sparkle was a given—but she also listed off Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie, and several other ponies I happened to know quite personally. In addition to trying to prove that any eyewitness accounts of me on August twelfth were purely circumstantial, they were going to paint a positive portrait of me to the court, showing that my past history didn't support the kind of rampage most ponies claimed I had committed.

        I then asked Rarity if Fluttershy was going to be questioned just like the rest of the ponies. Rarity didn't answer me right away. Instead, she looked really worried, sad even. Eventually, she said that Fluttershy would have words to give and help my case, but it would come from cross examination.

        But didn't that mean that she was being called by the prosecution's side? I asked Rarity, and she only nodded in silence. I wondered just what that meant, and how badly things may have gone down since that horrible day in August. Was I starting to form a rift in between my friends? Did some of them actually think that I was responsible for the burnt buildings and the injured ponies in Ponyville?

        The more and more I looked at this situation, the further and further it seemed to fly from my grasp. I felt like I needed to take control of things... to take control of myself. And so, rather suddenly, I asked Rarity...


        "How about I take the stand?"

        "Hmmm?" Rarity awoke from deep thought, turning to give him a double-take.

        "Y'know..." Spike gulped and hopped down from his cot to stand before her in the detention cell. "Let me be a witness! Let me speak for myself—"

        "No! Perish the thought!" Rarity exclaimed, suddenly frowning. "There is far too much at stake—"

        "For me to have a say in all of this?!" He frowned back. "Rarity, I know you're trying your darndest to help me."

        "I most certainly am—!"

        "Then help me!" He exclaimed, gesturing with his purple-scaled arms. "Already, it sounds like the other side is tossing a whole bunch of weight on the scales! Let's balance it all out, huh? Let's get me to talk to the lawyers, the jury, the court, the whole shebang!"

        "It's far too risky, Spike."

        "What, you don't believe I'm innocent?"

        She sighed. "Now, I did not say that..."

        "Then what's the problem?!" He barked, his voice echoing across the tiny chamber. "I know I did nothing that day! You know I did nothing that day! Let me speak for myself! Let me have a heart-to-heart with everypony! Surely, they will be able to tell that I'm not as evil as others are trying to paint me to be!"

        "It... it is far from that simple, Spike," Rarity said in a dull tone. She adjusted her briefcase and ran a hoof through her mane, straightening a few strands that had fallen loose from her purple bun. "I know that you are innocent. I believe it with my whole heart. I wouldn't take on a case if I didn't believe the truth behind it. Not only would it be unlawful of somepony in my position, but I simply wouldn't feel right with myself if I was attempting to deceive the court. But..."

        Spike narrowed his green eyeslits. "But what...?"

        "Spike, it is entirely possible to be completely innocent, to be completely in the right, to be an absolute angel, and still have your image sullied by a grilling cross-examination."

        "Pfft—As if!" Spike smirked, his sharp teeth glistening in the pale light of the cell. "I've been bullied by the worst Equestria has to offer before! I've got thick scales! I can take a little punishment—"

        "Spike..." Rarity softly trotted over. "Blind Justice is the best at what he does. He knows how to take suspects apart—thread by thread—before the court, like an old scarf that's moth-eaten." She rested a hoof on his shoulder. "I'm not saying that he will be right, but he will be merciless. And while you think you may be strong now, you've really only been sitting in this solitary cell for days on end, alone with your personal resolve. When you're sitting before the court, and you have all the ponies staring at you, with gazes full of suspicion and remorse, I doubt very much that you will retain the same strength that you are now showing so ardently."

        "But I will, Rarity..." Spike gazed up at her with sparkling eyes. He squeezed her hoof in two small hands. "I promise! I won't do anything to hurt your case..." He gulped. "Our case..."

        She chuckled lightly, nevertheless gazing at him with a loving expression. "Oh, Spike. It's not the case that I'm worried about. This whole thing is about painting a good image. I deeply fear that such would be put at risk if you decided to take the witness stand, no matter how courageous or noble the intention."

        "But I have a good image!" Spike said. After a few seconds, he fidgeted, then muttered, "Don't I?"

        Rarity bit her lip.

        "Rarity...?"

        "You have been... inside for quite a long time, Spike. The town... with all of its rebuilding... with all of its recovering injuries..." She sighed towards the corners of the place. "It most certainly has not been very pretty."

        His scaled brow furrowed. "What are you trying to tell me?"

        "Chiefly this: If you wish to take the stand, I cannot and will not stop you. It is your right, after all. However, I would strongly advise against it. The prosecution will be taking every opportunity they can to rip you to shreds, even more so if you allow them."

        "Rarity..." Spike stood back and folded his hands together in a noticeably demure fashion. "Let's be real for a second here. I'm already torn apart as it is."

        "Spike, Legal Eagle and I have a strong case and we have many ways to tear down Blind Justice's—"

        "But what do we have to stand on? I mean really?"

        Rarity had no response to that. She broke eye contact with Spike.

        He leaned forward and said, "I'm glad that you're defending me, but I have to defend myself too."

        "I... I shall discuss the matter with Legal Eagle," Rarity said in a breathy tone. "Maybe... Perhaps we can work it into our case. Maybe after all of the other witnesses we call forth, we can have you take the stand in order to thread everything together."

        "So, like..." Spike fidgeted. "How soon does it all start?"

        "I told you two meetings ago, Spike, after the jury selection process we went through, remember?" Rarity spoke quietly. "The trial's initial deliberations shall proceed a week and a half from this point."

        "Huh... That's rather... quick, isn't it?"

        "Yes, Spike." She nodded again, shaking off a cold chill. "Yes, it most certainly is."































        At last, the big day came. Little did I know that there would be many more "big days" to come. Still, at the time, I looked forward to the first trial proceedings as if it was my birthday. You'd think that I would be full of fear and stuff, which makes a lot more sense. Truth is, Your Highness, I was so darn bored of being in the same detention room for so long, that just getting things started felt like a breath of fresh air. I had been in the courtroom a few times before that: once for my plea of "not guilty," the other two times for jury selection, but somehow I knew that none of that would compare to what was about to happen.

        As they handcuffed me and led me out of the cell and up through the basement, I felt the walls shaking, as if there was a stampede taking place overhead. The windows rattled as I passed them towards the courtroom; that's how I knew that there was a gigantic crowd just waiting for me, hungering. My head was too foggy to think straight, and I recall actually wondering whether the mob was cheering for me or begging for my head on a platter. At some point, Rarity gave me a reassuring smile. I had almost forgotted that she was with me. I felt selfish... and a little bit stupid. I heard Legal Eagle's voice, and for some reason that shook me out of my trance.

        This was really happening. My entire future was about to be decided, and all I could do was sit back and watch the fireworks... or lack of them.

        I nearly ran into something. As I felt the firm hooves of looming guards gripping my shoulders, I looked up to see what it was... or who it was. A stone-faced mare with a rosy coat stared down at me. In the dim shadow of the marble hallway, I could have sworn her green eyes were carving a hole through me, as if they were certain there was something guilty and hidden underneath. For the two or three seconds during which I cowered under her gaze, I almost believed her. My twitching eyes fell to her uniform, and I saw the name "Lt. Knightseed" engraved on a namebadge....


        "Keep an eye on the courtroom's perimeter," Knightstead said, her voice hard as steel. As she undid the cuffs on Spike's wrists, she barely had to look at what she was doing. Instead, she spoke aside to another pair of officers inside the hallway. "I don't want local malcontents making any unnecessary drama."

        "Sure thing, Lieutenant," one of the guards replied with a nod before trotting down the corridor.

        Knighsteed marched over to the door, standing there like a towering rook. "I want us to stay in communication with the team outside. This is not a zoo, everypony."

        Legal Eagle leaned in and murmured towards Rarity. "Seems like the bailiff is doing double-duty..."

        "Yes. So it would seem."

        "That's the bailiff?" Spike whispered, eyeing the equine's emotionless face.

        "Eyes forward, Spike," Rarity instead said. "Remember what I said about proper posture and facing the front of the court."

        "But I was just—"

        "This is for your own good, Spike," Rarity spoke quietly, leaning over to speak into his ear. "If you absolutely must make eye contact with the ponies in the stand, I want you to be calm about it. Breathe evenly, and try not to look happy nor sad, even if you feel like expressing either."

        "But Rarity—" Spike stammered as he and his two representatives were urged forward. "You say that as if we're in enemy territory!"

        "Just trust me, Spike," Rarity said, and then she was silent.

        Spike watched as Knightseed opened the door for them. She held it wide open, eyeing either side of the frame cautiously as the three marched through.

        Just like that, Spike felt as if he had walked onto a different planet altogether. The air felt different; everything was stifling, stiff, and stale. Rows upon rows of glazed eyes reflected his purple sliver of a figure. What's more, it was dead silent, and it wasn't always dead silent. He could hear the echo of his shuffling claws through the vacuum left by everypony's colletive inhale. For a brief moment, he tilted his head to the right, and immediately wished he hadn't. In a single blink, he saw a sea of scowling faces, darker than the smoke clouds that had gathered over Ponyville just weeks before.

        When Legal Eagle pulled a chair out for him, he was almost too numb to sit straight. He scaled the seat a little too clumsily for his own good. When he rested his scaled wrists upon the edge of the defense's table, there was a rattling sound, and he discovered just how much he was trembling. Suddenly, Rarity's words rang truer than he had ever imagined they would. He took several deep breaths, but nothing calmed him—at least not until those breaths were soothed by the faint scent of the prim and proper fashionista sitting beside his chair. Instantly, he felt more at ease, though that was not saying much. He noticed his spines drooping, and he raised a hand up several times to straighten them, so much so that Rarity had to urge him to stop with a gently chiding hoof.

        Spike's eyes wandered across the courtroom. Somewhere between him and the judge's bench there sat a unicorn before a miniature typewriter. He saw the bailiff, Knightsteed, conversing with a guard or two. Next, he spotted the jury—twelve muzzles and pairs of eyes that he could only half-recognize—all seated upon a tightly nestled bench to his far right. Then, as if looming into view, his eyes caught sight of a thin figure with gray streaks in his brown mane. The aged stallion sat hunched over, his expressionless gaze stuck nose-deep in a briefcase full of documents. Two other ponies flanked him like a squadron of straight-suited wonderbolts about to take off, and they murmured quietly over several stacks of evidence.

        "Best not to stare too long at them, Spike, dear," Rarity's voice said.

        With a gulp, the infant dragon muttered, "That's him, isn't it? Blind Justice?"

        "Indeed. It's no surprise to me that you wouldn't recognize him. Most innocent citizens wouldn't bother to know his face."

        "Do you... do you think he enjoys sending ponies to prison?" Spike murmured. "And banishing those without hooves?"

        "Now, now, I know that this all must be very disconcerting, Spike, but you must try to follow my advice. Especially now of all times. Maintain an air of detachment. Keep up a good presentation; it will be for your own good."

        "Yeah, I-I guess so..." Spike said with a nod. Against his better judgment, he turned... turned... and glanced briefly over his shoulder. He caught the slightest hint of brightly-colored shapes at the very rear of the courtroom: orange, pink, blue... lavender—

        Just then, Knightseed's voice boomed like a well-aimed cannon across the polished wooden walls of the place. "All rise for the honorable Judge Winters."

        Hooves shuffled. Chairs creaked and rattled. The very air about the place shifted. As Spike saw the jury lifting in the corner of his peripheral vision, he felt a heavy tap on his shoulder. He realized that Eagle and Rarity were standing ahead of him. With a jolt to his heart, he rushed to do the same, only to find with much frustration that his eye-level was lower standing than it was when he was allowed to sit in the chair. Nevertheless, he positioned himself on the tips of his claws to see the gray shape of the darkly-robed judge shuffling through the open door, past the stone-faced bailiff, and into the highly-raised bench that loomed before the court.

        "Court is now in session. You may be seated."

        It felt like a century before the judge found it in her best interest to sit down. Once more, the court shuffled like a rattling table full of chess pieces. Spike lagged behind as usual. His scales burned, as if the temperature of everypony's gaze was quadrupling with each second he took to get situated. He had barely noticed that Legal Eagle and a pony from the prosecution's table had wandered up to speak with Judge Winters in hushed confidence.

        "What... wh-what are they doing?" Spike remarked.

        "Assuring that the first leg of the trial goes smoothely, Spike," Rarity said whilst telekinetically shuffling a stack of documents. "As there is no evidence being examined or statements being reevaluated, nothing is yet on the record."

        "But—like—I don't get it..." Spike pointed. "Isn't that pony on Blind Justice's side?"

        "Spike, we are all on the law's side in here," Rarity said with a gentle smile. Her lips fell straight as she added, "At least, in theory. This is not some brutish stone-throwing competition, after all. This is a court of law, and it's best for both sides that the process go smoothely and without unnecessary disorganization."

        "But... I-I thought all the organization had—like—been done already."

        "Oh, Spike..." Rarity managed a brief sigh. "There is never any end to the organization." She took a breath and tilted her chin up. "The key is work magic in between the lines that are drawn out for us."

        "How do you intend to do that?"

        "When the time comes, we will seize the situation." Rarity gave him a soft, consoling grin. "Of this, you can be certain."


        I wish I could say I believed in her whole-heartedly. It's not that I questioned Rarity's ability as a lawyer, of course. Even if she stood the risk of being rusty, she certainly wasn't alone. I had come to respect Legal Eagle too for his skill and knowledge and stuff.

        It's just that I was really afraid that no amount of hard work or convincing could change the public's perspective of me, much less just twelve jurors'. No amount of statements, documentation, or boringly necessary ritual could change the fact that I wasn't a pony—I was a dragon. What's more, this sort of a thing had never happened before in Ponyville... or in all of Equestria for that matter.

        A draconian citizen? Being given a trial? Scratch that, I was a draconian sub-citizen or some crap. I don't know how to put it anymore. All of the legal work and definition stuff was up to Rarity and Legal Eagle, and as glad as I was to leave all the complicated things to them, I couldn't help but feel like I needed to sink my claws into the matter myself. Maybe it's some secret dragon instinct that I only partially know about. Who knows? Perhaps you can explain it, Your Highness, but as soon as I started feeling helpless... I kind of started feeling angry too...

        I did my best to stay quiet about it—both in voice and in body. That is to say, I sat as still as a statue, which was kind of hard. Every other second, I could have sworn that the judge was speaking to me alone, when—as a matter of fact—she was speaking to the entire court.

        I thought that I would have been really, really intimidated by her, but that wasn't really the case. I could tell pretty early on that Judge Winters was a good pony—a good pony who was more concerned with the law than with a dragon who may or may not have been a crazy village-burning bad guy. When she talked about the evidence being presented and the rights that I was being granted, I felt wonderfully respected—even complimented, in some strange way. It was a far better experience than being carted around the basement of the court house like I was some sort of dog foaming at the mouth, with guards glaring at me from every angle, like I might leap for their jugulars without warning.

        Yes, to tell the truth, I was almost starting to relax. But then it was time for the prosecutors to give what Rarity calls an "opening statement," and that's when I saw Blind Justice standing up for the first time...


        "Ladies and gentlecolts of the jury," Blind Justice spoke, possessing a voice far firmer than Spike would have imagined from somepony as frail as him. The stallion walked with a slight limp, but slowed his hooves just enough to mask it. He approached the dozen seated citizens with a perfectly calm demeanor. A veteran face hung between twin skunk spots bordering the edges of the stallion's mane as he talked. "There are two reasons for why you have been brought here. For one, you have been called by Equestrian law to assist in the due process of the law."

        He paced slowly as he spoke, going through motions as old as the wrinkles that lined his furrowed brow.

        "For another, you have been called here because the accused has been given the rights of royal citizenry, a quality defined not by his blood nor by the making of his flesh and bone. Rather, he was hatched on royal property, and for this reason alone there exists a clause—an obsure yet masterfully discovered clause—that entitles him to the same legal representation as any common Equestrian citizen of hoofed stature.

        "Would the same situation grant rights to a pony caught suspected of a crime in dragon country? That is not for us to determine, nor to speculate. Let us be glad that, even in times of great tragedy and malice, the will of the court is to seek justice in its most righteous form, free from obfuscation on behalf of the xenophobic biases that is most commonplace in the wild landscapes outside of Her Royal Highness' jurisdiction.

        "Nevertheless, the fact that the accused is a dragon cannot be ignored. On the day of August the twelfth, between the hours of two and three o'clock in the afternoon, Central Royal Time, multiple eyewitnesses testify having seen the accused setting fire to the homes, businesses, and meeting places of Ponyville. No less than thirty-three ponies state that they saw "a dragon"—not a pony, mind you—but an actual, living, breathing dragon committing these atrocities.

        "It shall be our duty to bring forth the witnesses so that they may restate their testimonies before the court. From their experiences, we shall illustrate how the ponies not only saw a dragon, but how the details of their observations match the physical descriptions and mannerisms of the suspect you see now seated before you.

        "Our case is not based on testimony alone. Over the course of the last several weeks, we have taken samples of the burn marks found at the scene of the crime. With the aide of several well-educated zoological experts from the far corners of Equestria, we shall explain to the court how the fires could only have been caused by the unmistakable green breath given off by a purple dragon. Furthemore, we have carefully preserved outlines, pictures, and casts of the claw marks that were left all over the assaulted village, which—as explained by experts in the detective field whom we shall also call to the stand—match the dimensions and the indentations of the suspect to a T. Last but not least, we have a piece of photographic evidence that shows the accused clearly performing the violent act for which he has been charged."

        Shuffling to a stop, Blind Justice took a deep breath, as if having to weather the heavy load to the next part of his statement. Turning partially towards the jury, he made sure that his voice was easily carried to those in the viewing audience all the same.

        "Ladies and gentlecolts, as you well know, there is a great deal of emotion already invested in a case of this magnitude. But when it comes down to it, this is not some grand philosophical battle between those who would support the rights of so-called 'beastly creatures' and those who would desire nothing more than to have them ostracized. The prosecution understands that the suspect has had a long record of good-standing with the citizens of Ponyville, recent events excluded. However, let the prosecution remind you that the suspect is also an infant by draconian standards, and the nature of his development—both biological and psychological—is subjected to great mystery and presumption.

        "Now, the suspect's representatives will make their case soley based on this: the hypothetical. What are the true inner workings of a dragon's psyche? What are the biological possibilities and limitations of a whelp's burning breath? How can a governing body of ponies make conclusions about the actions of a single purple dragon when there is so little known about that particular species' properties, especially those properties that are potentially magical and subject to empirical uncertainty?

        "The truth is, there is very little known about purple dragons, and there is very little to be known. The defense will unquestionably drive this factor and this factor alone into the heart of this court. They will attempt to stretch all evidence so thin that even the most concrete facts will appear dubious and questionable.

        "What they cannot disprove, however, is that the suspect—beastly purple dragon or not—matched that which was witnessed by over thirty ponies, that the suspect matched every eyewitness description in both dimension and color, that the chemical, structural, and photographic analysis of the evidence left all over Ponyville only points to the suspect with equal precision. Regardless of what the suspect may be capable of, and despite his prior standing with the local citizenry, it is the task of the prosecution to prove that he was—in fact—the one who caused the atrocities on that dark day in August."

        Turning with finality towards the seated twelve, Blind Justice furrowed his brow and spoke more firmly.

        "As a court in service of Her Majesty's Kingdom, it is the system's function to not only pursue justice, but to maintain harmony in all its forms. In no Equestrian town is the importance of 'harmony' valued than in Ponyville. In pursuing righteous truth, we are not seeking to condemn creatures for their essential nature. Rather, we seek harmony and peace in a society built by ponies, run by ponies, and governed by ponies. As the honorable Judge Winters has already stated to you, the jury, it falls within your hooves to assure that harmony is maintained at all costs. I ask you: what is the cost of a single dragon being required to live elsewhere? If his qualities are proven to be so 'beastly,' will he truly be robbed by being forced to dwell among his own scaled kind? Would not he—amidst the rest of the draconian populace beyond Princess Celestia's reach—be achieving a newfound equilibrium, a state of... harmony entitled to dragons alone as they pass from whelp years into full-winged adulthood?"

        Shuffling back towards the prosecution's bench, the aged lawyer gave his last few words.

        "Through the testimonies and evidence that the prosecution shall provide, we ultimately seek to achieve harmony for all. August the tweltfh has come and gone; the time for misery and pain has passed. This is a court of law, and we desire—as much as the defense desires—to achieve equilibrium. We simply wish to prove that such is not possible if the defendant, as pointed out by the evidence provided, is allowed to dwell among ponykind any further."


        Blind Justice was finished far sooner than I thought he would be. I almost wished that he could have spoken longer. A part of me hoped that he was capable of being long-winded, the sort of stallion that loved to hear himself talk and thus would say all the wrong things. I couldn't have been more let down. He was short, he was brief, and he had no time to waste. I was to be banished from Equestria, and it was his job to convince everypony that this was the truth.

        Not only did I feel like he was gunning for me; I might as well have been falling back already from a silver bullet to the heart. Still, as devasted as I already felt, I saw no noticeable change in the faces of Rarity and Legal Eagle. They both acted as if this was nothing. Just how prepared were they? Could I somehow get some of that mojo?

        Whatever the case, it was Eagle—and not Rarity like I had imagined—who stood up to give our case's opening statement. I was a bit weirded out by that at first, but as soon as he started to speak, I lost all doubt. To be honest, Your Majesty, I really should have given Legal Eagle more credit. He certainly was giving me a lot of credit just by standing there and representing me in the first place...



        "What makes someone a royal citizen?" Legal Eagle asked, shrugging dramatically as he did so. His voice was far more dramatic and resonating than Blind Justice's, and he paced about with greater vigor, injecting charisma into the jury and the rest of the court with each word that came from his lips. "Is it being foaled on Equestrian soil? Most certainly, that dictates the rights and privileges of a natural-born creature. Is it one's sentience? Diamond dogs and minotaurs dwell within the Princess' Royal Kingdom, but their predominantly deviant behavior rejects the laws that this land upholds. Is it one's fealty to the Royal Sisters, then? History has proven that individuals like Chrysalis and Sombra—who once may have bowed before Celestia—ultimately spat in the face of civilized order."

        Eagle scuffled to a stop. He adjusted his bifocals and narrowed his gaze on the jury in particular.

        "Is it one's species?" He bore a subtle smile. "Aye, there's the rub. The suspect, Spike, has been brought to this court like any average pony citizen in the history of Equestrian law... only he hasn't, has he?" With firm, icy hoofsteps, Eagle trotted towards the jury's bench. "He was bound like an animal... thrown into a jail cell without immediate representation... almost banished forthwith into the wilderness like some rabid dog without a voice. Only through a discreetly ignored clause in the archives of the law offices of Ponyville was he finally allowed to be treated with any ounce of respect. But just what consolation is that? And what's to say that the damage hasn't already been done to his reputation in the eyes of the public, much less in the eyes of the court, before this trial had even started?"

        He resumed pacing, his face framed by a righteous scowl as he spoke.

        "Neither the defense nor the prosecution wishes to turn this into a battle of species' rights. We lack the philosophical fortitude to attack the issue, for we would inevitably drag all creatures of draconian nature into this argument, and our place is not to decide the fate of the scaled residents of Equestria forevermore. Our task here and now is to determine the verdict of one dragon... one soul... one 'Spike'...

        "Now, the law may qualify Spike as a 'beastly creature,' and as heinous as this sounds, it is a good thing. After all, it has saved him from a clambering mob—a mob comprised of otherwise civil ponies, mind you, who have shown qualities that are no less 'beastly' through the manner in which they would like to accost and maltreat the suspect, exacting some sort of blind revenge without sufficient proof or logical provocation. It's a nebulous term: 'beastly.' How intriguing that a justice system so dependent on order would find itself fit to determine and control that which is supposedly savage. Perhaps the land of the dragons has a relative 'harmony' of its own. Who is to know? Certainly not the law, certainly not the suspect, and most certainly not me or you...

        "I would like you to consider this for a moment: eliminate the 'beastly creature' stigma from your mind. Whether or not that is the clause that has allowed Spike the rights he is entitled to today, he is still ultimately qualified as a citizen. Thus, it is best to think of him not as any creature, not as any beast, not as any savage—but rather as any citizen, as any law-abider, as any... pony...

        "Which, then, brings us back to the question that I first proposed to the court. What makes someone a 'royal citizen?' As citizens—pony or not—we seek peace and harmony above all else. We pursue truth and mutual prosperity. We help our neighbors and fellow citizens in need. We report to the authorities when we see the law being broken, and we abide by the system at all times, even in moments of chaos and emergency."

        At last, Legal Eagle turned and pointed firmly at Spike.

        "This individual who sits before you, Spike of Ponyville, born in the Royal District of Canterlot, has lived his entire life performing all of these civil virtues and then some. He has helped his fellow citizens. He has protected ponies when they needed assistance. He has reported directly to the Princess in times of great distress. In addition to this—and I do not exaggerrate when I make this claim—he has helped his fellow companions save Equestria multiple times over. That is correct. This dragon—this 'beastly creature' is an integral piece of the Elements of Harmony, for he has been their inseparable ally throughout the passing months and years, during which Equestria has seen its darkest hours since the Civil War a thousand years ago.

        "Why, then, has he been brought here? Why did Ponyville's finest have to cuff him on the way to his seat in open court? Why is there the same mob outside the courtroom as that which nearly accosted him on the day of August the twelfth? For one simple reason: he was in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Why was it the wrong place and the wrong time? It is nothing of Spike's doing. What happened to Ponyville that day was awful, horrific, and undeniably tragic. So terrible were these events that it took that which was best in all of his fellow neighbors—the same ponies he had defended and loved all of his life—and it filled them instead with confusion, anger, and distrust. For the briefest of moments, they all collectively lost their ability to see Spike for what he was... a citizen.

        "And by 'citizen,' I believe I can finally answer my own question from earlier. A citizen is someone who knows and respects the law. A citizen is someone who works with fellow ponies to keep the order. A citizen is someone whom we all can trust. For years, Spike qualified as all of these. What changed? What makes him a criminal all of the sudden, in direct conflict with the personality and the record that he has embodied for all his young life?

        "Yes, a citizen can change. An individual can do something unpredictable, and a peace-keeper can turn into a deviant. But just because something is possible does not mean that it necessarily happened. Spike was in town on the day Ponyville burned. Like the law-abiding citizen he was, he ran out from an interrupted nap, carrying a pail in hopes that he might assist his fellow neighbors in dousing the flames. As a matter of fact, he had single-handedly stopped a fire from consuming the heart of Twilight Sparkle's home. And what is he awarded with in the end? Condemnation? Accusations? Hate and slander?

        "Now, the prosecution has quite an arsenal built for this trial. They have over thirty eyewitnesses to support their case, along with a hoof-full of samples taken from the ruined streets of Ponyville. However, the prosecution, for all of their intimidating weight and—let's face it—outstanding legal reputation, still do not have anything concrete to stand on.

        "Oh, they'll try convincing you that they do. They'll treat the thirty-plus eyewitness accounts as irrefutable fact, when they are still just as circumstantial as only two or three just-as-foggy accounts. They'll claim that the burnt samples taken from the village are signs that somehow only the suspect could leave, when they in fact know nothing about Spike's biological signature, much less that of any purple dragons whatsoever. They will bring so-called experts to testify about the evidence and its implication, when not a single one of these ponies has even met a dragon, or even dealt with the traces of one before. Long story short, the prosecution's case can only be measured in its sheer quantity of benign presentations, and even still, you'll be hard pressed to analyze any underlying quality to the presentations whatsoever.

        "It will be our task, as the suspect's one and only defense, to show you that it is inherently impossible to connect Spike with the calamitous events that took place on August the twelfth. The suspect has an allibi; he was sleeping during the hour-and-a-half when the fires started. What's more, the ponies who claim to have seen him can only attest to having seen something that made them think of the suspect. Whatever caused the actual damage and injuries of that dark day, we cannot affirmatively conclude, because the only evidence gathered has been chosen with the sole purpose of implicating an innocent. Just because the tragedy resembles the work of a dragon does not necessarily mean that a dragon is to blame... and it certainly does not mean that Spike is to blame.

        "What we have here is a situation where confusion and panic has bred suspicion. In times like this, it is so very easy to cling to that which is familiar and to villainize that which is different... that which is strange... and that which is easy to blame. And that is why Spike is here, because to blame the village's woes on something else, or—even more nebulous—something unexplained would not nearly be as simple... nor settling to the pained soul. Forcing a guilty verdict upon Spike, in spite of the fallacy of doing such, would be easy.

        "Ladies and gentlecolts, we do not seek justice for its ease of passing. We pursue the truth because it is difficult to do so... and because it is righteous. Many horrible things happened on August the twelfth, but the least righteous was the forming of a mob to lay the blame on Spike here. And now, weeks later, in open court, I greatly fear that that very same mob has yet to disperse.

        "Do not allow fear and xenophobia to cloud your judgment over the following few days. Do not allow the prosecution to simplify the testimonies and evidence into fact, for all they implicate is that there is still a great deal of uncertainty to the events of Ponyville's burning. Do the righteous thing. See past the boundaries of your own presumption... of everypony's presumption, and realize that Spike is still the same law-abiding citizen he always has been, and that all the defense is trying to do here is make sure that he gets to live out the rest of his days as he has earned them, free from the same pain and discomfort that has most recently hounded all of our lives."

        At last, Legal Eagle gave a half-bow and trotted back towards the desk. Spike heard a slight murmur rolling through the crowd behind him. Meanwhile, Judge Winters shuffled through her documents and adjusted her bifocals, preparing to read the introduction to the next round of procedure.

        He didn't realize it until he was leaning towards Rarity, but Spike heard himself whispering, "He's not really half-bad..."

        "Mmmm... No, he isn't," Rarity said with a restrained smile.

        "I'm curious, though," Spike whispered, his nerves somewhat eased for the time-being. "Why didn't you want to give the opening statement yourself?"

        The fashionista had to stifle a chuckle. "Are you being jocular, Spike?" She spoke quietly into his ear crests. "Surely we both know that my words would have summoned tears and applause. Most uncouth for a courtroom, wouldn't you agree?"

        Spike nodded, smiling for the first time in days.

        
        





















        Oh, if only a case could be won by a persuasive statement alone, Your Highness. I really liked Legal Eagle's introduction to my defense. I really liked it a lot. But, I still knew that the cards were stacked up against me, and we had yet to play a single hand... or... erm... hoof.

        After the opening statements, I recall looking over to Blind Justice's side of the court. Everypony at his table was deadpan. Not a single one of them looked impressed or dismayed or happy or sad or anything. That's when I knew exactly who we were dealing with. They didn't care about me. They didn't give a flying feather about my future at all. This case was just a job to them, and they had all of the stuff that would banish me from Equestria prepared like a bunch of bullet points.

        I knew that the next part was going to be tough to sit through. I just didn't know how tough it was going to be. Sitting for hours on end in my detention cell, I had imagined what all of the angry ponies of Ponyville had thought of me. I don't think I was ever truly prepared to listen to each of them say unpleasant things, much less thirty or so of them, starting with...


        "Your honor, if it would please the court," Blind Justice said as he stood and leaned against the edge of his desk. "We would like to call the pony Minuette to the witness stand."

        Spike bit his scaled lip. As he heard a stirring noise, he turned and looked over his shoulder. From the audience, a blue figure shuffled out from her seat and trotted slowly down the aisle. From his perspective, the unicorn looked neither happy nor sad to be there. She shifted with a nervousness that matched his own, brought upon by the many-many sets of eyes blanketing her figure.

        With a shuffle of muscular hooves, the bailiff opened the gate towards the front of the court, allowing the mare to pass on through. Knightsteed then guided Minuette towards a platform to Judge Winters' left, where she was ushered to sit. Without delay, Knightsteed raised her right hoof, and after a brief fumbling, Minuette did the same.

        "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, in order to aid the pursuit of Equestrian peace and harmony?"

        "I-I do," Minuette stammered.

        "Please be seated," Judge Winters said from above.

        Minuette did so, squirming pensively. Knightsteed shuffled towards the side of the court, within leaping distance of both the judge's platform and the witness'. As the bailiff trotted by, the officer's passing glare swept over Spike.

        The whelp winced, scratching one arm with the other hand. He didn't notice Blind Justice marching up until he heard Winters voice again: "You may question the witness, Mr Justice."

        "Ms. Minuette, where were you at 2:06pm on August the twelfth, Central Royal time?"

        "I... uhm..." Minuette fidgeted. "I was on the balcony of my apartment, preparing a research paper on quantum entanglement. I'm... uh... I-I'm a theoretical physicist at the Trottingham University for Science and Mathematics, and I commute between there and Ponyville because the local real estate is so—"

        "There is no need for you to give us your life story, Ms. Minuette. I merely asked about your whereabouts on that particular day."

        "I'm sorry..." She bit her lip as her ears drooped. "Please forgive me. I've n-never been in a court before—"

        "Nothing to be sorry for, madame," Blind Justice said calmly as he shuffled up to the edge of her stand. He hid his limp by pivoting ever so slightly with each step. "Take your time in answering if you need to. You are not the one on trial."

        "Er..." She smiled nervously, her ears flicking back up, relaxing slightly. "Right..."

        "You say that you were situated on the balcony of your apartment, Ms. Minuette?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Where is your apartment located?"

        "Oh... uh... in Ponyville. Eheh... of course it's in Ponyville—"

        "And the address?"

        "Hmmm? Oh! Uhm... 42 Jasper Lane... erm... right on the corner of Jasper and Windbrook."

        "That is located on the edge of the downtown square, is it not?"

        "No, sir."

        "No?"

        "Well, not exactly. It's about a block and a half away," Minuette said. "But... it's still pretty close. Just two minutes' trotting distance."

        "So, the downtown square is out of view?"

        "Oh no, sir. My home is located on the second floor of the apartment. The balcony actually has a pretty nice view... eheh..."

        "In which cardinal direction does your balcony face?"

        "Oh... uhm... jee, I'm not really a cartographer. But... well... the sun sets to my right whenever I'm out there, working on mathematical equations. It's a safe bet that the balcony sort of faces south... maybe... uh... southwest?"

        As Minuette spoke, Spike could hear a constant tapping. He glanced to his left to see a unicorn squatting before a tiny typewriter. The pony squinted at the exchange while his horn glittered, causing the little keys of the recording equipment to rattle in swift order.

        Blinking, Spike glanced at Rarity and Legal Eagle. They were nearly just as silent and deadpan as the prosecution's bench. Shifting in his seat, Spike returned to the trial at hoof.

        "And you were situated on this very same balcony at about two o'clock on August twelfth?" Blind Justice asked.

        "Yes, sir."

        "Doing your research, I suspect..."

        "Yes sir, attempting to jot down the complex theorems describing the fabrics of multiple dimensions and their contact points and—Oh... whoops... eheheh... sorry..."

        "It's quite alright, madame." Blind Justice shuffled about to face her. "I take it you're quite intensely focused on your research."

        "Oh. Uhm... very much so, sir. Almost a little too focused."

        "Explain, if you would."

        "Really?"

        "Yes, madame," Blind Justice said with a nod. "Really."

        Minuette blinked, then blushed slightly as she said, "Well... I... sort of live with my older brother because I can't really afford to live on my own. I mean, I excel at my university, and I have a fantastic teaching career. But... I-I tend to get easily absorbed into... uhm... the theorems that I'm working on, so much so that it's k-kind of hard to pull me out of—like—a thought trance when my mind starts going. So, my older brother tends to keep me walking in line. If it weren't for him, I'd starve, cuz I always take forever when I go to buy groceries. Heh..."

        Blind Justice nodded slightly. "When you get into these... moments of deep thought, what does it take to snap you out of it?"

        "Well, like I said... uh... sir..." She cleared her throat. "It's really hard to distract me when I really get into my work."

        "Still, what would it take to break your concentration, would you say?"

        Minuette fidgeted. "Well, a lot, to say the least. Sometimes I don't realize that I've zoned out until I hear my brother yelling at me." She winced slightly. "He'll claim that he had been calling my name for a full minute before I noticed him."

        "I see..." Blind Justice paced ever so slowly. "Ms. Minuette, when you were performing your studies on the afternoon of August the twelfth, were you in such a state of intense concentration?"

        "I..." She glanced down at the edge of her stand and squirmed. "It's... it's hard to say. When those moments of deep thought happen, it's hard to look back and figure out when they started..."

        "Do you normally go into such deep concentration while studying?"

        "Oh, absolutely."

        "And you don't remember when or if such a... shall we say—trance started on that afternoon?"

        "I'm afraid not, sir."

        Blind Justice stopped. He pivoted to look at her. "Do you remember when it may have ended?"

        Minuette bit her lip. She swallowed and dryly said, "Y-yes, sir."

        "You could no longer concentrate on your work?"

        "No, sir."

        "Did someone in the apartment snap you out of it?"

        "No, sir."

        "Did you simply lose focus on your own?"

        "No... sir..."

        "What was it that distracted you?"

        Minuette shuddered. "An explosion, sir."

        "An explosion?"

        "Yes."

        "Would you care to describe it?"

        Minuette blinked. "It... well... it was a large blast. I..." She winced slightly. "I remember my ears hurting. It startled me pretty bad. At the very first second, I thought something had exploded in my very own apartment, but then I realized it was just an echo of the noise off the walls of the balcony."

        "The very first second?" Blind Justice asked. "You're certain you can remember something that happened so suddenly?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "You are certain?"

        Minuette nodded. "I am."

        "How can you be?"

        She stifled a nervous smile. "Well... I-I've been told that I have something akin to... uh... a mimetic memory..."

        "Do explain."

        "I can remember things really, really specifically, almost photographically... though... well... not quite..."

        "Not quite?"

        "Well, obviously, I zone out a lot when I get into research mode, so I can't actually remember every single detail."

        "Do you think you were mistaken about the sound of the explosion?"

        "Well... no, sir."

        "Why is that?"

        "I was no longer... uh... 'zoning out.' The explosion was just too impossible to ignore."

        "So, you were starting to take notice of things normally, then?"

        "Yes."

        "Why was the explosion 'too impossible to ignore,' Ms. Minuette?"

        Minuette gritted her teeth, fidgeting. "Because... a p-piece of burning rubble fell onto the balcony no less than five seconds later."

        Blind Justice shuffled slowly towards her. "Rubble, you say?"

        "Yes. It was... smoldering... it looked like a support beam for a building's roof or maybe a corner of some wooden shack's foundation. I don't know. I'm no architect."

        "But you remember the debris?"

        "Yes."

        "Clearly?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Describe it, if you will, to the extent of your memory."

        Minuette's face scrunched up as she rubbed her head and thought aloud, "The piece of debris was... probably two-thirds of a meter by a-quarter meter. The ends were shattered, brown, and splintery. Half of the chunk that lay before me was burning."

        "Can you describe the fire?"

        "Yes. It was... well... warm, but starting to simmer down into a smolder. It had a sulfuric smell to it. And, most striking of all, it was green."

        "Green?"

        "Yes, sir. Green flame."

        "How did you react when you saw this, Ms. Minuette?"

        "Well, I was startled, sir. Though it takes a lot to pull me out of my concentration, I'm usually easily frightened when it happens, much less by falling pieces of burning wood. I-I remember my blood pumping hard through my limbs, and I felt as if a knot had formed in my stomach."

        "After the debris fell, what did you do?"

        "I... uh... I stood up, and... I-I stayed there, looking south across the edge of the balcony."

        "You stood there and looked south?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "May I ask why?"

        "Because... b-because I saw the source of the explosion," Minuette said. "Or at least, what I thought it was at the time. I couldn't guess what else it was."

        "What did you see?"

        "The bed and breakfast inn—half a block away—was gone."

        "Gone?"

        "Well, half of its foundation was missing. It's a two story building, Mr. Justice... that is, it was. All I could see was flame and smoke."

        "Could you describe it?"

        "What, the flame and smoke?"

        "Yes."

        "Green, sir. Green and... pungent. Why, I could smell the sulfur from where I stood."

        "I thought you said you smelled the sulfur from the debris that had fallen onto your balcony."

        "Well, yes. That's true, sir. But there was a wind blowing north. It carried the heat from the exploded building's fire... as well as the smell. It was a great deal stronger than the debris that had landed in front of me."

        "And what did you proceed to do after seeing this fire, Ms. Minuette?" Blind Justice asked. "Did you contact the authorities?"

        "Well, n-no, sir."

        "No?"

        "I... honestly, I-I was too stunned to do much of anything," Minuette stated.

        "Because of the explosion?"

        "No, sir. Because... well... because whatever had happened wasn't stopping."

        "How do you mean?"

        "I saw the exploded building, but I also saw something else... er... someone else..."

        "Who or what did you see?"

        Minuette gulped. "There was a figured. Uhm... small, bipedal, purple and green in color. And it was facing the building."

        "Was it doing anything to the building?"

        Minuette exhaled hard and shook her head. "I didn't see it do anything to the building, sir." She gulped. "But... I-I did see it doing something to the other buildings while I watched."

        "What did you see, Ms. Minuette?"

        "I saw the figure marching down the street, heading... t-towards the direction of my apartment. And it was lunging forward. Fire came from its neck and throat. It was... it was setting the buildings on fire, one by one, s-sir..."

        "Could you describe the flames?"

        "Uh... g-green, sir. Green, just like the debris and the exploded building."

        "And could you describe the figure you had seen again? You mentioned that it was heading closer to the vicinity of your apartment?"

        "Yes. The body of it was colored purple and it had green spots or ridges across its head, neck, and back."

        "And the figure's height?"

        "I'd say about a third of a meter. About half the height of myself... er... or most adult ponies."

        Blind Justice took a deep breath and shuffled in the direction of the jury. "Ms. Minuette, you said that you possessed something akin to a mimetic memory, is that correct?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Are ponies with mimetic memories known for their forgetfulness?"

        "Not... usually, sir. Quite the opposite."

        "You are certain of your recollection of the colors, shape, and dimension of this fire-breathing figure?"

        "Most definitely, sir. It's especially hard to get the images out of my mind."

        "If you were to see the figure right now, would you be able to identify it?"

        Minuette blinked. Nervously gulping, she said, "Why, yes. Yes, I would."

        "Ms. Minuette, is the figure in this courtroom right now?"

        The air was silent. Minuette spoke in a low tone. "Yes, Mr. Justice. I see the figure in the court."

        "Would you please point to the figure that you see?"

        She bit her lip. Keeping her head down, she nevertheless pointed her hoof straight across the courtroom, and straight at the little dragon whelp situated next to Rarity and Legal Eagle.

        Spike clasped his hands together. He could feel his beating heart through his claws. His vision started to blur slightly.

        Blind Justice wasn't finished. "Ms. Minuette..." He shuffled slowly back to the witness stand. "When you realized that this fire-breathing figure that you saw was heading towards your apartment, did you feel in danger?"

        "Y-yes, sir. I was... ahem... I was quite afraid."

        "What did you do then?"


        "I tried c-calling out to him!" Time Turner exclaimed. He sat, wide-eyed, in the witness stand as Blind Justice stood before him. "I-I wasn't thinking rationally at the time, I suppose. I thought that I might be able to get him to st-stop if he realized that he was hurting ponies and destroying property!"

        "What did you call him?"

        "Well.. I... I-I didn't realize his name at the time," Time Turner muttered, fidgeting. "I mean, I was familiar with the dragon. Although vaguely. It's not common to see a creature like that in an Equestrian village, whelp or not."

        "Were you not familiar with the dragon's internship with Twilight Sparkle?" Blind Justice remarked.

        "Objection!" Rarity stood and said, "The prosecution is leading the witness."

        "Sustained," Judge Winters calmly stated.

        Without losing his stride, Blind Justice leaned against the prosecution table and continued addressing the stallion. "So, then, you approached the fire-breather?"

        "Y-yes, sir."

        "Were you afraid of this figure?"

        "Heh..." Time Turner smiled nervously. "Obviously not afraid enough. I got close enough that I tapped his shoulder."

        "That was certainly brave of you, Mr. Turner."

        "That or stupid."

        "And what happened after you touched his shoulder?"

        Time Turner shuddered. "He... uh... he spun around and struck me."

        "Struck you?"

        "Yes, sir. With his tail."

        "Where did he strike you?"

        "Along my left side, just above the left rear leg. I... uh... I'm just now starting to lose the bruise that it left."

        "Can you still see it?"

        "Faintly, sir."

        "Could you show the court?"

        "The... court, sir?"

        "Yes."

        Taking a deep breath, Time Turner stood up and pivoted against the front of the witness stand. He stretched his leg to show a diagonal discoloration that blemished through his brown coat, stretching from the ribcage to the top of his left limb besides a flicking tail. A hushed murmur rolled through the crowd in attendance.

        "That's enough, Mr. Turner," Blind Justice eventually said. "Much appreciated."

        The stallion sat back down, fighting a brief shiver.

        "When he struck you, did you fall back?"

        "More like I flew back, sir."

        "Please describe."

        "Well, it's pretty simple. I crashed through a news stand. I had my wits knocked out of me pretty bad. It wasn't until two helpful ponies—Amethyst Star and Ace—showed up and hoisted me out of the collapsed bits of the stand."

        "And where was the suspect at this point?"

        "Walking down the street, setting a hotel on fire."

        "You saw him?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "How did you feel, having been struck back and all?"

        "I was stinging all over. Amethyst Star and Ace were surprised I wasn't shattered in two. I gotta admit... that tail hurt really bad."

        "You could stand?"

        "Yes, though I pretty much had the courage knocked out of me."

        "How do you mean?"


        "I... I-I ran away..." Roseluck stammered, fighting to keep her gaze straight on Blind Justice from where she sat. Three ponies had to help her into the witness stand, and she sat at an awkward angle to compensate for a lower leg that was still in a cast. What's more, her mane had been cut noticeably short in order to compensate for several bangs that had been singed off at the halfway point. "I... I wish to say that I was courageous, but I wasn't. The dragon was coming straight for me and the other ponies at the picnic. I... j-just took off and ran. I wanted to know that my house was safe... that my neighbors weren't burnt to a crisp."

        "Were you alone at this picnic, Ms. Roseluck?" Blind Justice asked.

        She slowly shook her head. "No. There were other ponies gathered around. It was a beautiful afternoon... on th-that day in August. Mares and stallions were picnicking." She winced slightly. "Foals played about. And then... then..." Her teeth clenched as her body jolted a few times with fitful spasms.

        Blind Justice shuffled about in somber silence. Eventually, he asked her, "When did you first start running, Ms. Roseluck?"

        The mare hid her face in the crook of her forelimb and stifled a sobbing breath.

        "Take as much time as you need, madame."

        "No... I-I'm fine... I... uhm..." She tilted her head back up with glistening eyes. "I heard a commotion from downtown. It sounded like screams and the crashing of wood. That's when everypony around me in the park started standing up and looking towards town. Smoke was rising. For a moment there, I thought we were under attack."

        "And you ran away?"

        "Yes. Well, I ran home. Everypony was galloping home," Roseluck said. "We didn't realize how terrible that whole afternoon was going to be. So many of the villagers were worried about their loved ones. That's why so many of us headed towards the violence... at least at first."

        "And yet you insist you ran away...?"

        She nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. After I saw... him..."

        Spike nearly fell out of his chair from the steely glare thrown his way. He immediately lowered his gaze towards his clasped hands. At the touch of Rarity's hoof, however, he was urged to sit upright once again. He did his best not to look nervous... or guilty.

        "Where was it that you saw him, Ms. Roseluck?"

        "On the corner of Windbrook and... uhm... Tinderwood, I think."

        "That's close to downtown, isn't it?"

        "Yes. On the southeast edge. I sell flowers there a lot on weekdays."

        "And the suspect was situated in this part of town?"

        "I h-had just galloped in with the crowd from the park... well, most of them, at least. We immediately felt the heat from the dragon's fires. Pieces of the village were all landing around us. I... I-I lost any courage right then and there, Mr. Justice."

        "How do you mean?"

        "I-I ran straight for my home. Or at least I tried to."

        "Did you make it there?"

        "N-no, sir."

        "What stopped you?"

        "The dragon... h-he breathed fire at me and the other p-ponies..." Roseluck's lips quivered as she struggled to speak. "I felt my m-mane catching fire. I... I began to smell my own skin b-burning. And... and then it became dark."

        "Became dark?"

        "B-because part of the building to my left had fallen on me. The Silver Fleece Apartments. I was buried for minutes under rubble. I... I-I couldn't feel my leg; I swore it was cleaved off. Thank Celestia th-that I got to keep it. But when they dragged me out—"

        "Bed your pardon, madame, but who dragged you out?"

        "Two volunteer fireponies. They dug me out of the rubble. I was in so much pain that they had to put me on a stretcher. On the way to a makeshift hospital, I... I-I saw my home... and..." She started to pant heavily. "It was g-gone, Mr. Justice... it was b-burned to the ground! All I wanted was to see if other ponies were alright, and for that, h-he buried me in rubble and torched my home.. I... I-I don't understand..." Tears poured out of her eyes as she curled her forelimbs to her chest. "Nnngh... why? Why did h-he do it? What did we ever do to him to deserve this?"

        The crowd was dead silent as Blind Justice exchanged glances with the judge. Judge Winters nodded. The stallion shuffled up to the witness and breathed calmly.

        "Shhh... Take as long as you need to compose yourself, Ms. Roseluck. I understand you've been through a lot, but there are still a few questions that need to be asked..."

        "Yes... y-yes, I-I understand, sir..." She gulped and dried her face with a forelimb. Standing up straight, she gazed at him with a serious an expression that she could muster. "What else would you like to know?"



        "And when you finally reached Sugarcube Corner," Blind Justice asked, "Was it burned down already?"

        "Not yet, but it was about to be! All I knew was that I needed to fetch the mayor about all of this!" Ms. Cup Cake exclaimed, her face bright and earnest. "Ponies were being burned and assaulted left and right! And suddenly, Spike was right there! And he was about to attack my little Pumpkin!"

        "Objection," Rarity said, standing up at the table. "Witness is drawing conclusions."

        "I am not!" Cup Cake barked, glaring across the court at the defense table. "You think I don't know when my babies are in danger?!"

        "Order... Order!" Judge Winters growled, silencing the room immediately. Weathering a sigh, she said, "From this point forth, the court reminds the witness that she must answer the prosecution's questions directly. Please find it within yourself to resist the urge to embellish."

        "But I'm not embellishing, your honor!" Ms. Cake stammered. "He was standing there and he was about to pounce my Pumpkin! His clawmarks were all over town! I knew it was him all along—"

        "Ms. Cake, you will answer the questions and only the questions given you or you will be forcefully removed from the stand for being in contempt of court."

        Ms. Cake opened her mouth again, but lingered. Frowning, she folded her arms and glared away from the judge's seat.

        Winters looked over at Blind Justice once again. "You may proceed, Mr. Justice."

        He was leaning calmly against the edge of the prosecution's table. He took a great deal of time in shuffling back towards the witness' stand. By the time he reached Ms. Cake's side, she had managed to calm down, but just barely.

        "You were injured, yes?" Blind Justice inquired.

        "Yes," she grunted. "Just like I told you earlier, my rear leg was cut wide from a flying piece of debris because the dragon sent it flying in my direc—" She winced, sighed, and muttered, "My leg was cut from flying debris."

        He nodded, pivoting slightly on his limp as he said, "And when you reached Sugarcube Corner, it was on fire?"

        "Yes."

        "What color was the fire?"

        "Green. Green with black smoke."

        "And you saw your child there?"

        "Yes. Pumpkin was sitting in the front yard, crying her eyes out."

        "How did you two get separated?"

        "It's not like I wanted us to!" Ms. Cake exclaimed. "My husband was at home with her while I was out in the marketplace with Pound Cake!"

        "What happened to your husband?"

        "Carrot got hurt pretty bad, but not as bad as me or other ponies. He fell unconscious from a ceiling beam of Sugarcube's first floor falling next to him. A rescue team pulled him out, but they were a bunch of nincompoops—Everypony in town knows we've got foals! Why didn't they look through the Corner for my precious Pumpkin?! I almost lost her..."

        "Is that why you went back to Sugarcube Corner?" Blind Justice asked. "In spite of your injury?"

        "They brought Carrot to the triage center where I was trying to recover from my injury. When I saw that he was alone—without Pumpkin—I got hysterical. When none of the volunteer nurses were looking, I galloped across town. I almost ran into the dragon twice."

        "The suspect? Twice?"

        "Yes, once in the marketplace when he breathed fire at me, and another time when the little devil tried to make a building front collapse on me like he did to my beloved Carrot at Sugarcube Corner—"

        Rarity sat up. "Objection..."

        Blind Justice waved his hoof, sighed, and looked squarely at Ms. Cake. "You said that you first saw him at the marketplace thirty minutes previous when you were with Pound Cake?"

        "Er... yes, sir. Yes."

        "And you saw the suspect then?"

        "Yes, I saw a small purple dragon with green crests and spitting emerald fire." Ms. Cake shrugged her shoulders. "Why is this so hard to connect?"

        "This dragon came at you?"

        "He came at the whole marketplace. He was moving very slow, breathing fire on anything that moved, including us."

        "How close did he come to you?"

        "About three meters. Close enough for me to know who it was."

        "And when you galloped back to Sugarcube Corner, you saw him again along the way?"

        "Yes. Twice. Just like I said..."

        "And when you arrived at Sugarcube Corner?"

        "Yes. Again, yes. It was him! It had to have been him! Maybe..." She stammered briefly, hitting an emotional pitch to her voice. The anger drained away, replaced instead by a fitful shudder. "Maybe you can understand why I-I was so terrified for my sweet little Pumpkin. I already saw him attacking the town—and me—three different times. I felt for s-sure that it was going to happen again! That's why I grabbed my foal and tried scampering away. I... I-I was afraid for my life... for all of our lives..."

        "And when you saw him this fourth and last time... did he attack you?"

        She gulped and shook her head. "No. But, to be honest, I was too afraid to stick around and let him."

        "But he made no attempt to pursue you?"

        "No, sir," she murmured, much more calmly.

        "Did it cross you mind that something may have changed about him?"

        "What?" She looked up, then frowned. "No!"

        "But he didn't attack you this time..."

        "That didn't matter!"

        "Really?" Blind Justice leaned his head to the side. "Why not?"

        "Because it was the same dragon!"

        "And how do you know this?"

        "Are you serious?"

        "Please answer the question, Ms. Cake. That's all I ask."

        "Because he... h-he was the same dragon!" Ms. Cake frowned. "He had the same purple scales, the same green crests! The same green breaths! The same height! The same voice whenever he inhaled or exhaled!" She leaned forward against the stand and frowned. "I've known Spike for as long as he's lived here in Ponyville. I know what he looks and sounds like. I have the best nose in town, and I can tell he's walked into the room just from the faint scent of sulfur in the air! Look, I don't know why he did what he did or what got into him or what-have-you, but it was definitely him! I've never had a reason to hate the little guy. Heck, the fella once grew super large from a dragon ailment and did a lot of damage to Sugarcube Corner! But this was different! This time, he was attacking ponies! This time... he... h-he attacked my family! My beloved Carrot... my darling Pound and Pumpkin..." She slumped back with a sigh, running a hoof through her pink mane. "I just don't understand why it all happened. I only know that it was him... and... and I was so angry... th-that's why I contacted the Mayor." She sniffed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Justice. I apologize to you and the court. I just... I just don't understand any of it..."

        Silence reigned for a few seconds, during which Blind Justice lethargically swiveled from the witness and gazed halfway at the judge. "No further questions, your honor." He made his way slowly towards the prosecution's bench.

        After a few voices coughed and murmured, Judge Winters faced the defense table. "Would the defendant's representatives wish to ask any questions of the witness?"

        "Yes, your honor," Legal Eagle said. He made to stand up—only to have a white hoof hold him back. Curious, he glanced aside.

        Rarity stood up slowly. She exchanged glances calmly with Eagle, and the stallion sat down, giving her the opportunity to rise instead. Spike watched curiously as Rarity straightened her suit and walked gracefully towards the witness stand.

        Sniffling, Ms. Cake looked up, casting Rarity a look that was as icy as it was anxious.

        "Ms. Cake, if you wouldn't mind telling the court again about the first of the four occasions when you saw the suspect on August the twelfth."

        "Huh? Why?" The mare frowned. "Didn't they hear me the first time?"

        Judge Winters was already stirring to turn and speak. Rarity spoke ahead of her, "Ms. Cake, must I remind you that you are obligated to answer the questions asked of you in court."

        "Very well then," Ms. Cake muttered, shifting in her seat. "Like I said earlier, I was at the marketplace with Pound Cake. Ponies started running towards me, galloping in straight, screaming lines. At first, I thought it was another parasprite swarm. I turned to look, and I saw the dragon walking towards us. That's when I began running too."

        Rarity raised an eyebrow. "You saw the dragon, and that's when you began running?"

        "Yes, Ms. Rarity, I saw Spike," Ms. Cake practically spat.

        "Very well. You saw Spike." Rarity paced about the witness stand. "And yet, as you have so detailed to this court, you've known Spike for all the time he's lived in Ponyville."

        "Yes. That's correct."

        "And in all of that time, has he ever given you a reason to make you want to run away from him?"

        "Not until now."

        "But before now?"

        Ms. Cake stifled a growl as she said, "There was that one time when he turned huge and attacked most of the buildings in Ponyville—or has everypony forgotten that?"

        "No, Ms. Cake, nopony has forgotten," Rarity said. "It's simply that we are not trying the suspect for the dragon ailment that afflicted him on his last birthday. We are trying him for what he may or may not have done on August the twelfth."

        "What do you mean, 'he may or may not have done—'"

        "So, as a normal-sized whelp, a baby dragon, he has not previously given you a reason to run away from him?"

        "Well... no!" Ms. Cake exclaimed. "He's never attacked or breathed fire on anypony before!"

        "And yet you ran when you saw him at the marketplace on August the twelfth?"

        "Well... no. I didn't run away because I saw him."

        "Why did you run away?"

        "I ran away 'cuz he was breathing fire everywhere!"

        "You saw him or the fire?"

        "Huh?"

        "It's a simple question, Ms. Cake," Rarity stated, staring at her firmly now with cold blue eyes. "You saw the suspect or you saw the fire?"

        "I saw the suspect and I ran away from him like every other pony!"

        "But you just said that the sight of Spike never made you run away before—"

        "Then I saw the fire coming from his mouth, okay?!"

        Rarity's gaze narrowed even further. "You saw the fire first, then?"

        "I... well..." Ms. Cake fidgeted. "It's how I knew that I was in danger, if that's what you're getting at. It wasn't just the fact that I saw Spike. I saw him breathing fire!"

        "You actually saw him breathing fire?"

        "Who else could be breathing green fire like that?! Huh?"

        Rarity's lips pursed. A murmur ran through the audience as she lifted a hoof, pointing. "You didn't answer the question. Did you actually see him breathe fire, Ms. Cake?"

        "I saw green fire coming towards us as he was coming towards us—"

        "Was it the suspect breathing fire? Did you see it coming out of his mouth?"

        "Look, does it matter? All of the other witnesses saw—"

        "I am not questioning the other witnesses, Ms. Cake. I'm questioning you."

        "Questioning?! Pffft!" Ms. Cake almost stood up, growling. "You're trying to confuse me! This is b-badgering!"

        "Witness, please sit down," Judge Winters exclaimed.

        "Fitting that you of all ponies would defend the little romantic so desperately, Miss Rarity!" Ms. Cake spat.

        "Order!" Winters growled. "No more of this nonsense, Ms. Cake! I'm warning you—" She nodded towards the bailiff.

        Lt. Knightsteed marched towards the witness stand. She stopped—however—upon seeing Rarity's hoof raised.

        The elegant unicorn calmly shook her head, then turned towards the witness. "Yes, Ms. Cake. I am defending Spike. Like every other pony in this court, I am seeking to ascertain the truth, the same truth that you have been sworn to uphold in the spirit of Equestrian peace and harmony. Now, you have spent the last fifteen minutes answering Blind Justice's questions, in which you described seeing Spike on four separate occasions, describing his physical qualities in precise detail. I'm asking you, are you certain that you saw Spike on the first occasion, when you were attacked at the marketplace?"

        "I saw his flame."

        "Just his flame?"

        "No. I saw him as well."

        "You saw the flame, and then Spike?"

        "I... yes."

        "Ms. Cake, when you saw the flame, was this before or after the ponies started running past you?"

        "What difference does it make?"

        "Ms. Cake..."

        "Nnngh... I noticed the ponies running past me, screaming. Pound Cake was starting to cry as well. I turned around from my shopping. I saw the green flame."

        "And what did you do when you saw the green flame?"

        "What else did I do? I ran away!" Ms. Cake exclaimed. "I didn't just have my own skin to save, but my darling Pound was in trouble as well!"

        "So you ran?"

        "Yes."

        "In the same direction as the other ponies?"

        "Yes..."

        "And in the middle of this running, when did you find the time to see that the green flame was coming from the suspect's figure?"

        "I..." Ms. Cake's face paled. "Well... I... I-I guess it was somewhere in the middle of turning to run from the fire—"

        "You guess?" Rarity trotted towards the witness stand. "You 'guess' or you 'know,' Ms. Cake?"

        "Look, it all happened so fast—"

        "Did you see the source of the flames?"

        "Of course I did!"

        "And you're absolutely positive that it came from the suspect? You're certain it came from Spike!"

        "I'm sure that I saw him! A streak of purple scales and green crests!"

        "A streak?"

        "I was so busy... tr-trying to run away—"

        "Do you mean to suggest that you saw him in passing? Out of the corner of your eye?"

        "Whatever the case, I saw him!" Ms. Cake exclaimed. "He was there and he was breathing fire!"

        "Ms. Cake, you've just told the court how concerned you were for your child's safety. You told us that you started running along with the other ponies through the marketplace. Are you certain that you didn't just see the flames and assume that the dragon in question was the one responsible for the attack?"

        "Objection!" a pony at Blind Justice's table stood and said. "Leading the witness."

        Before Judge Winters could rule on that, Ms. Cake's loud response filled the courtroom, "Look, when I did see him, I knew that it couldn't possibly have been any one else but him!"

        "When did you see him?" Rarity asked, raising her voice to match. "At what moment, Ms. Cake?"

        "At Sugarcube Corner! When he was about to attack Pumpkin—"

        "And what of the other two times?"

        "The other two times—?"

        "During your trip through town to Sugarcube Corner. The one you said you took—galloping as quickly as your injured leg could afford—after Carrot showed up at the emergency triage..."

        "I... I was attacked b-by him twice along the way—"

        "But did you see him, Ms. Cake?"

        "I saw... I-I saw flames..."

        "You saw flames? Only flames?"

        "It had to have been him!" the mare's voice cracked as she started shaking all over. "Honestly, who else could have attacked my family?"

        "Ms. Cake, so far, the only convincing testimony you've given that indicates that you saw the suspect at all was when you ran into him at Sugarcube Corner," Rarity exclaimed, standing firmly in the center of the witness' vision. "What are the chances that—in fear for your family and in agony from the injuries you sustained—you only connected the flame that you saw to the dragon whelp in question?"

        "Objection—" Blind Justice's table tried to interject.

        "Why are you even doing this?!" Ms. Cake stood up, slapping the witness stand with her hooves. "Have you lost all decency?" she growled. "Everypony knows it was him! What was it—thirty suspects?! I'm not the only one, M-Miss Rarity! That little dragon is a monster underneath! We c-can't have him around my family anymore!" Ms. Cake panted and panted, her ears drooping as her sweaty face paled. "Our families... our families, I-I mean... I... I meant to say..." She grimaced as she slumped down to her haunches in the witness stand.

        Rarity stood there, staring calmly, neutrally at her.

        Spike blinked. He glanced to his right. Blind Justice was leaning back in his chair, stressfully rubbing his temples with the edge of his hoof. The dragon was nearly shaken out of his scales when he finally heard Judge Winters' quiet, somber voice.

        "Do you have any further questions for the witness, Miss Rarity?"



        "I do, your Honor," Legal Eagle said as he stood up and shuffled out from the table. Calmly, he approached the stand where an emotional Roseluck stood, trying to calm her own shuddering breaths. "Ms. Roseluck, first off, I wish to say that you have my sympathies. I'm happy to hear that you have recovered a great deal from the injuries suffered on that day."

        She gulped and nodded quietly. "Thank you, sir. It's... uh... good to know that you're so concerned."

        "It must have taken a great deal of courage for you to show up today, especially to discuss the unpleasant events that transpired weeks ago."

        "It h-hasn't been easy..."

        Eagle adjusted his glasses and stood close to the stand. "I was paying attention to the answers you gave Mr. Justice, and I noticed a curious detail. If you wouldn't mind, could you tell the court again the street you were on when you first were attacked?"

        "Yes. It was on Windbrook and Tinderwood."

        "And what was the name of the building that fell on you from the suspect's flames?"

        "The... erm... the Silver Fleece Apartments, sir. I was incredibly lucky, all things considered. It was a three story building."

        "How much time passed between the attack that took place at the corner of Windbrook and Tinderwood and when the hotel collapsed on you?"

        "It... it had to have been seconds, sir!" Roseluck exclaimed. "I had barely started running from the dragon. Before I could even think, I... I-I was under rubble..."

        "Seconds, Ms. Roseluck?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "Not minutes?"

        "No. It was... it all happened so fast."

        "You're certain of this?"

        "As sure as I am about being in court here and now."

        Legal Eagle took two tiny steps towards her, biding his time before asking, "Ms. Roseluck, where is the Silver Fleece Apartments located?"

        "Well, it's all rubble now, sir."

        The young stallion smiled gently. "I mean to ask—where was it located?"

        "Why, on Parsley Street, just... p-past the post office..." Her voice trailed off, as did her teary gaze.

        Legal Eagle adjusted his glasses again. "Ahem... on Parsley Street, you say?"

        "I... I..."

        "Ms. Roseluck, Parsley Street is indeed the location of the Silver Fleece Apartments. But it also happens to be five blocks away from the corner of Windbrook and Tinderwood."

        Roseluck's brow furrowed. She made a pained expression. "I... I suppose it is..."

        "So you mean to suggest that during the 'mere seconds' that the dragon attacked you, you managed to cross five full blocks? That's over ninety meters, Ms. Roseluck, not counting the path that would have to be taken to reach the Silver Fleece Apartments while avoiding the buildings and trees. A grown stallion with athletic prowess would take a minute and a half to cover such a distance at full gallop."

        "But... But I was certain th-that..."

        "Ms. Roseluck, how long have you lived in Ponyville?"

        "Uhm.. fifteen years, sir."

        "So you're certain about the locations and the architecture of most of the buildings in town?"

        "But of course! I—"

        "Yet you somehow managed to fall victim to the collapse of the Silver Fleece Apartments so suddenly?"

        "Maybe..." Roseluck thought aloud. "Maybe it was another building—"

        "But you just confirmed that you're familiar with the layout of Ponyville. What's more, you described the Silver Fleece Apartments as a third-story structure. Is this true?"

        "Yes. I did say that."

        "Ms. Roseluck, are you familiar with the fact that all of the buildings along Tinderwood Street are one-story tall only?"

        She fidgeted with her cast, chewing on her lip as a bulb of sweat ran down her forehead.

        "Ms. Roseluck?"

        "Yes. Yes, they are... all small cottages along Tinderwood Street..."

        Legal Eagle paced for a few seconds. After a deep breath, he asked, "Ms. Roseluck, is it true that you've had a complicated medical history in Ponyville?"

        She snapped him a curious glance. "Huh?"

        He looked squarely at her. "Namely, you've undergone a series of regularly scheduled psychiatic evaluations for three years running."

        "Objection." Blind Justice stood up. "The witness is not on trial, nor should her medical history be."

        Legal Eagle swiveled towards the judge's bench. "I simply wish to bring to question the witness' capability of recalling the traumatic events of August the Twelfth with accuracy. A history with psychological disorder may have had an effect on the validity of her testimony. It is not the defense's wish to deconstruct Ms. Roseluck's character nor embarrass her in any fashion."

        "Your honor—" Blind Justice began.

        Judge Winters rubbed her muzzle in thought. Then, with a deep breath, she said, "Overruled." As Blind Justice sat down, she pivoted towards the attorney. "Mr. Eagle, I am going to allow this, so long as you keep your questions pertinent to the trial."

        "Absolutely, your honor." He turned once more to the witness. "Ms. Roseluck, according to the local medical reports, you have paid several visits to the Ponyville Hospital's Department of Psychiatric Therapy. Is this true?"

        Roseluck hesitantly nodded. "Yes, sir. It is true."

        "What specifically have you undergone therapy for?"

        She gulped and shuddered to say, "I have been diagnosed more than once with Acute Anxiety."

        "And what are the symptoms of Acute Anxiety?"

        She gnawed on her lip. "Uhm... according to my psychiatrist, paranoia, depression, panic attacks—"

        "Panic attacks?"

        "Yes, s-sir."

        "What happens during one of these 'panic attacks?'"

        "I... I-I tend to freeze up."

        "Freeze up?"

        "I... uh... I lose... uhm... I lose my grasp of the situation. I black out—well, I don't exactly black out, but I tend to see everything as a blur, like I'm having an out-of-body experience. My therapists tell me that this is the body's way of dealing with stress..."

        Legal Eagle smiled slightly. "And things have been pretty stressful in Ponyville these last few years, haven't they?"

        She chuckled. A huge exhale came out of her, as if it was a relief to hear and respond to that. "Yes, sir. Things have been... very... very stressful..."

        "For all ponies, I imagine."

        "Yes..." A single tear rolled down Roseluck's cheek. "For most of us..."

        "Are you the only pony who attends therapy sessions at the Ponyville Hospital?"

        "Uhm..." She gulps. "No. As a matter of fact, I attend most sessions with a group."

        "A group?" Legal Eagle leaned his head to the side. "So there are other ponies who are diagnosed with Acute Anxiety?"

        "Well... kind of sort of. We're in there for all sorts of reasons..."

        "Stress related?"

        She gulped and nodded, "Yes. Most of it all due to the stress of... well... living in Ponyville..."

        Legal Eagle took a few steps, biding his time, then pivoted towards her again. "Ms. Roseluck, this picnic that you were at when the fires in town started... did you attend alone?"

        "No, sir. There were lots of other ponies there."

        "But did any of these ponies go with you?"

        She hesitated, but ultimately nodded.

        "Then you weren't alone?"

        She shook her head. "No, sir."

        "And were any of the ponies with you at the time... members of the same therapy sessions that you attend?"

        She bit her lip before saying, "Yes."

        "Who were you with, Ms. Roseluck?"

        "Lily and Daisy... We... We hang out a lot together."

        "Because you're friends?"

        "Well, not just that."

        "Why else, then?"

        "Because our therapist thinks we would relieve our stress better if we got fresh air while in each other's company." She looked up with quivering eyes. "So that we can support each other."

        "Do you find it easy to support yourselves when the three of you are in stressful situations?"

        "Erm..." She sighed and hung her head again. "No."

        "Why is that?"

        "Well, it's the reason we got into therapy to begin with."

        "Oh?"

        She nodded. "Everypony knows why..."

        "Would you mind telling the court why, anyways?"

        "Well... eheh..." Roseluck smiled nervously. "We're... we're prone to... uhm... freaking out at the smallest things..."

        "By 'freaking out,' could you mean suffering panic attacks?"

        "Pretty much."

        "'Pretty much?'"

        "Ahem..." She looked up, weakly nodding. "Yes. Yes, we... we tend to suffer panic attacks the most when we're in the same group. We've gone through so many crazy things in Ponyville, after all. Our therapist thinks we're all... uhm... 'collectively scarred.' He says it happens a lot in war scenarios, but not so much in... uhm... most Equestrian villages."

        "Ms. Roseluck, were you with Lily and Daisy when you first started running from the green flame?"

        "I... uh... I was, yes."

        "And were you undergoing a panic attack at the time?"

        She wiped her eyes dry, shuddered, and said, "Yes. Yes, I'm certain I was then."

        A murmur rose behind Legal as he faced her and asked, "You're certain now? You weren't certain then?"

        "All I knew was that a dragon was chasing us and I-I had to get away for my life!"

        "And when did this panic attack end, do you think?"

        "Sometime after I was pulled out of the Silver Fleece's rubble... I guess..."

        "You're certain of this?"

        "I... uhm... I felt a great deal of pain from my leg. It sort of shook me awake, y'know?"

        "And when you saw Spike, what did you do?"

        "Why, I fr-freaked out!" she stammered. "I felt a panic attack coming again! I thought I had done so well that day, but then it made sense to me that he must have been the one causing the flames, and I lost it! I..." She grimaced as her gaze fell into the distance.

        Legal Eagle raised an eyebrow. "So, you were certain that you saw Spike after being pulled from the rubble? When you were clear in the head?"

        "I... well.. yes..."

        "And were you so certain that you saw him earlier? When you and your friends were panicking in each other's company?"

        "I... I..." Roseluck was shivering at this point. Another tear ran down her cheek. "I... don't know..."

        "Ms. Roseluck, how did you make it from Tinderwood Street to the Silver Fleece Apartments during the time the attack took place?"

        "I..." She hung her head. "I don't know..."

        Legal Eagle nodded slowly, then took a deep breath.




        At last, he asked, "The suspect's back was to you when you tapped him on the shoulder?"

        "Yes, sir," Time Turner said with a nod. "I saw his green crests and everything. It was hot, but he was breathing fire away from me... towards the building fronts and such."

        Legal Eagle paced to a stop, gesturing as he spoke. "I won't bother to question you about what possessed you to approach such a dangerous scene at the time..."

        "Well, good..." Time Turner smiled nervously. "I-I'm not sure I can stand to look any sillier before the court today."

        A few chuckles echoed across the court as Eagle smiled and turned towards the side of the room. "If I could have the body scale exhibit, please."

        A pony walked to the side, then came back with a white placard. Legal Eagle took it, then spun it around for Time Turner to see. It showed a black outline of Spike standing up, along with the labeled dimensions of his body and limbs.

        "What do you see on this placard, Mr. Turner?"

        "Uhm..." The stallion leaned forward from his seat and squinted. "What appears to be a scaled illustration of the suspect, complete with labeled lengths and dimensions."

        "It was made to the precise measurements of Spike, the dragon you see before you." Legal Eagle pivoted it about so that the jury could see. After a few seconds, he held it before him while speaking over the exhibit to the witness. "Can you read the height listed on here? The height of the suspect?"

        "It's labeled at 0.55 meters."

        "Would you say that is accurate, Mr. Turner?"

        "Yes. I think so."

        Legal Eagle turned around and faced the table where Spike sat. "If the suspect could please stand up..."

        Spike blinked. He glanced up at Rarity.

        "It's okay, dear," she said with an encouraging smile. "Do as Mr. Eagle asks."

        With a shuddering breath, Spike slid out of the chair and waddled to the side. He stood beside the table as instructed.

        "Please, Spike, if you would, stretch your arms out," Legal Eagle said.

        Spike obeyed.

        "And now your tail."

        Spike blinked curiously at the attorney, but nevertheless he did so, showing the full length of his fifth appendage.

        Legal Eagle pivoted towards Time Turner once again. "Does this match the exhibit, in your opinion?"

        "Yes. I'd say so, pretty much."

        "Does it match the suspect as you saw him on August the Twelfth?"

        "Yes. It does seem to be the same dimensions, through and through."

        "Mr. Turner, when you tapped the shoulder of the suspect, before he struck you with his... his tail, was it?"

        "Yes."

        "Where was he positioned in relationship to you?"

        "Well, I tapped him on the shoulder, so I think it's fairly obvious that he was standing in front of me."

        "Was he?"

        "Yes. He was."

        "With his back to you?"

        "Correct."

        "How far from your front, would you say?"

        "Well... he was... uh... he was right in front of me!"

        "Did you see his face?"

        "I..." Time Turner winced. "I-I didn't get a chance to. All that I know is that he struck me with his tail. And he struck me hard."

        "Without so much as spinning around?"

        "No. He didn't need to. He just swung his tail and—wham!—I was eating grass."

        "Did you move at all?"

        "Huh?"

        "Did your body move in relation to his during or before the tail was swung?"

        "Like I said, I didn't see it coming! In hindsight I really should have. He was burning everything in front of him—why would he want to give me the time of day?"

        Legal Eagle leaned on the placard like it was a cane. He asked, "Mr. Turner, where did the tail hit you?"

        "Along the left flank, right above the rear leg."

        "You showed the court just minutes ago—Would you care to show the court again?"

        Time Turner shrugged. "Well, alright. I can only wave my butt at the court so many times." A few chuckles arose as he pivoted in the stand and once more showed the discolored bruise along his left rear. "There. Just where it was the last time."

        "Mr. Turner, would you say that you're average in size for a stallion your age?"

        "Uhm..." He fidgeted as he sat down. "So to speak. Why do you ask?"

        "What is your length, from muzzle to flank?"

        "Oh. Uhm... about 1.3 meters."

        "The bruise you've sustained is on your left flank, above the leg. Would it be safe to say that its location is shorter than your total length?"

        "Yes, that would be accurate."

        "How far from your muzzle would you estimate your leg is located, around the spot where you were bruised?"

        "Why... uh... 1.1 meters, I'm guessing? 1.2? That's cutting it real close to the actual length."

        "Understood." Legal Eagle then lifted the placard again, so that both Time Turner and the jury could see it at once. "Mr. Turner, look—if you will—at the numbers affixed to the suspect's tail. Do you see them?"

        "Uh... yes. Yes, sir, I do."

        "What do the numbers say?"

        "Uhm..." Time Turner blinked. "They say 0.2 meters."

        "0.2 meters?"

        "Yes..."

        "You do realize that this is the official record taken by medical examiners who studied the dimensions of the suspect shortly after he was taken into custody. Correct?"

        "Uhhh... Yes. I... uh... I realize that..."

        Legal Eagle stepped aside and pointed towards Spike. "Do you still see the suspect?"

        "Yes..."

        "And you said earlier that you believe the exhibit here accurately represents the suspect who now stands before you?"

        "Yes. I did say that."

        Legal Eagle pivoted about. "Spike, if you wouldn't mind stretching your tail out again..."

        Spike did so, awkwardly. He pointed it straight out until the green crests bulged along their purple-scaled roots.

        "Mr. Turner, do you see any change in the suspect's tail?"

        "Uh... no, sir, I don't."

        "It is the same length?"

        "Well, it's not curled up or anything."

        Legal Eagle pointed at the placard. "Is it curled up in this diagram?"

        "Erm... no, sir. It is not."

        "The suspect's tail still matches the exhibit?"

        "As best as I can tell, sir."

        Legal Eagle placed the placard down on the defense table and marched slowly towards the stand. "Mr. Turner, can you explain to me how the suspect's tail—which is obviously 0.2 meters in length, as detailed by the recorded dimensions as well as by the suspect standing before you—somehow stretched to accomodate the 1.1 to 1.3 meters where it must have struck you to inflict the bruise on your left flank?"

        "I... uh... huh?" Time Turner's face scrunched up. "I don't understand."

        "Don't you? You said that the suspect did not spin around—did not so much as show his face, correct?"

        "Right."

        "And you were standing perfectly still when the suspect's tail struck you, yes?"

        "Yes."

        "So the only thing that moved when you were struck—as you swear it—was the suspect's tail and the suspect's tail alone."

        "Absolutely."

        "So, for the tail to have inflicted the bruise that it did—the same bruise that you have showed the court twice today—it would have to have reached that spot along your body that is at least 1.1 meters from the end of your muzzle, not accounting for the space between you and the suspect that allowed you to touch him on the shoulder."

        "Erm... r-right. It... uh..." Time Turner adjusted his tie, fidgeting nervously. "It... reached my flank... somehow..."

        "How? Did you lunge forward as you took the blow?"

        "No, I..."

        "You stayed absolutely still, right?"

        "Yes. I mean... I'm pretty sure I did. It all happened so fast..."

        "Mr Turner, how could a tail that's clearly only 0.2 meters in length have struck you in a spot 1.1 or more meters away?"

        "I..." He sighed, looking genuinely confused. "I don't know."

        Legal Eagle allowed a few seconds of silence to kick in before he asked, "Mr. Turner, if it wasn't the suspect's 0.2 meter long tail that struck you on August the Twelfth, then what did?"

        Time Turner's lips moved, trying to produce a thought into words. At last, he fumbled to say, "I... uh... I don't know, Mr. Eagle..."



        "Ms. Minuette, about you and your... remarkably mimetic memory," Rarity spoke as she approached the stand. "Would you mind giving us a demonstration?"

        
> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

This arc is death.  It is cancer.  I cannot emphasize this enough.  I'd need a Jewish Ben Kingsley to be whispering this while waving a paper through the second-hand smoke produced by Qui Gonn Jim.

Where do I begin with the end of the end?  I started this about a few weeks after the Dredgemane arc of End of Ponies was uploaded.  In my head, I wanted this story to be a sort of "miniature" in-between arc that showed us more of the Wasteland.  Also, since the Fluttershy arc was all about character analysis and the Dredgemane one was all about emotion, I wanted to have an arc that was all about balls-to-the-wall action and hollywoodesque explosions.  A chance for Scootaloo in her apocalyptic element to really cut loose, y'know?

This eventually evolved into something else entirely as I saw a trip back to the Wasteland to be an opportunity for Scootaloo's character to be analyzed.  The fact of the matter was, the next arc after Pinkie was to be Rainbow Dash's, and I simply couldn't see myself launching into that story and all of the important thematic elements contained therein without doing some super-duper preparations beforehand.  So, I dreamed up a story plot that took place in three timelines: bouncing back and forth between (1) Scootaloo as a filly interacting with Rainbow Dash, (2) Scootaloo's first year after the Cataclysm, and (3) Scootaloo in the present trying to excavate Rainbow Dash's ashes.

Instead of the Everfree Forest or a huge chunk of moonrock, the obstacle in Scoots' path is so grand that it takes an entire arc to deal with it, but the story uses this to create numerous parallels between the present day mare and her struggles and her past idolization of Rainbow Dash as a filly.  The biggest and most obvious device used for this was a young goblin named "Warden" (based on the selfless editor of the same title) who looks up to Scootaloo much in the same way that Scootaloo did to Rainbow Dash.  And, yet, I didn't want the relationship to be identical, so I took liberties in creating a unique camaraderie between Scoots and this Warden imp.

Problems arose with just how intensely I was giving attention to the past segments over the present ones.  For the most part, they came across as superfluous, gratuitous, and unnecessary.  It was Vimbert himself who stated that the entire "past in Ponyville" segment could have been ditched completely.  Sure enough, as the arc goes on, it's very hard to tell where the author wants the readers to be concentrated.  If the truth is "all three segments," then I am simply not asking marsupials to digest a fanfic, but rather a bible of obese proportions.

Then there was the issue of Warden, the character I had invented to establish the parallel between Scoots and Rainbow Dash.  He was simply... not a compelling character.  All he did was act as an obligatory foil to Scootaloo in every imaginable way.  He had very little substance, and was far too annoying for the audience to relate to.  Also Razzar--as an antagonist--was a great deal too big for her britches.  The arc shows how much I fell in love with her, to the point that I had her doing some supremely unrealistic things in the direct face of her opposition (Scootaloo).

But the biggest problem of this tumorously huge arc is the insane emphasis on action.  End of Ponies--for better or for worse--is the most boring pile of filth in brony fanfiction history.  However, this is ironically its strength.  Scootaloo comes from a horrible world where she's done horrible things.  Going back into the past has had its fair share of action scenes--yes--but the most powerful moments are when Scootaloo struggles to find peaceful solutions to stuff.  It totally clashes with her violent, "scavenger" mentality.

In the initial draft of the Petra Arc (which I have decided to call the "Kaizo Edition" because it friggin' well speaks for itself), all of Scootaloo's learned lessons on peace and harmony fly out the window.  While that may be forgiveable given the miserable setting that she's in, the fight scenes simply go on for too long.

Too...

Dayum...

Long...

For those of you who may have followed me in ancient days, this was a throw-back to the sort of shiet I wrote in my Teen Titans fanfics.  It may have worked then, but I didn't have any sort of literary compass--or scale of decency--to aim my words by.  I simply wrote what I felt like with no editing and no respect for the audience's digestion.  Back in the day, I'd write fifty+ page fight scenes and not think anything of it.

The Kaizo Edition of the Petra arc has multiple scenes like this. And when they were dropped upon the laps of my editors... well... it was a veritable holocaust.  You think Background Pony is a train wreck?  You think Austraeoh is a story that resembles a car crash?  Watching the editors limp through the Petra Arc was like watching people douse kittens in gasoline. And yet they kept slogging through with it, their jaws dropping lower and lower upon witnessing how little respect I paid to the perceivable audience's frail intelligence.  It's like they couldn't believe that the same lemur who had produced the likes of Dredgemane could create such dense, unreadable, trifle garbage.

It was heart-breaking.

It certainly didn't help that I had thrown a month and a half and over two hundred and sixty thousand words into this "tiny in-between mini arc."  What's worse is that I didn't perceive a single thing wrong about it at the time.  Hell, in the original-ORIGINAL draft of Petra, I had even color-coded the entire text to indicate each of the different time periods that the story took place in (I think I used yellow, green, and red).  Also, I didn't perceive a single thing wrong with the fight scenes--or with certain extended bits that drove an anonymous candle-stick-head to puppy stomping.

It was stuff like the Petra Arc that told me that I had to write differently--that, when working with editors--it simply wasn't natural to write 200,000+ words ahead of time and then slather it over their eyeballs.  You gotta work with people gradually over time, chapter by chapter, much like how I ended up going about it with Background Pony (which did slightly better than Petra... f'naaaaaa?).  In future attempts at the arc (I've made two since), I've gone about it far more intelligently, but it still hasn't yielded any positive results.  The fact of the matter is, Petra Kaizo took the wind completely out from under my sails.  I don't know if any of you have ever experienced it, but writing an entire novel's length of words only to have it go up in smoke will do that.

People think that I have given up on the End of Ponies, that I let it die or burn up in smoke.  That couldn't be any further from the truth.  I've tried hard... very, very hard. I've committed 300,000+ words of insanity, mistakes, self-doubt, and anguish to extending the life of the dayum story, and I keep collapsing in on myself.

Do I regret the whole experience?  There's no point in lying.  I'm familiar with failure; it's what forever blemishes the legacy of my Teen Titans foray.  But things in our past--even the horribad stuff--have a way of shaping things out for the better.  If it wasn't for my frustration with End of Ponies making me wanna try new things, I'd never have written the first chapter to a thing called Background Pony, and who knows where that would put me today.

I had a dream long, long ago of waiting until the next arc of End of Ponies was written before submitting these rough drafts.  But, let's face it, so much time has come and gone.  I mean... who really cares anymore?  Besides, once I do finish EoP, the upcoming arc is going to be so incredibly different from the originals that it'll be like day and night.  Would reading this present the marsupial alumni with spoilers?  Maybe some--but I doubt it's gonna be that much of a detriment to the final version.

I just think it's time that I air out the deathly closet from which this zombified monster hails.  The public needs to know what killed off End of Ponies.  They need to know how hard I worked on creating something that I truly believed in at the time.  Perhaps--just maybe--y'all marsupials can see that it's possible for someone to create an abomination like this and still continue to make stories that are worth giving two shits about.

Okay, okay.  Maybe just one and a half.







The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Five – All the Colors Died With Her





        Scootaloo was six years old, or perhaps she was seven.  She didn't know how many winters she had been alive; she didn't even know when her foalday was.  What she did know was that tonight was the night: her one opportunity for freedom.  She had planned for this moment, dreamed of this moment, lived this moment thoroughly—both inside and out—from every mental angle imaginable over the past several months.

        She opened her eyes for the first time in hours.  Every other pony in the room full of foals had long fallen asleep.  She had faked her own slumber, and had since been lying fitfully in bed, trying not to disturb the dreaming bunkmate lying next to her.  Now, the clock outside the bedroom door struck three o'clock in the morning.  Beyond the window above her bed, there was a rattling sound, rising slowly, of wooden wheels against cobblestone outside.  The garbage wagon was making its weekly round through the nearby streets below, and the tiny orange pegasus had mere seconds to act.

        In a swift breath, Scootaloo soundlessly kicked out of bed, squatted to the tile floor, and reached two trembling hooves under her mattress.  Hidden between the hay-filled mat and the wooden support beams were two things.  The first was a canvas satchel filled to the brim with miscellaneous items scavenged illicitly over the past several weeks.  The second was a metal sheet affixed with four wheels: none other than the bottom segment of a kitchen dish cart that had been wrenched loose from the rest of its rusted, metallic body.

        Flinging the canvas bag over her flank, Scootaloo clamped the body of the metal platform in her mouth.  The wheels of the tray dangled as she climbed back up to her bed, mounted the headboard, and planted her hooves against the windowpane above.  She wiggled a brick loose from below the sheet of glass and exposed the handle to a screwdriver that she had hidden in the wall several days before.  Grasping the utensil in the crook of her young hoof, she poked at a weak spot in the window's lock and popped the binding loose.  A gust of cool, spring air blew into the bedroom as she slid the window wide open.  With her pink mane billowing, the breathless pegasus gave one glance behind her shoulder.

        The moment had become blissfully anticlimactic.  There was no movement from beyond the bedroom hallway.  Every sleeping foal in the room was oblivious to her daring escape.  They knew nothing of her moment of glory.  It was just as well, for she had barely paid attention to their names—much less their faces—in the flimsy two and a half years she had gotten to know them.  A life that was friendless was a life that was worth leaving behind, Scootaloo figured.  As the sound of rattling wheels intensified, she very gladly—very easily—turned her back to the room full of orphans and climbed out the window.

        Outside, in the chilly night air, Scootaloo stood on the edge of the windowsill.  With hooves scuffling along the third floor ledge of the foster home building, she made her way towards the nearest waterspout.  Her flightless wings twitched against the bricklaid structure behind her.  The child's teeth bit harder into the wheeled tray in her mouth upon visualizing the great height between her shuffling lower limbs and the hard street below.  After a precarious eternity, the little pony finally reached the waterspout.  She grasped the aluminum pipe with four limbs and bravely slid down the vertical structure, her tail hairs whipping in the wind.

        Stealthily, she touched down onto the cobblestone street of Manehattan, just as the rickety wheels of the regularly scheduled garbage wagon rattled around the street corner.  Scootaloo's violet eyes twitched in surprise to see the large brown shape of the heaping vehicle surging past her.  She was going to miss it...

        Gasping, she spat the tray out.  The metal platform fell on four squeaking wheels before her.  She ran, jumped, and planted all four hooves on it, sliding after the backpiece of the horse-drawn vehicle.  With a rear hoof kicking against the street, she shoved herself harder and harder, faster and faster towards the body of the rattling wagon.  The smell of city refuse filled her nostrils; the buzzing of flies deafened her.  Freedom never before smelled so horrible, so real, so close.  She kicked one last time and glided on the wheeled platform, reaching two limbs up in desperation.

        Finally, Scootaloo made contact with the wagon.  The tiny pegasus grasped the wooden support beams of the garbage cart's undercarriage.  With a breath of relief, the little orange foal smiled proudly to herself.  Fishing herself forward with her front limbs, she pulled and pulled until she was tactfully hidden under the very chassis of the vehicle, gliding along with it as it performed the last of its scheduled rounds.  The pegasus' haunches were planted tightly on the wheeled metal tray beneath her, and the rattling of her platform was swallowed by the rickety sounds of the garbage wagon as she was carried to freedom through the streets of Manehattan.

        The night was cold.  The stench was horrible.  The lanternlights of the sleeping city were dim and ominous, but Scootaloo was free.  She couldn't remember a time when she smiled any more brilliantly.





        Morning came slowly and foggily, and still Scootaloo was smiling.  The little foal sat at the rear of a red caboose, her hooves dangling playfully over the edge of the metal platform as several rows of train tracks blurred below.  Her excited violet eyes were locked on the westward horizon drawing away from her.  The skyscrapers and pillars of Manehattan sunk into the mists of dawn.  One by one, all of her troubles were being swallowed up by yesterday.  As her last three years of helplessness and imprisonment melted into oblivion, she saw a new sun rising, and the little pegasus was burning a bright path towards it, one courageous train-hop after another.

        She let loose a victorious giggle.  Untying her canvas satchel, Scootaloo reached in and grabbed one of many biscuits that she had stolen from the same commissary where she had pilfered the tiny metal tray on wheels.  She bit into the bread, enjoying the filling sensation in her stomach, daydreaming over the innumerable comical reactions that her former chaperones were likely displaying upon finding her bed empty in the third floor of the foster home.  They would collapse all over themselves.  They would have conniption fits.  They would sweat straight through their ridiculously straight-laced dresses, realizing that Scootaloo had outsmarted each and every one of them.  She had proverbially spat back into the same faces that had scowled, barked, and hissed at her for far too many boring and stuffy months in that goddess-forsaken hovel.

        It served them right.  They thought that they could control her.  They thought that they could take Scootaloo's life from her.  They thought that they could tell her what was a future worth living and what was a past worth forgetting.  Now they had to bathe in the ashes of their own burned pride.  Nevertheless, Scootaloo hadn't done this for them.  She had done this for herself.  Singeing a few egos was merely a fringe benefit to acquiring freedom, and the little pegasus couldn't be happier, prouder, stronger.

        If only her parents could see her now...

        Scootaloo swallowed a final bite of the biscuit and leaned against the metal railing of the caboose with a contented smile.  As the train made a brief bend to the south, the rays of the morning sun bled through the mountainous Equestrian landscape and kissed the edges of her cheek, electrifying her smile even further, breathing life into a pair of twitching, petite wings.  Scootaloo couldn't fly, but as she closed her eyes right then and breathed the warm morning breeze, she suddenly felt like she could make the impossible happen.






        The impossible didn't happen quickly enough.  Scootaloo found this out the hard way, two days later, when she collapsed from exhaustion in the middle of navigating a forest outside of Fillydelphia.  She woke up, covered in mosquito bites, disgusted to have found a stream of ants infiltrating her canvas satchel.  With the aid of a drinking fountain located in a nearby city park, under the shroud of morning mist, the foal washed her last remaining bits of food clean.

        Scootaloo was ashamed of herself.  Her journey was barely halfway over, and already she had consumed two-thirds of the biscuits she had alotted for the trip.  She needed to learn to conserve her food much longer.  She knew this.  Such a lesson was important not just for her sojourn, but for the life that she was about to live upon reaching her destination.

        The little pegasus figured that things wouldn't be easy.  She realized that what she had to do—what she had to prove—would take more than just a spirit of enthusiasm.  It would take every ounce of strength that she had to give, just like every bit of energy that her parents gave.  Her mother and father's hard work was what helped support her when she was a newly foaled child.  Now that she was older, now that she was stronger, that same ethic would keep her afloat.  However, she needed to be more than just versatile.  She needed to be smart.

        Battling a gurgling stomach, the little pony fasted for the rest of the day.  Hours that she could have easily spent munching, she instead spent exploring the lengths of Fillydelphia—street by street—gliding on the metal tray on wheels while hitching rides on the back of several horse-drawn carriages.  In such a stealthy fashion, the filly made her long trek eastward...

        Toward home...





        Scootaloo's smile was the bravest part of her, even unto the bitter end.  She almost met this bitter end on several occasions throughout the interminably long week it took her to cross the Equestrian Valley.

        The little pegasus' memories immediately following her parents' deaths were a sour hodge-podge of tear-stained snapshots tossed blindly together in the rattling drawer of her mind.  She only ever remembered fitful sobs, prayers, hiccups, and shudders—and they were all laced with the sound of her own lonely voice.  There were so many dusty, putrid experiences, and they were mostly spent with the child's eyes clenched shut.

        As a result, Scootaloo had no true recollection of just how vast and daunting a distance she had been taken—foster home after foster home—from the place of her foaling to the heart of Manehattan.  Retracing those steps was like a blind marathon.  Even with the aid of her wheeled tray, the eastward journey was a test of sheer endurance.  She wasn't certain what she would faint from first: hunger or  exhaustion.  Either outcome would have been a blessed alternative to her one true fear: being inexplicably found and dragged back to her dismal, social prison, behind the iron bars of frowning faces.

        Under the gun of such paralyzing trepidation, Scootaloo barely slept.  She crept forward on sweat and adrenaline alone.  When the Sun was too hot, she hid under a bridge or a cluster of trees to cool herself.  When the night was freezing, she snuck her way into a nearby village, stole some firewood, and made herself a tiny camp in a bordering forest.  She never stopped to sight see, she never paused for luxuries, and—most of all—she talked to nopony, nopony whatsoever.

        This wasn't just a journey, this was a crusade.  Scootaloo was on a mission.  Insomnia became both an ally and an enemy all at once.  When silence overwhelmed her, she heard the groaning sounds of her Manehattan chaperones' voices.  When her eyelids closed, she saw two jaundice-stained bodies lying paralyzed in a bed before her.  Between breaths, she smelled the crisp morning dew of home—the flavor of her forsaken foalhood—and the glorious aroma chased away all of the shadows of the darker memories, so that she once again saw the rising Sun that painted her path to freedom, and she remembered why her smile was there to begin with.

        With renewed courage, Scootaloo kicked relentlessly at the earth, pushing it away from her as if she could fly at any second.  Instead, she rolled forward on the wheels of her metal platform, carrying her canvas satchel over her shoulder.  As the edible contents inside it became lighter and lighter, she dreamed harder and harder that each subsequent bend in the horizon would be the last, and soon that crisp morning dew would glisten before her, as real as her dreams, as cleansing as her future, a baptism waiting to happen.




        Then there was the night of the full moon, and it brought with its pale glow a gale of cold air that chilled Scootaloo to the bone.  The little pegasus sat between a cluster of trees along a hilltop, huddled under a patchwork blanket that she had stolen out of a dumpster behind a roadside inn two days previous.  Her teeth chattered as she curled into herself, seeking a warmth that she knew was hidden somewhere inside but was somehow eluding her.

        Scootaloo fought and fought.  She tried her best not to think about it.  She tried to forget her mother’s golden voice.  Somewhere in the fitful tremors of the freezing night, it came to her, caressed her, milked the tears out of her twitching eyes.

        This was too soon—too soon to be crumbling, too soon to be buckling, too soon to be failing.  She would have none of it.  Scootaloo had to be strong.  She fought the sobs.  She fought them with the same anger and ferocity that got her into so much trouble with her Manehattan chaperones, that stuck her for so many consecutive months in the same foster service with no family willing to accommodate her warrior's ferocity.  She had only two parents and two alone.  No group of ponies could ever replace them, and she would rather die than let such a horrible atrocity happen.

        She had to be strong; she had committed herself.  She had started this holy crusade.  For her sake, for her parents' sake—to erase the pale grimaces that had frozen on their infernite-stricken faces—she had to see it to the end, even if it meant her own end.  Some ponies were placed on this earth to trot in circles.  Scootaloo had all the wind she needed to fly.  There was no point in waiting; there was only glory in doing.

        It was right there and then, in between shivering spasms beneath the ghostly pale moonlight, that Scootaloo decided that the golden voice would remain a phantom.  From that point on, Scootaloo's ears were her own to use as she saw fit.  Everything that anypony said to her would be a lie, so long as it was encouraging the filly outside of her and not recognizing the blossoming, audacious mare within.  She was not about to let herself die—not from starvation or cold—not until she had a chance to test this new and burning determination, to see if it had the same permanence and tenacity as the impossibly bright smile that had dragged her emaciated body to this point.

        Scootaloo was so engrossed in this manifest destiny that she was only remotely aware of the warmth when it started to wash over her features.  Her ears twitched and her violet eyes fluttered open.  The same morning sun that kissed her outside of Manehattan was bathing her once more, only this time it was a deluge of righteous heat, for with the death of night came a glorious revelation.

        East, just beyond the band of trees in front of her, beneath the hill, encompassed in a forking riverbank, was her heavenly destination, her dream come true:  Ponyville.

        Scootaloo exhaled with trickling tears of joy.  She had arrived home.  As the rays of the morning sun danced between the tree branches, she crawled out from underneath the blanket, like a miraculous butterfly emerging from a partially-crushed cocoon.  Her orange coat glistened in the burning dawn, and she was enraptured to discover that the same frost that had blistered her overnight had transformed into the crisp, twinkling dew of her dreams.

        The little pegasus sat down on her haunches, basking in the sight of a promising horizon, of row after row of golden thatched rooftops burning like a glorious parade in her honor.  She rediscovered  her smile, for she had just been rejoined with her past.  Only this time, all of the bitter shades of death and loneliness in between then and now had melted away, as if they had never happened to begin with.  Scootaloo decided that this was all for the better, and she embraced this new life, this new identity, this new foalish pegasus being reflected across the dew-laden grass before her.  She consumed it with an otherworldly vigor that not only dared to do the impossible, but had accomplished it so naturally within the span of two cross-country weeks.

        Something twinkled in the corner of Scootaloo's violet eyes.  She tilted her face up, and a smile blossomed in the morning mists  The portrait had become complete; a rainbow had lit the edge of the horizon, framing the lengths of Ponyville before her like the gates of heaven.  Scootaloo didn't need a more promising sign than that.  She only had bright days to look forward to, lonely or not, and she anticipated them with every fiber of her being.




        A quivering orange hoof hung a smudged shard of Cloudsdalian glass off a metal hook embedded into the rock wall of a claustrophobic cave.  Shakily, the same hoof rose to the glossy surface and stroked several concentric circles, wiping the soot and grime away.  The reflection of a nine-year-old foal came into focus.  The violet-eyed pegasus looked at herself, trembling, her lips parting as she leaned in to examine her reflection, almost startled to find so many bruises and bloodstains across her young face.

        There was a shrieking sound from beyond the dull walls of the place.  The filly's reflection gasped, glancing over her twitching wings as several animalistic cries joined the great cacophony beyond the torchlit hovel that sheltered her.  The world had become an echoing well of thunder, cataclysmic tremors, and monstrous banshee screams.  The pegasus' nicked ears twitched, trying to make sense out of the many chaotic sounds of the apocalypse raging blindly outside.

        She gulped hard, her shivers intensifying as the shrill shrieks multiplied, wafting closer to the camouflaged entrance of her improvised hovel.  There was an undeniable hunger in the creatures' wayward cries; they thirsted for her.  She knew this, and she shuddered at what she had to do next.

        With a quivering lip, she glanced once more at her reflection in the scavenged shard.  Gulping a lump down her throat, her eyelids moistening, she leaned in closer to the glass and raised a metal piece of shrapnel that she had pilfered from the world outside.  Tilting her neck to the side, she exposed a long lock of pink mane hair, gave it one last forlorn look, and swiftly sliced the lengths of the pastel follicles away.  Alone with her shivers in the dancing torchlight, Scootaloo dutifully scalped herself clean, removing the scent of ponydom from her body.




        Two days later, the shrieking noises had died down outside.  A gentle roar of distant thunder permeated the ashen landscape.  Somewhere—in one tiny, frost-blighted ditch out of a million more just like it—a patch of white snow shook loose.  A panel of metal shingles swung free in the naked air.  A tiny, orange pegasus poked her freshly-shaved head out from a dark hovel dug out of a mound of ruptured, Equestrian earth.  Biting her lip pensively, Scootaloo scanned the nearby landscape.  She was quietly pleased to find the area devoid of any suspicious movement.  She spent the better part of ten minutes observing her surroundings, until she was finally, finally satisfied that the coast was clear.

        She dashed back into the hovel with a single breath.  Less than a minute later, she re-emerged with a tattered satchel hanging off of each blank flank.  With evident trepidation, she trotted one hoof after another until she was completely outside of her hidden habitat.  Giving the landscape another look-see, she swung around and slid the metal door shut.  After tossing a camouflaging blanket of snow over the secret hiding spot, she spun around and—panting frightfully—broke into a nervous canter across the shattered landscape of the Equestrian Wasteland.

        Scootaloo's body was a tiny orange dot in the middle of snow-laden desolation.  At a wide glance, the surrounding vista had been pockmarked with black, smoldering craters and several scattered chunks of ivory debris, forming the grand miasma that was the outer ruins of fallen Cloudsdale.  Every dozen meters or so, a pillar of sky marble penetrated the earth, followed by a burning plume of flame enshrouding an otherworldly shard of fallen stone.  A deep fog floated over the landscape, as the many bits of sky marble burst from within, filling the air with dense, compressed steam.

        Above the hovering haze of pale mist, the gray sky was blemished with a perpetual orange hue.  It had been two weeks since the Cataclysm, and all of Equestria was still burning.  Endless flames to the southwest filled the air with a deep black soot, billowing plumes of obsidian above the lengths of the Everfree Forest.  Blazes dotted the dark outlines of the distant Canterlotlian mountains to the east, adding to the holocaustal glow of the sundered planet.

        All of this was pierced with a deep thunder, as several burning streaks of light surged into being overhead.  Moonrocks were falling ceaselessly from the heavens, filling the sky with hot comet-trails that bled into a bloodsoaked crimson, almost drowning out the dreary twilight above.  There was no sun to illuminate this nightmare.  Hour by hour, the world shook as yet another shard of the exploded moon landed far too close for comfort, sending more tremors through the battered surface of the world.

        Through all of this, Scootaloo nervously ran, scampered, stumbled and fled.  She hid under every rock outcropping she could find, hyperventilating as her wide, pulsing eyes took in the burning desolation around her.  Between the curtains of snow and soot, one or two conspicuously large flakes of ash would find her, landing on her coat.  She gasped and brushed the offending slivers off of her, swallowing a lump down her throat, for she knew what it was made out of.  She knew what it all was made out of.  The only way to keep herself from breaking down was to keep moving.

        Watching her flank, taking in the environment with frightful, darting eyes, the little pegasus did just that...





        A huge crash of thunder boomed across the dead world.  Scootaloo froze on top of a hill of doughy earth to glance over her shoulder.  The shaven filly saw a distant cloud of flame and plasma erupting several kilometers away where a giant moonrock had evidently struck the Equestrian Valley far to the south.  She gulped and performed a mental calculation, comparing the visual nature of the collision from how long ago she had heard its sound.  She judged that the landing was no closer than any of the other recent impacts, despite the dramatic sight.

        Gulping, she pushed the apocalyptic image away and turned around to face another one.  Before her, at the base of the hill, the ruins of a Cloudsdalian rainbow factory stretched in open view.  Many of the sky marble structures were intact, and they glistened in the red glow of the burning sky.  Cinching the two satchels on her flanks, she scampered down the snow-pelted hill and eagerly galloped into the thick of the wreckage.




        “Hello?!  Somepony?  Anypony?”

        Her voice echoed against the precariously-leaning, ivory pillars of the place.  Loud groaning sounds filled the hollowed expanse as the weight of the structure threatened to buckle in on itself at any moment.  Undaunted, the shivering filly trotted lonesomely through the center of the crumpled factory, her breaths fogging in the air that was already dancing with soot and ash.

        “Please!  Just shout if you can hear me!”  Scootaloo panted, glancing left and right, gulping hard as her trembling voice reached more and more desperate octaves.  “Anypony?!  Is anypony there?  Hello?!”

        She trotted past several golden basins lying on their sides, cracked and fissured in a dozen places.  An endless stream of cold, dull-colored liquid trickled from every structure.  Long black poles with stirring nets affixed to their ends lay in splintery bits across random spaces of open sky marble.

        “Hello?!”  Scootaloo's teeth were chattering at this point.  She huddled herself next to an overturned rack of shattered glass jars, all of them empty.  “If you can hear me, you're not alone!  I survived and I found a safe place to stay—!”

        There was an explosion of steam.  The sky marble composing one of the ivory pillars had lost is structural integrity, and a billowing fountain of mist filled the entirety of the collapsed pegasus construction.  Scootaloo shrieked, coughed and sputtered for a solid breath, then ran out of the factory on four stumbling hooves.  Once outside, she slumped to her chest—clutching the burned earth with twitching hooves.  As the thick of the steam cleared, she regained her breath, wincing.  Through tearing eyes, she squinted to see a miraculous throng of charred grass wilting directly in front of her.  Instantly, the pony's stomach churned, a violently loud thing.  Biting her lip, she hesitantly lowered her mouth to the thin brown blades.  She took one bite, and instantly spat out the brittle, burnt material.

        Murmuring to herself, she stood up on wobbly legs, gave the steaming factory one last, helpless look, and trotted towards even more wreckage with a lonesome breath.




        “Hello?!”

        Scootaloo's voice was almost muted from the thunderous roar of burning Equestria and the dozens upon dozens of impacting moonrocks flashing across the crimson horizon beyond.  Her tiny body strolled down an eerily preserved city square of Cloudsdale.  Upon landing, the once-suspended block of urbanscape had folded in on itself at a thirty-degree angle, so that the courtyard resembled a bent, gray croissant in the middle of the Wasteland.

        “H-Hello?!”

        Scootaloo glanced left and right, spotting the many shattered storefronts, peering into the many hollow buildings with caved-in roofs of sky marble.  With each passing minute, her violet eyes glossed over more and more.  She bit her lip under a petrifying cloud of panic.  Her freshly-shaved pink stubble stood on end as she ducked into a half-crumbled store, her tiny hooves stepping nervously over shards of broken glass and dilapidated plaster.

        She shuffled to a stop, her body shivering in the bands of scattered orange light from the burning Wasteland outside.  Her next breath was a muffled thing, bleeding defeatedly out her numb lips.

        “Is anypony there...?”

        After a deep sigh, Scootaloo let her violet eyes drift towards the length of the floor.  Amongst the wreckage of the store, she saw... things, tiny, seemingly insignificant, utilitarian things.  She saw nick-nacks, corkscrews, pocketknives, bottlecaps, loose springs, metal screws, and more.  She saw sudden and inexplicable tools where—beforehand—there was nothing even remotely noteworthy.

        In a firm breath, the little survivor knelt down, opened one of her satchels, and began pensively—but dutifully—collecting whatever she could get her hooves on.




        Under the broken wings of a Princess Nebula statue, Scootaloo struggled, grunted, and finally overturned a pegasus chariot.  Several broken bits of brass had fallen loose from the carriage.  Many of these bore sharp, pointed edges that glinted in the orange hue of the apocalyptic deathscape.

        Scootaloo ripped the upholstery out from the bottom of the chariot.  Carefully, she bundled the sharp brass bits like a cluster of knives, wrapping the fabric around them five complete times before safely depositing them into her satchels.  She then proceeded to yank the loosest of the chariot's wheels free from the vehicle.  The bolts and fasteners fell free.  She collected these along with a few wooden spokes from the structure.  Once she had successfully skeletonized what she could of the chariot, she adjusted the weight of the bags along her flank, and trotted off for the next cluster of ruins.






        Inside a snowflake factory that had landed sideways, Scootaloo climbed marble shelf after shelf, grunting with the effort, twitching her wings as she reached for one intact glass jar after another.  These containers, she slid into her bags before hopping down, navigating a pile of smoldering debris, and investigating another rack of random tools.

        Once done, she crawled through a tiny hole and slid her way into an upside down shop full of dangling, foalish marionette puppets.  Unphased by the eerie sights, she climbed her way to the back of the collapsed Cloudsdalian toy store and snuck into the stockroom, where she found several measuring tools, three cutting knives, and—to her delight—a working compass.




        The magnetic needle on the device guided her north towards where a wide swath in the wreckage had opened before her.  Trotting up to the edge of a sudden cliff, she gasped and found out why.  Gazing with wide, violet eyes, Scootaloo discovered an enormous crater—several kilometers wide—that had opened up in the middle of the Equestrian landscape.  Clutching an ivory pillar, she bravely tilted forward and looked straight down.  The world jutted open beneath her like a sudden esophagus, and the walls of the inexplicable pit were filled with chunks of sky marble and a cyclonic assortment of unnatural waterfalls spilling down into the black depths of it.

        Scootaloo realized that the bulk of Cloudsdale had fallen into the landscape before her, and the collective weight of the once-hovering city had bored a gigantic hole in the flesh of Equestria.  How deep this gigantic chasm was, the orange filly had no clue.  From simply gazing at the casastrophic site, she had no doubt that the entirety of the pit was filled to the brim with the densest wreckage of Cloudsdale she had witnessed thus far.  All she had explored prior to now was just the outer ruins of the pegasi's city.  This crater before her was the inner ruins, and if there was anything—or anypony—to be found, they would undoubtedly be in there.

        The orange filly bit her lip.  Her tiny, flightless wings twitched fearfully, hesitantly.  In a wise breath, she stepped backwards from the sudden, deathly dip in the landscape, turned about-face, and trotted back in the direction from which she came, all the while trusting the compass, her only friend.




        Scootaloo's hooves splashed in a shallow current of liquid rippling downhill as she ascended a solid slope of fallen skymarble.  She judged that the many chunks of vaporous ruins were still condensing, and the coalescing water from the whole mess was forming a collective stream that fell down into the gigantic pit that she had just discovered.

        Unfazed, the pony walked up the slope of the fallen city district and glanced every which way.  Random storefronts smoldered from endless flames burning within.  Others were bathed in rising white mist as the sky marble dissipated underneath their crumbling foundation.  The air was a mixture of black soot and ghostly white gas from this absurd contrast.

        Navigating the outer ruins, the filly paused—gasping—to see a collapsed restaurant resting beyond a shattered water fountain.  Her hooves plodded through the thin, wet river.  She galloped desperately in through the bowed doorway and nearly collapsed inside the interior.  Breathlessly, she glanced around, her eyes twitching in last-second surprise.  She had caught sight of the kitchen beyond a charred serving counter.  Hopping briskly over the structure, her satchels dangling at her side, she slid on her knees before a collapsed array of containers and feverishly flung them open, one clattering lid at a time.

        Scootaloo practically shrieked with joy as she found a jar full of preserved daisies.  The flower petals had fallen loose and the stalks were beginning to bend into brown strings, but none of that mattered as soon as she had crammed the vegetation deep into her equine mouth.  The bites were soggy and pathetic sensations, but they were heavenly nonetheless.  The stuff was edible.  The stuff was food.  Scootaloo was eating.

        She scarfed as much as she could.  Leaves were fluttering out of her chomping jaws, but she didn't care.  She opened jar after jar, flinging half of the contents into her mouth and the other half into her satchel.  How she stored this amazing bounty wasn't nearly as important as how much of it she could acquire.  Scrambling on all fours, she slid across the kitchen floor, uncovering cans of soup, a bag of oats, a jar of flour, loaves of bread, a half-decayed pony skull—

        “Aaaugh!”  Scootaloo wailed and flew back, slamming herself up against a metal cabinet with a bang and covering her mouth with a pair of shivering hooves.  A metal pot slowly rattled to a stop beside her.  The filly's violet irises shrunk into pinpricks inside their twitching sockets as she sat—petrified and hyperventilating—staring at the deathly grimace glancing back at her.

        It was the head of a pegasus stallion—half of its flesh hanging off the skeleton—the other half reduced to powdery dust that was blowing away from the air that the orange filly had suddenly exposed it to.  A great black hollow formed in the center of the calcium frame, through which the twitching pegasus could very clearly make out meaty cartilage and spongy brain matter.

        The quivering filly slid away from the corpse, her face wilting, until a freshly chewed daisy petal spilled from her lips, followed by another, followed by a thick dribble of bile, followed by an ocean of vomit as she keeled over in the corner of the kitchen—shrinking away from the odorous remains—spilling loose the first decent meal she had scavenged in days.  Her retching was only punctuated by a random sob or two as she fought an uphill battle against giving the corpse another glance... ultimately losing, until her tears blinded her to the horror.




        On wobbling limbs, Scootaloo trotted away from the restaurant, her satchels twice as heavy as her stomach was empty.  There was no appetite that could satiate the aching pit in her stomach.  She put the thought of it into the darkest recesses of her mind as she put the sight of another crumbling building in the forefront of her vision.  Limping forward, she looked for a way to enter the building, when her ears suddenly pricked.  She froze in place, for the distant thunder of the burning Wasteland was suddenly... not so distant.

        In a frightful breath, she glanced over her shaved mane.  She gasped to see a huge plume of burning orange light billowing straight towards her location.  A chunk of moonrock was coming in fast.  The air heated up.  The river of trickling Cloudsdalian water started to form steam.  Frantically, Scootaloo galloped straight towards the building ahead and leaped through the nearest windowframe she could find.

        The world had become a deafening scream by the time she scurried inside and curled up against a wall.  She braced for anything and everything, expecting her body to be crushed to a smoldering pile of meat at any instant.  Instead, the sheer weight of the moonrock pulled it far ahead.  It wasn't until ten seconds later that the impact transpired, and when it did it was no less thunderous than she had expected.  The building rattled over her quivering body.  Chunks of debris fell down in a rain of steam and ash.  However, the ivory structure had remained intact.  To Scootaloo's undeniable luck, it was another part of the outer ruins of Cloudsdale that got reduced to a crater, and not her location.

        She glanced up, trembling, and realized that she was inside a lopsided library.  Rows upon rows of shelves had collapsed in on each other like several sandwiches.  Shreds of paper filled the extremities of the dusty place.  For the first time in two lonesome weeks, Scootaloo thought of Twilight Sparkle.

        Suddenly, something slapped against her shaved head.  Scootaloo's impulse to shriek was only slightly overwhelmed by her impulse to curse.  Grunting, she rubbed her head and glanced down at the offensive object.  She saw a thick brown tome; it had evidently fallen off a shelf and bounced off her skull.  On a curious whim, she opened the thing, only to find that every single page was blank.  Unenthused, she contemplated tossing the thing away into a corner of the dilapidated place.  For some reason, however, she stifled such an impulse, and instead stuck the thick, empty book into one of her satchels.

        Getting up, rebalancing herself on numb limbs, the tiny pegasus marched out of the library and into a brave new world of soot and ash from the fresh moon crater.  With the compass as her guide, she marched herself through the obscurity and trotted her way home.




        Scootaloo sat in the middle of her torchlit hovel, laying out her many fresh tools before her, separating things in order of importance and necessity.  As the world howled and thundered outside, she rummaged through her newly scavenged things with an invigorated spirit, engrossing herself in stockpiling the many nick-nacks into their appropriated corners.

        All the while, the brown tome rested on the edge of a half-shattered arcane vault dredged from the wreckage of the Cloudsdalian airship.  Scootaloo glanced at it briefly, but with disinterest, instead occupying herself with finding a spot to store her foodstuffs and setting upon a plan for rationing what little she had to consume for the next foreseeable... month?  Year?  Decade?  Lifetime?

        The last filly took a deep breath, briefly losing track of what she was doing... what she was thinking... what she was contemplating, until her hoof grasped ahold of one item she hadn't realized she had dropped into her satchel.  It was a jar full of pens, and many of them full of ink.

        Blinking, shifting nervously, she glanced back at the torchlit sliver of arcane metal atop which the blank book rested.  She glanced once more at the many pens, took a brave breath, and pulled one of the many writing tools out.

Squatting on a bed of bundled, patchwork fabric in the corner of the cave, warmed by two glowing torches, the lonely pegasus spread the book in her lap.  She bent over and fitted a pen between her teeth.  The last time she ever remembered scribbling anything down was one chaotic week when she tried her hoof at songwriting.  It was hardly a successful endeavor, and she couldn't pretend to expect anything to come of this.

        But the need to produce something, anything, was there.  She followed it, like a creature follows the instinct to live, in spite of the inherent absurdity of it all.  Slowly, Scootaloo wrote:




        Hello.

        My name is Scootaloo.  I am nine years old.  At least I think I am.  Something bad has happened.  Many ponies have died.  Cloudsdale fell and most of Equestria is on fire.  I do not know why.




        “Hello?  Anypony?”

        Scootaloo stood atop a hill.  Moonrocks fell in bright orange streams on all sides of her.  The world burned in indifference as she explored the latest wreckage she had discovered, this time armed with more than just a compass.  She had bundled several bands of brown canvas around her upper and lower limbs, forming a very flexible armor that also insulated her from the pelting snow and ash.  Sheathed into a pocket along her right forelimb was a sharp metal shiv that once belonged to a chariot.

        “Is anypony there?!  I'm all alone!  Can you hear me?”

        She panted and traversed crumbled block after block of collapsed Cloudsdalian sky marble, looking for signs of life, finding nothing but flame-dancing bands of her own lonesome shadow.





        I am alive.  I am alone.  I am looking for ponies.  I need help.  There are scary things outside my hiding place.  I think they want to eat me.




        Scootaloo trembled.  Scootaloo shivered.  She flattened her flightless wings against a tiny alcove of rock and clutched the metal shiv to her chest.  She had a canvas mask enshrouding her mouth, muffling her panting breath as her twitching eyes danced across the extremities of her sockets.

        Above her, clawing across the top of the earthen outcropping, a body of pale leather sniffed and hissed at the air, detecting a faint scent of equine warmth.  The creature's beady eyes darted across the burning, crimson horizon, and soon the monstrosity wasn't alone.  Another abomination joined its side, then another, and another.  Soon, an entire phalanx of trolls sauntered up to the top of the cliff-face just above where the frightened pegasus was hiding.  The drooling creatures growled amongst themselves, until a frustrated series of blows were exchanged—splashing the air briefly with cold sweat and ink-dark blood.  The monsters shrieked and whooped at each other like hyenas, before cackling devilishly and marching downhill... away from the lonesome filly.

        Scootaloo gulped and clenched her eyes shut.  Tears trickled down her cheek as she murmured breathlessly to Goddess Epona and ran a joyous hoof over her life-saving, shaved mane.




        I have looked everywhere.  Where Cloudsdale crashed into the ground, there are broken buildings and lots of junk, but there are no ponies.  At least, there are no ponies who are alive.





        Scootaloo's violet eyes were large, round saucers.  Slowly, she pulled the canvas mask down from her mouth.  A vaporous breath misted out of her as she sauntered forward—one trembling hoof after another—and entered an upside down temple that had fallen from the clouds.

        In the scattered rays of snow-kissed twilight, dozens upon dozens of petrified pegasus bodies dangled, hanging from their wings off of shattered sky marble or skewered by the jagged teeth of broken pillars.

        In a sickly halo of gray light, Scootaloo slumped numbly to her haunches, her body bathed in the drifting ashes of the dead equines.  She gazed hopelessly up at them, murmuring a slew of unintelligible words as lonesome as her tears.  Her only answer was a strobe of orange light as more moonrocks christened the dying world outside.




        I saw a huge hole in the ground.  It is a huge pit full of wreckage and falling water.  Most of Cloudsdale is in that pit.  Maybe there are surviving ponies there too.





        Scootaloo stood on a mound of crumpled ivory.  A cold, icy mist rose above her hooves as she wore a newly-woven assortment of canvas armor.  She stared down a spyglass that she had scavenged from a fallen pegasus guard tower.  The giant crater of Cloudsdale's inner ruins loomed far below her.  The landscape roared from the collective waterfalls cascading inward from all edges of the gaping crater.

        She studied a northwestern slope that descended gradually into the abyss.  From her lofty perspective, it actually appeared climbable.  Lowering the spyglass from her gaze, she took a deep breath, knelt down, and drew a map on a wide cloth sheet, plotting out a course for her to take.  As what was once just an idea bled into an illustrated reality, her limbs started to shake from the sudden comprehension of what she was about to attempt.




        I have to find other ponies.  Something bad has happened to all of Equestria.  I think even the whole world is in trouble.  I can't survive on my own.  I need help.  I need to find somepony who can help me.





        Scootaloo stood in the middle of her hovel, bundling up a thick coil of rope.  She packaged this next to several woven satchels that she had combined to form an elaborate saddle, complete with metal shivs conjoined at just the right angles to resemble climbing gear.  In the mdist of gathering her many things for the next day's brave sojourn, she paused, slumping against a spear she had carved out of rainbow factory nets.

        She leaned her forehead against the dull weapon, clenching her eyes shut, stifling an urge to whimper that refused to go away.  In the flickering dance of a dwindling torchlight, she sniffled, put the last of her things away, and crawled into the far corner for a nightless, moonless attempt at slumber.




        Most of all, more than anything, I need to find Rainbow Dash.  She will know what to do.  She always knows what to do.

        I need to find Rainbow Dash and I need to tell her “Thank you.”  She saved my life.

        If I should die soon, I need to write this so that somepony will know that I am here because of her.

        Rainbow Dash, if it is you who finds this and I am dead, I want to thank you.  Thank you for everything.  I am doing my best to make you proud.

        -End of entry





        She tried.  Scootaloo tried sleeping, but like so many things in her bitter decade of existence, what she asked for never came.  She had to struggle for it.

        So, into the thunderous ambiance of the apocalypse, Scootaloo struggled.  Scootaloo searched for sleep, and in the midst of it—squeezing tears out of her eyes like so many a lonely night before—the filly fought, and lost.  The shame of her defeat wasn't so painful, though, for in the climax of those sobs she squeaked forth a name that brought solace to the whole trembling debacle.

        “Dashie...”

        She whimpered and caved in on herself, curling up into a fetal position and hugging the last surviving colors of her dreams before they too faded away.

        “Dashie... please c-come and find m-me...”

        Scootaloo quivered and reached blindly for warmth...




        ...until the gentle rays of sunlight glistened across her copper coat.  Reaching a hoof around a glass of ice water, Harmony raised the beverage to her lips, took a sweet sip, and exhaled blissfully into the salty breeze.  Her wings flexed and unflexed as a pleasant smile graced her features, followed by a brief giggle.  “Heehee... A girl could get used to this.  Ahem.”  She planted the glass back down onto the tabletop before her.  “However, nothing lasts forever.  Alas, my duties to the Canterlotlian Court are finished, and I must bid you both adieu.”

        “You speak of your royal duties as if that's all you came here to do, Miss Harmony.  And yet, you have accomplished so much more.”  An earth pony with a creamy coat sat across from the pegasus.  She spoke endearingly above the sound of crashing ocean waves, “Was it really stargazing that brought you here?  Or was it fate?”

        “Fate is only predictable to those who bind themselves to it.”  Harmony smiled wide, her teeth showing.  “I would think that the last few days have taught the two of you that, if nothing else.”

        The mare blushed, hiding a shy face behind pink-and-blue bangs.  “If the last few days have taught me anything, it's that truth is stranger than fiction.”

        “I'd say!”  A turquoise unicorn jutted into view, her face beaming under a fountain of gray-streaked hair.  “We both elope on a cruise of the Eastern Shore, only to have some parasprite-sniffing jerk of a captain strand us on a desert island to fend for ourselves!  Why, girl, if you hadn't dropped in to save our tails, I'd have sued that creep for every golden bit stuffed under his poop deck!”

        “Yeah, well...”  Harmony chuckled nervously, brushing a hoof in lazy circles across the tabletop where the three ponies sat on the rear patio of a hotel overlooking a sun-kissed beach resort.  “I don't deserve all the thanks for getting the two of you off that island.”  Seagulls cawed overhead while random ponies frolicked and jogged gleefully up and down the hot sand dunes behind her.  “Most of the gratitude should be aimed Beachcomber's way.  If it wasn't for her and her friends, the two of you would be sunburnt husks by now.  I wouldn't be that much better off either.”

        “Yeesh!”  The unicorn rolled her orange eyes.  “Yeah, so we owe Beachcomber's bosom buddies our thanks and all.  But did they have to sing so freakin' much?  I've got those dang musical notes stuck in my head!”  She hissed and pointed at her golden lyre of a cutie mark for emphasis.  “Music... stuck in my head!  Do you realize how pitiful that is?”

        “I'd say it was worth it.”  The earth pony winked a blue eye.  “If nothing else, we were treated to the most fantastic underwater dance number I've ever seen.”

        “You mean the only underwater dance number you've ever seen,” her turquoise companion retorted.  “It was slightly bearable for the first bubbling hour or so.  But by the time that purple sea serpent joined in with his falsetto, I wanted nothing more than to take a baseball hat to my horn.”

        Harmony winced.  “Yes, well, there are some sights and sounds that few mortals are blessed—or cursed—to witness.  I'll reserve the word 'lucky' for this right here.”  She smiled and leaned forward against the table.  “In spite of all the bizarre ups and downs, I am very... very happy to have spent the last week with the two of you.  Joy just shines when you're both around.  I still can't believe you helped me with my mapping of the stars.  That was so very generous of you.”

        “Generous?”  The earth pony blinked.  “Darling, if you hadn't dropped in on our lives, we'd have more than sunstroke and seaponies to contend with.  That egostistical ship captain was prepared to spread a bunch of seditious lies about the two of us when you dropped in and threatened to turn his career inside out for what he did to us.”

        “Yeah, how did you get under his skin so quickly anyways?” the unicorn inquired with a curious blinking of her golden eyes.

        Harmony shrugged.  “Eh... I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.”

        “It's...”  The earth pony fidgeted, bashfully.  “It's not often that we have random strangers come to our rescue, and all from the kindness of their hearts.”

        “Well, Ms. Bon Bon, you've been through a lot.”  Harmony smiled sweetly.  “The way you two were stranded out in the middle of nowhere just sickened me.  It was like kicking a good pony when she's down.”

        “There've been tough times lately, for sure.”  The cream-colored mare nodded.  “Ever since our biggest clients from Dredgemane stopped ordering supplies from the novelty store, I've been having to scrimp just to get by the past month.  Still, Lyra and I have been looking forward to this vacation for as long as either of us can afford to remember.”

        “Darn tootin'.”

        “Shhh!  Will you let me speak?”

        “Er... Eheheh... By all means.”

        Bon Bon stifled a giggle and glanced back Harmony's way.  “I knew that, no matter what the future may bring, our time here was going to be special.  You can live an entire life of hardship, of ponies misunderstanding you or even treating you like you don't exist, but what matters is that you have one moment, one happy place that defines you, that you can always return to when the stress of existence gets too great...”  She turned towards her companion and softly smiled.  “...where you know that you'll never be alone.”

        “Awwww...”  The unicorn smirked back.  “Love you too, ya little fluff ball.”

        “What comes next for you two?”  Harmony inquired.  “Any plans after your... vacation plans?”

        “Well, life won't be the same for us now, no matter how we look at it.”  Bon Bon fiddled with a half-empty drink before her on the table, her blue eyes falling briefly.  “When we get back to Ponyville, there will be no more hiding.  Lyra and I decided on that long ago.  We will have to deal bravely with an entire town full of ponies who have one typical, age-old opinion on...”  She bit her lip nervously.  “...on interracial matrimony.”

        “And we all know what that opinion is.”  Lyra rolled her eyes.  “Yeesh!  It's as if unicorns and earth ponies are doomed to explode upon contact.”

        “Your courage is inspiring.”  Harmony said.  “If it wasn't, I wouldn't have been motivated to hang around as long as I have.  If I may speak with some Canterlotlian wisdom...”

        “You may try,” Lyra said, squinting at Harmony wryly.

        The pegasus smiled.  “Your Ponyvillean friends know you for the souls that you are.  They know your gentleness, your kindness, and your generosity.”  She lingered in mid-speech, her amber eyes pouring into the well of the past.  She once again envisioned Ditzy holding her beloved child, a product of calamity and yet a bundle of joy all the same.  “When you return home... when you return together, I have no doubt that they'll embrace you no differently.  You'll be the same souls you've always been, only you'll be complete.  That completeness is an inspiring thing, a spirit that can bridge so many intimidating abysses.  You think that being accepted by your peers is impossible?  Ms. Bon Bon, Ms. Lyra, you both have the power to move mountains.  Everypony can make the impossible happen.  All it takes is true commitment.”

        Bon Bon bit her lip as a tear rolled down her cheek.  “Oh, how I wish it was you who performed the ceremony and not that disgruntled captain...”

        “Yeah, well...”  Harmony chuckled and swirled her glass of water.  “Her Majesty has invested me with many clerical duties, but none of them grant me the authority to do something so sweet and honorable.  Still...”  Her copper cheeks turned slightly rosy as she murmured in a girlish breath, “I never thought I would have been the maid-of-honor for anypony, even if it was last-second.”  She gave a slightly embarassed giggle.  “I'm not going to say that it was some friggin' dream come true...”  She gazed at them with tender eyes.  “But it was something close to it.  I am honored, deeply honored.”

        “Gah!  Enough sap!”  Lyra barked.  “How about a toast?  I hate to soggy up a beautiful, sunny day with misty eyes!”  She reached her limb towards the cocktail in front of her.  The unicorn's hoof hovered a bare centimeter before the glass, and yet she grunted and made strained expressions as if something was wrong.  “Dang it... Come on... Why isn't this working?”

        Bon Bon rolled her eyes.  “Lyra, honey, we've talked about this.”  She leaned over and pushed her companion's limb so that the crook of Lyra's hoof cradled the glass.  “There, like that, darling.”

        “Oh!  But of course!  Eheh...”  Lyra let loose a drop of sweat.  “Where I would be without you?”

        “I shudder to think.”

        “Ahem!”  Lyra stood up and raised the cocktail drink high in the sunny beach air.  “Here's to Harmony, pegasus extraordinaire!  Never before was a deus ex machina so resplendently chivalrous and full of spunk!”

        “Ugh, Lyra, honestly!”  Bon Bon blushed for the umpteenth time before standing up and lifting her own glass.  “Here's to a honeymoon that never ends, so long as our hearts are magical.”  She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

        It was Harmony's turn.  With a devilish smirk, she stood up and raised the glass in her copper grasp.  “Here's to making the impossible happen.”  She exhaled and gazed off into the salty air.  “It is ever a labor of love.”

        The three mares clinked their glasses together.  After a mutual guzzle, they exhaled as one... until Lyra's belch punctuated the scene.  A giggle was shared between the three, a pleasant chorus that pierced the roar of the sapphiric blue waves crashing behind them.

        Harmony placed her glass down and performed a regal curtsey.  “Well, ladies, goodbye, farewell, and amen.”

        “And all that jazz,” Lyra droned.  She leaned against Bon Bon with a smile aimed Harmony's way.  “Try to relax, heroine.  This was our vacation you dropped in on.  Unless stargazing was your way of loosening up, I think you could stand to kick your horseshoes off and wiggle your toes in the wet surf.”

        “'Toes'... Right...”  Harmony gave the unicorn a cock-eyed glance.  “Got it.”  She cleared her throat and smirked at Bon Bon.  “Try not to let her get too carried away.”

        “Heeheehee...”  Bon Bon nuzzled her companion and responded to the time traveler, “You know I'll fail.”

        “Heh...”  Harmony spread her wings, spun about, and soared skyward.  The two ponies waved as the copper pegasus banked over the beach, twirled through the golden rays of the sun, and flew towards the far end of the six story hotel.  Once she was out of sight of her anchor and the earth pony's loved one, she accelerated into a faster climb, barreling skyward as fast as her feathers could take her.  The world twitched before the pegasus in a billowing curtain of emerald.  Taking a deep breath, Harmony closed her eyes and calmly let the immutability of time take its course.

        The world bled into a gigantic corridor of ghostly echoes as reverse-time pulled the mare back to the future.  Her coat quivered from mane to tail as Harmony felt the layers of her soul-self peeling away one copper blanket at a time to expose her true flesh beneath.

        Then something happened that broke the meditative tranquility of the moment.  At first, it sounded like a low bass hum.  Harmony briefly imagined that she had been bounced back to the shores of Dream Valley, for she was hearing the crashing of waves once more.  However, the future scavenger never knew ocean waves for having a constant, thunderous vibration... something that shook her to the very core as if she was riding a wagon down an endless, bumpy slope of pebbles.

        She couldn't help it.  She fluttered her eyes open halfway between amber and scarlet.  What she saw stole the breath from her incorporeal lungs.  From beyond the refracting mirrors of numerous green hues, a dark copper shape was staring down at her.  With heart-stopping pulses of awe, Harmony realized that this holy silhouette was moving towards her, crawling on gigantic, sinewy limbs that glistened with brass-horsehoes so immaculate that they could have been carved out of pure flame.  The granite muscles of this being's frame flexed as it knelt down and tilted a dark, obscured face towards her.  There was no discerning the shadow's facial features, for Harmony's startled mind had suddenly become reacquainted with her infinitesimal mortality.

        She almost died the very moment the shadowy equine stretched a pair of copper wings out, majestically brimming with cogwheels, springs, and celestial spindles.  The hum that filled the corridor morphed into a meticulous ticking sensation, as strong as a titanium heartbeat, perfect and immutable in its rhythmic precision.  Before Harmony could even bother to comprehend the spaces between those beats, the green corridor bled away, and the noise softly coalesced into a flimsy fascimile of that radiant time-keeper.  Rows upon rows of brass clocks were ticking across the lengths of the subterranean laboratory, and a thirty-three year old Scootaloo sat breathlessly in the midst of them like a long lost prophet to something that had come and gone, and still had yet to transpire.

        “Ah, you're back, old friend.  Fantastic timing.”  Spike strolled nonchalantly past the alchemic circles the pegasus was sitting upon  He shuffled a roll of parchment in his claws.  “I've been working on my memoirs while waiting for you, and I must embarassingly admit that my literary expertise vastly pales in comparison to my scientific prowess.  You're a well-read filly, Scootaloo.  Tell me, is 'clamor' spelled with a 'b' or without it?”

        “Uhm...”  Scootaloo blinked numbly, the mechanically-winged shape still burned into her scarlets.  She ran a hoof over her trembling face as a long mane of pink hair settled down from a magical wind, draping over her shoulders.  The mare took a deep breath, then awoke to respond, “It... it depends on how you're using it.  Are you describing a sound or a physical action?”

        “I'm writing a humorous anecdote depicting this one time that I and my past self played a whelpish game of hide and seek with one another.  There's a moment where I describe myself as having stumbled up a steep incline of Canterlotlian rocks.”

        “Then you use a 'b' followed by 'e' and 'r'.  'Clamber'.  But don't overuse the friggin' word, Spike.  There are plenty of fish in the sea, and when I say 'fish' I mean 'verbs'.”

        “Ah.  Much thanks, old friend.”

        “Seriously, Spike.  You're three hundred years old.  Couldn't you have scavenged a thesaurus during one of your many reverse-time expeditions?”

        Her large, draconian companion smiled with iron jaws.  “And relinquish myself of the ease of depending on such a gracious editor as yourself?”

        “You're writing for a dead world, Spike.  You could pick phrases out of a hat and slap them together into a tome that's large enough to fill the vault of Whinniepeg, and still—by sheer existence—it would become a masterpiece.”

        “Your nihilism, as always, has a sprinkle of charm to it, dear child.  I do not know about you, but I intend to leave more for this world than a restored sun and moon as a testimony to our existence.”

        “Yeah...”  Scootaloo exhaled and slicked her long, pink hair back with a shaking hoof.  “More power to ya.”

        Spike glanced narrowly at her sudden shivers.  His emerald eyeslits glistened.  “Scootaloo, did you have a... traumatizing experience?”

        “Oh.  H-Hardly, Spike.”  She smiled softly at him, her scarlets sparkling.  “Those were about the sweetest ponies I've ever had the grace of spending time with.  Bon Bon is a complete angel, and Lyra is an absolute hoot... even if she says things from time to time that'd make Pinkie Pie's head spin.”

        “And were you successful in hunting down the constellations?”

        “Absolutely!”  Scootaloo giggled and pointed towards a wide banner hanging across the far wall of the subterranean laboratory, obscuring the burnt diagram of the Cataclysmic time-line behind it.  A gigantic map of the Equestrian night sky had been built in several pieces, consisting of conjoined sheets of journal papers taped together to form a grand mosaic illuminated by purple manalight.  A large chunk was still missing along the lower right side of the rough diorama, but the overall design depicted a thick cluster of stars in the center, drowning out the rest of the specks.  “It was just like with Braeburn at Appleloosa and Dr. Whooves in Stalliongrad.  I touched down inconspicuously—well, more or less—and swiftly got acquainted.  I lent a hoof as a good 'Canterlotlian Clerk' and, in return, I was granted a perfect view of the night sky.  Appleloosa gave me a northeast glance at the constellations while Stalliongrad filled in the southwest cluster.  Now, thanks to Lyra and Bon Bon, I've got another map to go pick up, and it should shed some light on the night sky as seen from Dream Valley, twenty-five years ago.”

        “Astonishing!”  Spike remarked, his green headcrests perking curiously.  “Dream Valley!  Did you chance upon any—”

        “I do not want to talk about seaponies.”  Scootaloo grunted.  “Not now.  Not ever.”

        “Very well.  My memoirs have enough tangents as it is.”

        “Just how much of your writing involves me, Spike?”  Scootaloo asked with a curious eyebrow raised.

        He smirked at her, coughing up some green fumes.  “Rest assured, old friend, there are quite a few chapters dedicated to the nature of your chronological exploits.”

        “Considering you're over three centuries old, I don't know if that should make me feel flattered or awkward.”

        “Let us venture to say a daring hybrid of both, for posterity's sake.”

        “Yeah, sure, why not.”  Scootaloo said.  A pale sheen returned to her brown features as she trembled once more, gulped, and murmured, “Uhm... Spike?”

        “Hmmm?”  The dragon stood in the corner, scribbling along a scroll of parchment.

        “What were Princess Entropa's wings made out of?”

        “Ohhhh...”  The dragon's nostrils flared in thought.  “That is a question lost to the conjecture of ages, dear child.  Not even Starswirl the Bearded lived long enough to write down that glorious bit of information.  I suppose the only souls capable of regaling history on such a topic would have been Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, and you've had access to their journals, not me.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “I think I may have j-just seen her...”

        Spike glanced up from his parchment.

        “Just now...” the last pony emphasized.  “While coming back from my anchorage to Bon Bon.  I believe she appeared before me.”

        “Hmmm...”  The draconian elder merely uttered, “I was wondering when this would happen.”

        Scootaloo's jaw dropped.  “Spike...”  She trotted towards him, gazing up with bright scarlet eyes.  “You anticipated that she would show up?”

        “Scootaloo, Princess Entropa hasn't 'shown up' to anypony.  Unlike her other Alicorn sisters, she is more than a purveyor of her element; she is the essence of it.  Time is immutable because Princess Entropa is immutable, for Princess Entropa is the very fabric of time itself.”

        “But... I saw her.”  Scootaloo gulped and pointed ceilingward as if gesturing towards an invisible cloud of “time-ness” above the two experimenters.  “I had never seen her before.  I could have sworn that she was looking at me.”

        “And perhaps she was looking at you, child.”

        “But I thought you just said—?”

        “Has it occurred to you that she's always been watching you?  Observing you?”  Spike relaxed on his haunches and lowered his purple-scaled snout so that it was level with the last pony.  “Meanwhile, it's been you who have gotten more and more acclimated with the substance of time and reverse-time.”

        “She's seen what I've been doing this whole time?”  Scootaloo blinked.  “These last four months that we've been performing this crazy crusade for the Sun and Moon?”

        Spike let loose a deep, bass chuckle.  Fumes of green smoke filtered up to the ceiling as he coughed, steadied the violet pendant hanging around his neck, and then gently stroked the pony's pink mane.  “Dear friend, Princess Entropa sees all.  That is how it's always been and how it always will be.  You once asked me why it is that the Goddess of Time never interceded on behalf of the Cataclysm.  The truth is asimple as much as it is somber.  She knew it would happen the very moment she was foaled into this universe, even before the very Sundering of Consus.  She was powerless to do anything about it, for to break the immutability of her essence would eliminate her very power over it.  It is something that is hard for mortals like you or I to wrap our fragile minds around, but the easiest way to think of it is that Entropa is the eternal observer of the universe.”

        “An observer...”  Scootaloo murmured.  Her nostrils flared as she stared defeatedly into a far corner of the underground laboratory.  “...just like her avatar.”

        The purple dragon smiled gently.  “Yes.  Just like her avatar.”  He stood up straight on iron limbs.  “And in speaking of her avatar, it can only be natural that she is curious of this blissful moment in a not-so-blissful history, when a mere mortal would happen to be donning her very skin—her very coat—to travel back and forth on the streams of her glorious essence.”

        “Is she...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  “Is she jealous of me, Spike?”

        “That depends, child.  How can one be jealous if one lacks the ability—or will—to possess an ego?”  He chuckled fumedly.  “I would say she's just curious.  That's all.”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “You're right, as always, Spike.”

        “I am neither right nor wrong, old friend.  I am merely educated.  And now you are too.”  He leaned his head to the side with an iron smirk.  “Does this in any way affect our ever-daunting mission at hand?”

        “Heh heh heh... 'hand'...”

        “What is so amusing, all of the sudden?”

        Scootaloo waved a hoof.  “Nothing.  Just thinking about Lyra is all...”

        “You sound like you've had a rather cheerful time jump for once.  Nevertheless, it had to have been a tiresome experience.  Perhaps some rest is in order.”

        “Maybe there'll be a chance for that later, Spike.  Not all of us have the entire fabric of time to sit back and relax.”  Scootaloo hopped over to a laboratory table and briskly strapped a leather saddlebag over her body.  “But right now, I must be going.”

        “And where to, in such a hurry?”

        “Dream Valley.”  She glanced up and sassily tossed her pink mane behind her brown neck.  “I've got the last bit of the sky to pick up.”




        A brown hoof ran an invisible circle across a map before circling a tiny splotch of land that bordered an eastern seaboard.  Scootaloo raised the pull-down map back to the roof of the Harmony, revealing a grotesque horizon of black sludge beyond the cockpit windows.  A veritable ocean of obsidian sediment loomed immensely into view beyond the bow of the aircraft.  Scootaloo grasped her hooves around the levers affixed beside her cockpit and steered her zeppelin down towards the last remaining length of gray desolation before the soupy blackness took over.

        A cluster of shattered beachfront buildings came into focus as the Harmony lowerd to sea-level.  Scootaloo slowed her descent, piloted the vehicle towards a stalk of sundered concrete support pillars, and anchored the craft to them through the use of two steam-powered claws.

        Gathering her belongings, the last pony exited the aircraft and plodded her lonesome way towards the largest of the hotel structures... or at least what remained of them.  Her target had collapsed in on itself, the upper five stories having caved-in on the bottom floor in a chaotic fashion.

        “Whew.”  Scootaloo whistled.  “Good thing I put the crap in the hotel's foundation.”  She smirked to herself, navigated a cluster of dilapidated, overturned carriages, and slid through the sundered front entrance of the crumbling structure.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Nnnngh!”

        Scootaloo pried a large metal bar into the floor of the rubble-strewn hotel lobby behind a wooden desk.  A gigantic concrete tile panel—one of several dozen more like it—peeled free with a groan.  The last pony wheezed with the effort of removing the obstruction, cursing her Entropan double for not anticipating the degree to which her physical body would have to strain in uncovering the capsule left behind for her future self.

        “Hnnnkkkt-Agh!  There...”

        She exhaled and slumped against the wall with relief as the panel finally slid free.  She panted, panted, and giggled pathetically to herself.  Dropping the metal bar to the lobby floor with a clang, she knelt down on her haunches and reached into the dusty crawlspace beneath the concrete paneling.  Scootaloo licked her lips with the effort, blindly hoofing around for a spell.  Finally, she felt what she had come there for.

        With a victorious grin, she pulled her limb back up, cradling a long ivory seashell.  The natural object was almost cylindrical, and its alabaster surface had been tainted with the mildew and soot of ages.  Gnawing on her bottom lip, Scootaloo slid her hoof up along the stalk of the thing until she found a crease.  She twisted at this spot, and the makeshift container snapped open.  Pulling the “lid” off, Scootaloo turned the entire thing over and gave it a shake, her heartbeat briefly stopping.

        Then, in immaculate grace, a rolled-up sheet of parchment effortlessly fell out of the elongated seashell.  It had been perfectly perserved throughout the decades.  Scootaloo exhaled with joy as she unrolled the scroll and held before her goggles an elaborate sketch of the Equestrian night sky as seen from the southeast continental seaboard.

        “Harmony, you adorkable astronomer, you,” Scootaloo murmured to herself.  With a soft grin, she rolled the parchment back up, sealed it inside the seashell, and stuck the whole thing inside her saddlebag.  “Absolutely friggin' textbook.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~

        Scootaloo layed the entire seashell on a shelf between two clusters of books.  With gentle hooves, she closed the locker doors shut and spoke into the rune, “W'nyhhm.”  The container of scavenged literature locked shut as the moonrock glowed in a purple haze.

        Sliding her copper goggles up to her pink bangs, Scootaloo turned and walked across the cabin of the Harmony.  She approached her workbench, above which many random objects of miscellany had been clustered together over the past several weeks.  Humming to herself, she bore a soft smile as she reached into her bag and produced several new items, adding them to the assortment of mementos.  She placed a cocktail glass atop a shelf, along with a hotel lobby bell, a pile of miraculously preserved sand dollars, and—last but not least—something she had pilfered from the novelty shop at Ponyville, but only now had a reason for putting up somewhere to be displayed.  It was a golden instrument, a lyre with frayed strings, and she hung it daintily above the many tiny objects extracted from the beachfront ruins.

        Taking a deep breath, the last pony stood back and stared across the wall of apocalyptic memorabilia.  Suntrot's foalish sketch hung on the wall above a green beret and the folded arcanium weave of an entire Royal Grand Biv outfit, complete with ruby goggles and rusted cloak-blades.  To the side of this was a cowboy hat, an apple bucket, a railroad track spike, and an elaborate buffalo headdress.  Finally, next to this display was an array of military medals, a brick taken from the Great Wall of Stalliongrad, a golden pocketwatch, and a slender object that vaguely resembled a complicated screwdriver.

        Scootaloo's smile was a placid yet bittersweet thing.  She leaned her head to the side and ran a hoof through the pink lengths of her mane.  Her eyes twitched upon a sheen of light in the amber glow of the ship's boiler.  She glanced to the side.  From a meter away, she saw her reflection staring back at her across a perfectly reflective shard of Cloudsdalian glass hanging above the workbench.  The scarlet eyes that looked back at her suddenly seemed less jaded, as if a touch of violet had come back to refill them.  She felt a sore pit in her throat, but for some reason she didn't detest this sensation.

        Turning about, Scootaloo almost hopped back into her cockpit, when her gaze was once again stolen by the great, inky blackness lingering beyond the anchored vessel's windshield.  Her eyes locked onto the spot where the gray desolation met the deathly sea of opaque sludge.  The pegasus' wings twitched involuntarily, and her nostrils flared for the few lingering seconds it took to vainly fight her next impulse.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Petrified mounds of sand wafted up like so much ash and soot as the lone pony plodded towards the edge of the shore.  Scootaloo walked past the beachfront shells of crumbling hotels, approaching the great, dead ocean.  She glanced to her right and saw a collapsed pile of wood, the remains of a patio replete with wooden tables.  She looked to her left and saw the remains of a sea vessel stranded in two sundered halves, its rusted contents spilling out onto barren rock and shoals.

        Looking down, Scootaloo solemnly found her hooves navigating a sudden minefield of brittle bones.  Several mammalian skeletons were lying on either side of her, their equine skulls attached to bulbous ribcages affixed with cartilaginous flippers.  Curtains of white dust billowed over their rickety spines and hollow tails.  The bones doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in thickness until Scootaloo could walk no further without practically tripping over the impenetrable carpet of corpses.  Before her—bordering the edge of the ocean like a powdery layer of residue—was a solid line of calcified death that stretched north and south as far as the seaboard horizon could be seen.

        Beyond the line of ash-white refuse, an even filthier sight stretched eastward into infinity.  What was once a vast blue ocean of crashing waves had become a frozen soup of jet-black sludge.  If there was any water left to the seas of Equestria, one could not tell from a distant glance.  Something magically horrid in the Cataclysm had long ago dredged the dead matter of all the world's oceans up to the surface, so that a blanket of molasses-thick, necrotic ooze lingered in perpetual viscosity.  The deathly black gunk was randomly dotted here and there with a throng of bones, a bloated corpse, or a jagged fossil, as hundreds upon thousands of sea creatures found their final resting places on the top of the blighted ocean.

        The twilight bathed this deathscape in a gray funeral light, christening the lengths of it with white snow.  Scootaloo had never said it out loud, nor had she the courage to write it in her journals, but she sometimes found a gentle beauty in the endless desolation that encompassed her life, or graced her vision like this.  Just like Spike's memoirs, the Wasteland had little to no audience, so it all might as well have been a masterpiece.  Perhaps, though, it was just that the thirty-three year old mare had come to a point when all that was horrible became all that was beautiful, in that it had taken her two and a half decades to realize that they were both the very same thing.

        Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo glanced aside and found a rickety wooden beach chair that—for better or for worse—had survived the flames of the Cataclysm.  Marching over several brittle skeletons, she lowered herself in the seat, sat in the middle of a sea of corpses, and gazed out onto the dead, black horizon of Dream Valley.  A warm twinkle lit her scarlet eyes, and she helplessly hummed a bubbly tune that felt just as fresh as yesterday.

        There was a sudden breeze, something that chilled the skeletons to the bone and the last pony as well.  She hissed through clenched teeth as her pink mane billowed, reminding her of what she had lost and what she had reclaimed in such a long time... and yet in such a short time.  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.  Then, for a brief moment, she felt as though she heard the crashing of waves.





        So she opened her violet orbs, trembling, as a grand white mist of all of sunken Cloudsdale's collective waterfalls wafted up towards her frail, orange figure.  Nine year old Scootaloo stood upon the northwest edge of the pit.  The inner ruins of the collapsed city looked far more intimidating than ever she could have bothered sketching in a map of the great, looming crater.  Her stubby, flightless wings writhed nervously as she gawked at the great depths stretching beneath her, bathed with trickling water from so many surrounding clusters of crumbling sky marble structures.

        “Okay...”  She gulped and panted, her legs wobbling under the weight of her canvas saddlebags full of haphazard tools and scavenging equipment.  A jar of half-decayed daisies rattled on either side of her slender, shaved neck.  “I can do this.  I can do this.  Just think, what would Dashie do?”

        A roar of thunder filled the crimson air of the wasteland horizon.  Scootaloo shuddered, biting her lip and glancing over her shoulder as a distant explosion announced another landing moonrock beyond the mounds of desolation behind her.  She suddenly winced and hissed angrily at herself.

        “Idiot, Rainbow Dash would fly.  I gotta keep it together, gotta do this like I planned.”

        The foal craned her neck and looked directly below her.  Her violet eyes followed the sloping path into the pit that she had mapped just days before.  From far away, the sloping incline appeared navigable.  Standing upon the precipice of the deathly slide, however, Scootaloo couldn't comprehend how any pony—no matter what age—would be able to trot down the thing and reach the bottom of the inner ruins in one piece.

        “Yeah... Y-Yeah...”  Scootaloo gulped and fiddled her hooves towards her rightmost saddlebag.  “This totally calls for the rope.”

        She wished she hadn't needed to rely on the climbing gear so soon, but the little filly saw no other way to safely descend this immedate bank of steepness.  There could be pegasi down there that could help her—or, she suddenly realized—probably needed her help.  Scootaloo didn't want to imagine how thoughtless and stupid an act it would have been to end herself in a pathetic tumble then and there.  For two and a half weeks, she had been her only friend.  It was only natural that she looked after herself with no less dedication.

        Clamping a metal stake into the stony earth, Scootaloo tested the tightness of a rope tied to it.  Satisfied, she fastened the other end of the cord to her petite waist and let loose some slack.  Trotting backwards, the little filly nervously—but gradually—crept her way down the steep slope.  Flakes of ash and tiny pebbles flew loose from her shuffling hooves, falling toward the gaping chasm below where so many jagged chunks of ivory sky marble lingered like a bed of spikes.

        Scootaloo gulped, stifling a whimper as she gave the rope more slack and slid down the craggy path.  Her violet eyes twitched to see an even platform of segmented rock lingering at least twenty meters below her clambering hooves, flanked by trickling streams of cascading water.  The foal murmured, praying breathlessly that the rope's length would be enough to let her touch down on the brief splotch of even ground.  If she could just make it to that outcropping below, Scootaloo figured, the rest of the descent would be smooth sailing, as she would follow the cyclonic ledge down towards the thick of the inner ruins where she could look for more tools and—more importantly—survivors.

        Just then, there was an intense rumbling.  The Wastelands above shook with a sudden tremor.  The rope holding Scootaloo jostled, and she found herself dangling wildly.  The foal let loose a shriek and clung onto the cord for dear life, her wings twitching instinctually as her body swung from side to side—dipping in and out of a bone-chilling curtain of water that stole the gasping breath out from her lungs.  Finally, Scootaloo shot her hooves out and braced herself against a vertical stretch of sundered rock.  Soaked and shivering, she glanced up through the falling blanket of snow to see a bright red hue bleeding through the gray circle of twilight overhead.

        “Oh, Celestia, save me...”

        A moonrock was sailing towards the edge of the pit.  The air burned under a murderous cacophony of searing hot sparks.  Tongues of flame erupted all along the edges of the rumbling crater of Cloudsdale above her.  Soon, a bright orange blaze caught the rope and snaked down the length of it towards where the vulnerable pegasus dangled.

        “Oh crap oh crap oh crap...!”

        Scootaloo squeaked in desperation and fumbled with dull hooves to untie the rope from her waist.  The rumbling intensified.  The waterfalls around her started to boil.  The flame crept its way down the rope towards her, filling her nostrils with smoke and ash.

        Panting, Scootaloo kicked against the wall, spun like a dizzy spider, and freed her limbs to reach into her saddlebags.  She produced a sharp metal shiv and swung it against the rope holding her above.  A few threads snapped loose, but she still dangled under the falling curtain of flames.  The world flashed in bright plasma, blinding her.  She screamed and swung again.  The last few filaments stretched thin, then snapped, and she fell like a dead stone towards the graveyard of Cloudsdale at the bottom of the abyss.

        “Aaaaaah—Nnngh!”  She jolted as her body ragdolled off a ledge of rock and then landed limply over the length of an ivory pillar embedded into the crater wall.  Scootaloo winced, attempting to pull herself up as a gigantic wave of dust sailed down at her.  She realized without looking that the moonrock had finally slammed into the edge of the crater's mouth.  A gigantic shadow fell over her as several chunks of burning earth and moon sediment cascaded like a deluge of lava towards her figure.

        In a breathless lunge, she dove from the pillar, fell, kicked off a wall of rock, pinballed off a water-soaked stretch of stone, and tumbled down a long slope of powdery ivory.  Not taking the time to check for broken limbs, the filly squealed and broke into a heart-stopping canter, attempting to outrun the waves of falling, burning moonrock.  She scampered towards a dark hovel beneath a platform of collapsed sky marble.  Halfway through the sprint, her saddlebags got caught on the spoke of a crumpled chariot.  She tugged and tugged and fought back the sobs before ultimately ripping the canvas material in half.  Desperately, she abandoned a good chunk of her precious supplies in the effort it took to dive out of the way of the falling debris, sliding fitfully to a stop beneath the flimsy shelter of ivory marble.

        Scootaloo almost lost all sense of hearing right then and there.  Broken off chunks of lunar material showered the heart of the gaping pit.  The world rolled with deep bass thunder, as if the Cataclysm was happening all over again.  The filly shrieked into the madness, covering her bleeding ears and fighting for a single breath as a solid wall of smoke and dust encompassed her.  She wasn't sure how she did, but she managed to climb out from beneath the claustrophobic space amidst all of the chaos, so that she found herself limping pathetically down a grand, subterranean expanse of gray rubble and slade beneath the vibrating roof of Cloudsdale's inner ruins.

        The little pony lost track of time.  The last few hours were just as mysterious as her unknowable foalday.  At some point during her shuffling sojourn, she awoke to see her hooves reaching the edge of a vicious gap in the lower ruins.  She blinked, glancing around herself, spotting a translucent haze of settling dust as the thunder from the impacting moonrock finally, finally settled.  Scootaloo regained her hearing in time to bear witness to a great groaning ambiance as all of Cloudsdale settled and shifted weightedly above her.  The foal's world had become a grand three-dimensional maze of labyrinthine rock croppings and steep, vertical wreckage.  The inner ruins of Cloudsdale looked nothing like the relatively pristine buildings she had explored on the surface of the burning world.  She was now submerged helplessly inside the heart of a grand intestinal mesh of broken ivory and watersoaked sky marble, and every direction looked just as claustrophobically intimidating as any other.

        As the lucidity returned completely to the sweating pegasus, she spun with an impenetrable hyperventilation, her violet eyes widening as she looked all over for a sign of where she had numbly trotted from.  Every gaping corridor that wasn't blanketed in flaming dust was just as gray and foreboding as the several dozens of identical passageways flanking it.  Regardless, Scootaloo galloped down the closest tunnel she could find, emerging barely ten seconds later to find a giant gaping chamber of wreckage just as desolate as the one she had left.  Her breaths reached a fever pitch as she ran down corridor after corridor, finding the inner ruins of Cloudsdale the same twilight-pierced landscape of crumbled nonsense that any other glance could possibly afford her.

        “No...”  She whimpered, spinning around, her lip quivering as she fought the urge to cry.  “No no no... Oh Celestia, please...”  Her eyes glistened as she searched in vain for the remains of her saddlebags, for all of the foodstuffs that she had spent a solid week collecting, for all of the many priceless tools that were now lost to her, as was her hope.  “Nnnngh... Help me...”  She murmured, then spat, then shrieked.  “Somepony, help me!”

        Scootaloo scrambled up to a nearby wall and clawed at it with her hooves.  Dust and ash fell over her face and shaved mane, blanketing her.  She shook it off, panting desperately, then bit her lip as she took several steps back and faced a wide stretch of even rock.  She squatted her body down and flexed her stubby wings, all the while locking her eyes nonstop on the gray splotch of wreckage-filled “sky” above.  After a deep breath, she broke into a running start, galloped, sped, and leaped as high as she could.

        “Nnnngh!”  She strained and strained, barely summoning the dexterity to flex her tiny appendages a few pitiful centimeters.  After a weightless eternity, Scootaloo came back down twice as hard as she had lifted off.  “Ooof!”  She landed roughly against a stretch of rock.  Her eyes welled with tears as she dragged herself back up, flexed her muscles, and jumped up and down repeatedly, beating her useless wings against the snow-laden air.  “Come on!  Come on!”

        The wheels in her head were turning painfully.  She knew that it was an impossible climb—gear or no gear—to get back up to the top of the crater.  She also knew that when the moonrock landed, it obliterated the one single slope of navigable rock that her legs could ever have hoped to ascend.  Now she was nothing more than a lonely, flightless pegasus with no resources at her disposal.  She was a lonely, flightless pegasus with no resources at the bottom of an inescapable pit.

        “Please!  Somepony!  Can anypony hear me?!”  Scootaloo shrieked and sobbed, limping through puddles of Clousdalian water, rippling her reflection into a hundred quivering bands.  “Help me!  Please... Please... I need... I-I need...”  She fell down to her haunches, surrounded in an abyss devoid of color, bathed in dust and tears.  The water in the puddle settled, revealing to herself a sobbing face stained with fresh blood and bruises.  The expression behind the layers of pain was helpless, weak, and pitifully stupid.

        Her parents would have been ashamed of her.

        “Please... I need you, Dashie...”  She choked and dug her snout into the cold puddles in a desperate attempt to mask her tears as her whimpering voice echoed across the crumbling, groaning expanse entombing her.  “Pl-Please... Dashie... help me... What should I do?  Wh-What sh-should I do now?”

        Born unto a bitter new helplessness, she hid her heaving face in a pair of water-soaked forelimbs, repeating her mournful words to the nothingness around her.




        “I said, can you hear me?!”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow above her blinking scarlets.  She leaned her face towards the port-side spout that broadcasted her booming voice across the Wasteland clouds, all the while staring intently beyond the Harmony's windshield at the familiar sight of a dark-green airship hovering limply under an array of six bulbous balloons.  What was odd about it was that the side door to the vessel had been yawning open long before the last pony had even approached it.

        “Bruce, are you there?  I've been calling you for—like—five minutes!”

        There was no response.  The airship drifted coldly, limply, like a giant unlit cigar in the frothing gray clouds of forever.

        Scootaloo suddenly felt her heart beating at a faster rate.  The veteran scavenger inside her let loose a retaliatory grunt.

        “Friggin' furball.  Like I should give a crap.”

        Nevertheless, the next breath that came out of her was a shuddering thing.  With a defeated groan, she cut the communicator off.  The sparks died in the tesla coils crowning the device as she bounded across the interior of her cabin with a speed that even surprised herself.  She hoisted a fresh satchel of scavenged items from the workbench, along with an armored saddlebag, and her copper rifle.

        With gliding grace, the brown pegasus clamped her hooves onto the winding staircase and slid down the railings so that she descended briskly into the hangar bay of her airship below.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's four hooves landed in the doorway of Bruce's gondola.  As soon as she touched the bulkhead, there was a rattling noise.  Blinking, Scootaloo glanced down and groaned to see that her forward right horseshoe had fallen halfway loose.

        “Ughh... Fourth frickin' time this week.”  She grumbled to herself, slightly surprised that she could tell the difference in present time and past time anymore.  She dashed the thought away as she knelt and fiddled with the horseshoe, tightening it against the edge of her weathered hoof while muttering, “I need some new nails or something.  These aren't making the cut.  Hey Brucie!”  She shouted with a wry smirk as she marched firmly into the smoke-hazed interior of the rodent barterer's vessel.  “What are the chances that you sell the ingredients for a dang good shoe that only an extinct race of equines could benefit from—?”  She froze in her tracks, her pink mane hair settling like a tattered flag around her blinking face.

        Bruce was staring back at her, his timid expression trembling under a pair of green goggles.  His legs and furry tail dangled, for he was being held a good meter off the floor of the cabin, gripped in the sharp talons of two griffons who were each five times his size.  The twin bounty hunters in high altitude flight gear gazed over their shoulders, their vicious interrogation having been cut short by the sudden appearance of the last pony.  The avian mercenaries were not amused.

        “What are you looking at, glue stick?!”

        “This is Golden Gang business.  So wipe that stupid look off your face and wait your turn.”

        “My... turn...?”  Scootaloo murmured, blinking numbly.

        “Eheheheh...”  The flying squirrel sputtered and coughed under the iron-tight talon encircling his neck.  With tiny paws, he attempted to pull himself up so that his vocal cords could properly sound forth, “Do not be concerned over friend pony.  She is merely business associate.  Ve are both traders of scavenged goods in skies.  Birds of feather, da?”

        One griffon slammed him hard against a metal bulkhead.  “Shut up unless spoken to first!”

        “H-Hey!”  Scootaloo growled.  She made to trot forward, only to be distracted by a loud, sky-splitting roar emanating from beyond the open door to Bruce's cabin behind her.

        “I'm gonna ask you one more time, peanut-brain!”  The mercenary sneered through her beak into Bruce's face, fogging his goggles up.  “Have you or have you not traded merchandise with any reptilian clients over the past five stormfronts?!”

        “Snkkkt...”  Bruce hissed and put on his bravest smile, sweating profusely in her vice grip.  “Nyet!  Brucie knows no reptiles!  Is inborn squirrel instinct not to trust merchant vith scales!  Perhaps griffons confuse Brucie vith furry creature of less intelligence, like raccoon or aardvark!”

        “Intelligence?!”  The griffon glared at him while her companion chuckled, her helmet rattling.  “You fly around in a giant tobacco bong filled with worthless junk from the Equestrian ruins and you call yourself intelligent?!”

        “Brucie never said he vas head of St. Petersbrittle Science Academy...”

        “How do I know you're not a naga in disguise, trying to fool us?”

        The roar outside the airship became deafening.  A mute Scootaloo spun about to look.  Emerging from the clouds, there rose a large, angular hovercraft of glinting platinum metal and serrated bulkheads.  Two pivoting wings fitted with quad VTOL engines spat a deathly vapor that evaporated the surrounding mists.  Several large missiles and incendiary mines glistened in the gray twilight as the Golden Gang's aircraft—a flying weapon nearly four times the size of the Harmony—hovered dangerously between Brucie's and Scootaloo's zeppelins.

        Suddenly, a flurry of gray feathers occupied the last pony's view, followed by a loud clank of talons against metal.  Scootaloo couldn't help it; she stumbled back with a stifled cry.  In response, she received a hideous glare.  With a rattling of fingerbone trophies about her neck, Stowe aimed her scarred left eye in the last pony's direction, snorted with indignance, and hissed.

        “Out of my way, blank flank.”  Stowe purposefully bumped into Scootaloo's shoulder, shoving her aside.  She carried her icy grimace across the cluttered domain of Bruce's aircraft until she was staring down her two inferiors.  “What in the tap-dancing crap is taking you two feather dusters so flippin' long?!  We've got loads of sky to cover and you're wasting all the boss' time on this flea-bag!”

        “I can't understand a single word this moron is saying!”  One of the griffons shook a gasping Bruce in her grasp like he was an offensive rag doll.  “It's like interrogating a shrunken Dirigible Dog with marbles in its mouth!”

        “At least Brucie smells better—”

        “Sh-Shut up!”  The griffon squealed, then glanced pleadingly up at Stowe.  “Can we just say that we found contraband, strip the ship, and eat the little rat for breakfast tomorrow?”

        “You talk like any of this is up to me.”  Stowe grunted.  “The two of you should know better.  Just find out what the stupid turd has to tell us before we get—”

        At that moment, a radio fitted to Stowe's jacketed shoulder squawked forth in a familiar voice:  “Scrkkk—Hey, Stowe.  Have the girls gotten any info yet?”

        “Nnngh!”  Stowe rolled her one good eye and grumbled.  “When it rains, it pisses.”  She flung a talon to the radio on her shoulder and aimed her grimacing beak towards it.  “Gilda, it's a friggin' squirrel.  This is a godawful waste of our time.  I told you that before we even—”

        “Scrkk—You know, the time that you spend whining like a little brat, you could instead be earning your keep.  Either get your tail feathers in gear or get a bullet to the head, because I'm sick of hearing excuses.  You copy?”

        Stowe weathered an angry shiver running up her spine.  After a deep breath, she finally muttered, “I copy, Gilda.  Stowe out.”  She flicked the radio off and practically spat at the two lackeys.  “Well?!  Will you get a frickin' move on?!”

        “He still hasn't told us if he's dealt with any naga!” the griffon clutching Bruce timidly remarked.

        “Or if he's a naga himself!” the other added.

        “You want to find out if he's a shape-shifter or not?!”  Stowe shoved one griffon away and marched straight up to the squirrel.  “Here!  I'll show you how it's done, you brainless egg-huffers!”  With that uttered, she flung a talon across Bruce's shoulder.  With a slice of glinting claws, she made three shallow cuts across the twitching rodent's coat.

        “Gaaah!”  Bruce hissed.

        Scootaloo winced.

        Fuming, Stowe spun about and raised a talon in front of her two companion's gawking faces.  Copper-red liquid dribbled down her gnarled wrist.  “There!  Ya see?!  Squirrel blood!  Now let's jet!”

        The two griffons nodded shakily.  They dropped Bruce to the floor like a grunting sack of flour and scurried swiftly past Scootaloo and out of the aircraft.  The flying squirrel moaned and clutched his shoulder with a quivering paw while Stowe stepped dispassionately over him.

        “I carry this whole friggin' team.  I swear, Griffonese grit is all but dead.”  Stowe gazed off into a far corner of the cluttered gondola.  She absentmindedly raised the talons to her beak and licked each drop of blood up one at a time with a black tongue.  She paused, one talon in her mouth, as her scarred face tilted the last pony's way.  “And you.”  An errant gray feather or two fell from her ruffled neck as she leered above the equine figure.  “Have you seen any reptiles in the Wasteland lately?  Like I should give a crap over what flimsy excuse for 'truth' a glue stick like you has to spit forth...”

        “Can't say that I have.”  Scootaloo glared back at her.  “Though I'm seeing a real snake in the grass right now.”

        “Heh.  Cute.”  Stowe's necklace of fingerbones rattled as she pointed a blood-stained talon in between the last pony's scarlet eyes.  “I should gut you for your friggin' lip, ya walking sack of manure.  If I had my way, I'd stab every single one of your clopping brothers and sisters, if only the Cataclysm didn't take the fun out of it by doing the job for me.  After all, it's because of you frickin' prancing clopjobs that Griffon Mount today is an abandoned tomb full of rock spiders.  Whatever crazy magic you destroyed the world with, it's reduced my species to a gaggle of feather-brained morons who can't even squeeze info out of a talking squirrel!”

        “Is this the part where I'm supposed to feel intimidated?”  Scootaloo droned, her scarlets burning back at the avian bounty hunter.  “Because all I feel is pity.”

        Stowe's beak grinded over her mouth.  Her scarred eye quivered as she hissed, “You know what you are?  You are Gilda's pet.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I'm surprised she doesn't just build a nest around you and regurgitate down your throat like the infant you are.  When the day comes that some horrible bullet or blade whacks our captain off in the middle of a bounty hunt, I'll be given the reins of the Talon, and our first order of business will be to finish what the Cataclysm started.”

        Scootaloo leaned back, her eyes thin.  “Well, when that day comes, you'd better bring a bigger ship.  Or did you forget that I once took down Gilliam's battlecruiser before breakfast?”

        The gray griffon glanced at her sideways like a confused eagle.  Her beak clicked on the edge of uttering a garbled sentence, as she mentally digested what was once an unfounded rumor into an impossible truth befitting the endangered specimen standing before her.  All the menace had been drained from her figure, and she snarled in a frustration that mirrored her two inferior companions.  Following their paths, she marched towards the entrance of Bruce's craft and spread her wings to take flight.

        “Hey, Stowe!”  Scootaloo called after her.  She twirled around, her pink mane billowing from the Wasteland air wafting inside.  “Aren't you forgetting something?”

        Stowe spun a glance over her shoulder and grunted.  “What?”

        Scootaloo stared icily at her.  She raised her left hoof, rotated the horseshoe against a nearby metal shelf, and produced a copper blade.  Unflinching, she brought the sharp object to her right shoulder and sliced a shallow cut against her exposed brown coat.  Blood dripped to the surface, glistening and crimson.  She lowered her horseshoe and pivoted so that the bodily juices occupied the forefront of the disgruntled griffon's vision.

        “Hmmph.”  Stowe merely grunted at Scootaloo's show.  “Please, blank flank, how could you possibly be a more despicable creature than you are right now?”  With that, she took off and soared like an angry gray comet towards the Talon and its roaring VTOL engines.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  Hissing with a belated wince, she ignored the fresh wound in her shoulder and trotted over to Bruce's side.  She helped him up with a gentle hoof.  “It's okay.  I think they're gone now.”

        “Brucie vould be much more relieved if Golden Gang never came to begin vith.”  The squirrel leaned back against his cockpit, clutching the three claw marks in his shoulder and wincing.  “Everytime, dey rattle Brucie more and more.  Is only matter of time before Brucie no longer has silver strips to pay dem off or pony friend to scare dem off.”

        “Please, believe me, I only wish I could scare them off.”  Scootaloo spoke.  She glanced every which way, and finally noticed a white canister resting on the edge of Bruce's dashboard.  She reached for it and opened the thing up.  Sure enough, it was full of first aid tools.  “Stowe's right about one thing.  Gilda, for all of her annoyances, is a crutch.  I'm both blessed and cursed to have ever made friends with her.  As soon as she's gone, I'll have a whole bunch of nasty, slighted griffons to contend with.”  With veteran precision, she unrolled some gauze and began bandaging up the flying squirrel's shoulder.  The petite sky merchant didn't bother to protest.  “Dirigible Dogs and Harpy Pirates are all fun and games, but having the Golden Gang chasing your tail?”  She weathered a deep sigh.  “No matter how many ways I try to shake the truth, time is ultimately not on my side.”

        “Vell, dere is some good news.”  Bruce winced under her administrations, but nevertheless managed a sheepish, incisor-fitted grin.  “Neither Bruce nor friend pony is reptile, da?”

        Scootaloo's lips curved.  She broke into a grin, and that grin spilled forth a girlish giggle.

        Bruce chuckled merrily as well.  He next coughed and sputtered, which was evidently just the reminder he needed to reach into his jacket and pull out a cigar.  While Scootaloo finished fitting the bandage to his talon-wound, he lit the cancer stick and exhaled a puff of smoke into the perpetually hazy gondola.  “Hrmmm... Brucie is no liar, not to pony nor to griffon.  Never have I seen dis 'naga'.  Perhaps Golden Gang is foolish to pick up bounty over imaginary creature?”

        “Nothing imaginary about nagas, Bruce.”  Scootaloo stood back from her companion.  She straightened her long mane and murmured towards the shadows of the zeppelin.  “They're a race of bipedal lizards that hail from the south, beyond the Bay of Nebula—er—what once was the Bay of Nebula, that is.  It's since dried up and become a gigantic salt flat.  As a result, the race of reptiles who depended on the Bay spread out throughout the Wasteland, doing menial tasks in order to be paid with purified water.  It so happens that they can shape-shift and mimic the skin, flesh, and voice of other sentient beings.”

        “Vould make good party trick, da?”

        “Only you would think that there's anything left in this world worth partying for, Bruce,”  Scootaloo said with a soft sigh.

        He puffed his cigar, exhaled, and smiled through buck teeth.  “Is party whenever pony friend shows up, Brucie thinks.”

        Scootaloo smirked, then suddenly brightened.  “Oh!  On that note.”  She pulled a brown satchel loose from her saddlebags.  “I've got something for you.”

        “Horse brings gifts?”  The squirrel raised an eyebrow above his green goggles.  “Unless pony has big bucket of diamonds and rubies, it vould be better to trade elsewhere.  Brucie has Diamond Dog clients barking up his tail for precious gemstones and market is dry!”

        “Just shut up and be grateful.”  She stuck a tongue out before opening the satchel and exposing several glistening white orbs before the gaping rodent.  “Ta-daaaaaa.  You've been searching for these forever, have you not?”

        Bruce almost dropped the cigar from his lips.  He reached a trembling paw out and grasped one of the immaculate spheres.  “Dis... Dis is Oceanic Snow Pearl.  But... But Brucie thought dey vere all lost vhen culture of seaponies kicked bucket!”

        “Heh... Yeah, well...”  Scootaloo rolled a few of the pearls in her grasp.  “Let's just say that I've done quite a bit of research, and the result is that I got to know the seaponies... mmmnngh... inside and out.  Besides, how I found the pearls is not nearly as important as how frickin’ pristine they are, wouldn’t you say?”

        “Details, details, details,” Bruce spat, then eagerly looked up at her.  “Enough, already!  How much vill dey vound me?”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “One hundred silver strips each.”

        Bruce froze.  He gazed up at her, his furry face pale.  “Dis is some sort of scam.”

        “Me, Bruce?”  Scootaloo giggled.  “Are you kidding?”

        “Is most certainly joke, friend pony,” he slurred in a breath of suspicion.  “Pearls like dese vould go for four hundred strips each at M.O.D.D.  Vhat does Scootaloo think to accomplish vith such laughable bargaining?”

        “Bruce...”

        “Could dis squirrel merchant suddenly be charity case?!  First you stare down griffons and now you toss pearls before swine—literally!”

        “Brucie...”  She placed a gentle hoof on his unbandanged shoulder.  A soft smile reflected off his twin lenses.  “Several stromfronts ago, you sold me a pearl, and it made all the difference in the world.  You may not know how much your contributions have meant to me—to all that I've been struggling to do as of late—but I would like to show you.  I would like to give you my thanks.”

        “But... But...”  He bit his incisor into his bottom lip and gazed forlornly at the wealth of pearls just beyond his reach.  “Is not traders' tradition!  Is not Vasteland tradition!”

        “But what if it's pony tradition?”  Scootaloo smiled.  She dropped eight pearls gently into his grasp and grinned.  “Eight hundred strips.  Take it or leave it.”

        Bruce gulped something down his throat.  Whether or not it was something bitter, all of the grime and dust of misery had nevertheless washed away from his furred features.  Reaching into his jacket, he very swiftly dropped the relatively tiny payment into Scootaloo's grasp.  The last pony gently pocketed it away into her saddlebag.

        “There.  Now that wasn't so bad, was it?”  She smirked, performed a whimsical curtsey, and began trotting towards the entrance to the gondola.  “You've been complaining for months that the ogres of the Southern Heights haven't been selling you any of their wares.  Maybe those pearls can finally get you what you want from them, though I doubt it'll be rubies or diamonds.  Still, I'm sure it'll be something just as awesome.”

        “It is funny...”

        Scootaloo paused and glanced back at him.  “Hmmm?”

        He leaned casually against his tail like a fluffy stool, folding his arms across his chest.  “Brucie's day has been one ugly encounter after another.  First, angry monkey merchants nearly run Brucie's airship into a mountain.  Then, bunch of stingy goblins nearly leave Brucie high and dry.  Then there is Golden Gang and angry business over naga.  But pony friend?”  He tilted his head to the side, the green lenses reflecting her pink-mane from afar.  “Pony friend is always ray of sunshine.  Brucie barely remembers sunshine, but Scootaloo is most definitely it.  Da, she is.  Vhat could bring dis to Vasteland so?”

        The last pony grinned.  “I may fly and scavenge in this world just like you do, Bruce.”  She lingered on the next few words, until she defeatedly let them drip from her mouth.  “But that doesn't mean that this is my world.  I can't expect you to understand, or even appreciate what that means, until the day that... that I make this my world again, as it once was, as it should be.”

        He ran a paw across the edges of his fresh bandage and shuddered.  “Bruce vould very much like to live in dat world...”

        “Someday you will,” she said softly.  Turning to the clouds, she took wing, and soared towards the Harmony.  “I promise.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        When Scootaloo landed at the aperture entrance to the Harmony's hangar level, she realized that the loud thunder VTOL engines hadn't drifted away.  She glanced up with a frown to see that the platinum body of the Talon was still hovering above her and Bruce's zeppelins, looming like a giant metal dragon preparing to strike at any moment.

        “What I wouldn't pay to get them to friggin' leave,” she muttered bitterly as she stepped into her craft.

        “What you wouldn't pay indeed,” a chuckling voice said.

        Scootaloo gasped.  In an instant, she bucked, flung the rifle from her saddlebag, and swiftly clasped it in her teeth.  Halfway through extending the copper weapon, she froze, for a feathery figure was already pointing a steam-powered revolver between her eyes.

        “Easy, kiddo...”  Gilda muttered over the hissing gun.  She was aiming the weapon at Scootaloo's skull blindly, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.  Instead, her other front talon was examining a half-carved chunk of moonrock in her grasp.  “You'd think the last pony on earth would be a lot less skittish.  I mean, you know what's comin' to you eventually.  Why freak out at every scary thing that happens?  You know me—I'm hardly life-threatening.  Heheheh...”

        Scootaloo sighed, slowly retracting the rifle and sliding it back into her saddlebag.  “It's not my life that I'm worried about.”

        “Of course it isn't.  No soul in her right mind would experiment with a bunch of ancient lunar hocus pocus without expecting it to blow up in her face.”  She whistled and raised her silver goggles with the barrel of her revolver, getting a better look at the pale rock in her grasp.  “Just what is it that sets these little moon turds off again?  Ahem—'Fuss. Roll. Darn!'  Nope.  Not even a spark.”

        “You... Uh...”  The last pony gulped in the shadow of her feathery “companion”.  “You need a mana battery as a leyline bridge to so much as trigger a runic command.”

        “Mana battery?!  Like what, a wand or something?”  Gilda glanced over with a smirk.  She blinked, glancing at Scootaloo's wings, Scootaloo's hooves, and the utter lack of pointed alicornia in between.  “Oh,” she grunted in a voice that was half as ironic as it was somber.  “Oh, but of course.  Heh.”  She twirled the revolver and pocketed it away in a leather strap surrounding her left rear limb.  “Heeeeeey... Check out the cotton candy flag waving off of your noggin!”  She whistled.  “Tell me, girl, does the rug match the drapes?  Hahahaha—Oh, right.  You're a pony.  You're nothing but rug.”

        “Gilda, is there...”  Scootaloo shuddered, gritted her teeth, and calmed herself with an inward sigh.  “Is there something I can help you with?”

        “No doubt you ran into Stowe and her merry band of bumbling beak-nicks.”  Gilda sauntered her way across the chemical lab, fumbling over the curious tools and runeforging materials like she owned the hangar bay of the Harmony.  She might as well have.  “I dunno if she pierced her angry equinist veil in time to tell you or not, but we're on the lookout for a naga chick named 'Razzar'.  The Fire Ogres of Lower Mount Ogreton have a bounty on her head so high it'd make my nose bleed.  Heheh... Considering I'm a griffon and I don't have a nose, that's pretty amazingly high.”

        “What would the Fire Ogres want with a naga?”  Scootaloo made a face.  “Aren't they too busy fighting the Mountain Ogres over the ruins of Trottingham to bother giving out bounties?”

        “Hahahahaha!”  Gilda leaned against a random bulkhead, laughing so hard that her amber eyes teared.  She raised a talon to her feathery face and smirked the pegasus' way.  “Ohhhh do forgive me.  Just... Just the cutesy-wootsy names you ponies gave to the places before the Cataclysm tickle me something fierce.  Ahem.”

        She clawed her way over to Scootaloo, slowly.

        “Yes, I know there's a war going on between the Ogres over the Valley of Jewels,” Gilda said.  “The reason behind the bounty is really none of my frickin' business, but if I had to guess, then I'd bet that this one naga mercenary has done something to help the Mountain Ogres' efforts.  The Fire Ogres have lost tens of thousands of their fat-assed brothers-in-arms in the battle for that land, as well as supremacy over Ogreton, so I'm guessing that they took whatever Razzar did for their enemies as a major slap in the face.  Catching that slithering reptile will mean gonzo strips for the Golden Gang, and a major morale boost for the Fire Ogres' soldiers, yadda yadda yadda.  Whatever—The sooner we catch the stupid salamander, the better for us.”

        “Aren't you afraid of incurring the Mountain Ogres' wrath?”

        “You say that as if me and my girls can't protect ourselves,” Gilda smirked, suddenly leering over the pony in hulking menace.  “And in speaking of protection...”  Her lion's tail curled tightly through the air as her talons clicked against the bulkhead before Scootaloo's petite hooves.  “It's been twenty-five storm fronts, kiddo.”  Her amber eyes narrowed like tiny, golden fires.  “Twenty... five... storm fronts.  It doesn't take an Equestrian historian to know that counts as nearly a quarter of a year in your outdated horse calender, now does it?”

        “What... Uhm...”  Scootaloo glanced over her shoulder, hearing the lingering thunder of the Talon, imagining the weight of all its incendiary missiles.  The fresh pile of silver strips rattled in her saddlebag, telling her that she was trembling.  “What are you getting at, Gilda?”

        “'What am I getting at'... Hmmm-Heheheh...”

        Gilda marched slowly past Scootaloo.  For a second there, it almost looked as if she was going to exit the Harmony, but then Scootaloo felt a prehensile tail wrapping about her waist.  With a brief cry, she was hoisted into a razor-sharp side hug.  Gilda held Scootaloo close to her, casually caressing the bottom of the pony's grimacing chin with a pair of pointed claws.


        “Do you know what Stowe's problem is?”  Gilda murmured as she “walked” herself and Scootaloo leisurely towards the edge of the hangar bay's entrance.  A rush of cold Wasteland air billowed in from beyond as they stood before the aperture.  A sea of forlorn clouds surged and churned below them as Gilda stood them upon the precipice of the zeppelin's bulkheads.  “She has daddy issues.  Her father was a major member of the Military Academy in Griffon Mount.  Before the Cataclysm happened, and the core of the earth opened and exposed our kingdom to all of the horrible arachnids living beneath our domain, Stowe's father had ascended to the rank of Grand Commander.  He led battles against harpy uprisings along the Southwest Plains.  It was thanks to him—and not to your beloved Celestia of old—that those nasty pirates were blocked from ever invading the pony city of Manehattan.  Well, we all know what became of that, huh?  The Sun and Moon blew up, rock spiders took over Griffon Mount, Stowe's dad got torn to shreds, and the entire Griffon Sovereignty crumbled like a deck of cards.  I don't mean to say it was all a one-sided tragedy, of course.  Manehattan today belongs to the harpies—the parts of it not under water, that is.  And—of course—every other pony but you is dead...”

        “Care to tell me something I don't know?”  Scootaloo grunted.

        Gilda smirked and walked her claws down Scootaloo's side as she held her.  “Stowe thinks that all the crap that happened to her dad—and griffons in general—is the ponies' fault.  Who knows, she may be right.  All that you should be worried about, where Stowe is concerned, is that in spite of all her anger and threats and bloodlust, she doesn't know ponies.  She doesn't know them like I do.  She doesn't know that they're creatures of honor.”  Her claws stopped at the base of Scootaloo's wings and tickled the soft spot beneath the first line of feathers with serrated menace, poking into the mare's flesh emphatically.  “She doesn't know that ponies will become extinct the soonest they give up being creatures of honesty, comraderie, and respect.”  She reached her tail around and tilted Scootaloo's wincing face up to stare uncomfortably close to her beak.  “So tell me, kiddo.  Are ponies extinct yet?”

        Scootaloo sweated, her wings twitching under Gilda's tight hold.  Her scarlet eyes darted away from the griffon's battle-scarred beak, searching the edges of her fitful mind, thinking about Spike, thinking about the green flame, thinking about the warm lands of Equestria and all the stars she had yet to chase down.  The last pony didn't understand what was happening until she was in the thick of it; she realized that she had become a weak creature. 

        What had changed?  This was the same miserable world.  Was she still the same miserable pony?

        She didn't think about the consequences for what happened next, for she realized that there was no preventing it.  Swallowing a lump down her throat for courage, she reached into her saddlebag and produced the pile of silver bits.  Gilda's tail swiped it out of her grasp in a flash.  The pony was dropped—gasping—against the edge of the Harmony's copper aperture.  She panted for breath as Gilda paced away, humming to herself and counting the strips with icy precision... until she froze.

        Scootaloo gazed forlornly, wincing with each bleeding second that ticked towards the inevitable outburst.  It came out of Gilda slowly at first, as a merry chuckle.  The griffon spun about, grinning crookedly, waving the silver strips in her talon.

        “Eight hundred strips.  These are eight hundred strips, pipsqueak.”  Her voice rang with a sharp, metallic edge, suddenly.  “I do believe I mentioned that it has been twenty-five stormfronts.”  Her amber eyes glinted as she took one talon-step towards Scootaloo, then another.  “If I didn't know better, I'd say somepony has been flying around in the clouds too much.  She's become an airhead.  She's forgotten the value of true protection...”

        “I haven't forgotten anything, Gilda,” the last pony firmly said.  Nevertheless, she scooted back, back from the approaching avian figure, her mane hair billowing like an offensive banner in the cold wind.  She knew that there weren’t even remotely enough strips in the entire zeppelin to appease her “friend.”  She had been so engrossed in the experiment that she had barely scavenged enough things to trade her way towards refueling the Harmony itself.  “I've just been very, very busy lately...”

        “Busy doing what?”  Gilda smirked.  All the while, her talons scraped threateningly against the bulkheads as she towered above the cowering pegasus.  The Golden Gang's thunderous ship hovered high above like a platinum vulture.  The gray clouds seemed darker.  “Chasing butterflies?  Digging up daisies?  Wrapping up winter?  Wake up, sunshine.  This isn't the same colorful world that you used to afford.  There are worse things out there than ogres and nagas.  There are creatures who want you dead more than even Stowe.  Do I need to show you what they have in store for you...?”

        “Gilda... You don't need to show me anything.”

        “So you're a know-it-all suddenly?”

        “I know this.”  Scootaloo frowned, gulped, and spoke firmly, “I'm working on something, Gilda.  It's... it's a project.  A major project.”

        “I'm listening...”

        “I can't tell you what it entails, exactly...”

        “Oh ho ho ho ho...”  Gilda clinked the silver strips together and rolled her eyes.  “Ohhhh that's rich.”

        “I'm serious.  It's taking a lot of my money, a lot of my resources and a lot of...”  She winced slightly, but let loose, “And a lot of my time.  But when it's all said and done, I assure you, it will change things—It will change everything.  The very world as you know it won't be the same.  When that moment comes, you and your Golden Gang won't have to chase shape-shifting lizards to get a bite to eat.  You won't have to worry about trolls or harpies or so many other heartless monstrosities.  What's more, I'll be able to pay you back a million times more than I could ever be capable of doing right now.”

        Gilda stared at her long and hard.  She pointed slowly with the silver strips in her hand, slowly and psychotically grinning.  “You...”  She chuckled and shook her head.  “What in the name of all that's holy have you been sniffing, girl?  Heheheh... Ahem.”  She pocketed the strips, knelt down, and viciously gripped Scootaloo's throat with one talon while reaching back for her revolver with another.  “What I think you need...”  She hissed.  “Is some intervention, courtesy of Doctor Gilda.”

        Scootaloo bit her lip.

        Gilda's muscles tightened...

        Just then, a brilliant gust of wind rocked the Harmony slightly.  The ship weaved in the air like it always did on random occasions, only this time something slid loose from beneath one of the hangar bay's runeforging tables.  A metal scooter rolled across the bulkheads and slapped to a stop against the aperture's frame.  Its slender body glinted in the gray twilight drifting down from above.

        Gilda blinked at it, her feathered brow furrowing.  Slowly, a smirk bled across her features.  “Oh you gotta be frickin' kidding me...”  She grinned stupidly at Scootaloo with a breath of disbelief.  “Don't tell me you were that little pony?”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  Her scarlet eyes drifted towards the sea of clouds beneath them both.

        Gilda digested the look, and slowly the smirk melted from beneath her beak as she saw a color in those eyes that she had seen before, but had tried her best to forget over the last two and a half decades.  Slowly, gulping bitterly, she loosened her trembling grip of the pegasus and stood up like an aching fossil of yesteryear.  With a deep sigh, she slid her silver goggles back down before her face could register any true emotion.

        “You... You have her spunk, kiddo.”  Gilda pivoted about and walked to the edge of the ledge.  “Maybe not her spine, but definitely her spunk.”

        Scootaloo rubbed her throat with a hoof and hoarsely replied, “Is that a compliment?”

        “Call it what you want.”  Gilda grunted.  “But next time I see you, I expect more strips.  Be a clever pony and learn to frickin' deliver.”  She slapped a talon over a communicator on her shoulder.  “Grif!  Rev up the engines!  We're taking off!”

        “Scrkkk!  Aye, Gilda.”

        “Get your head back in the game, kid,” Gilda murmured.  “The Wasteland takes no prisoners.  So stop acting like you're in a friggin' cage and fly like you used to.”  That said, she soared up towards the Talon and disappeared through a metal door that closed behind her.  With a roar of the VTOL engines, the platinum mercenary vessel throttled off, leaving Scootaloo alone with the chilling winds.

        The mare sighed, running a hoof through her long pink mane, something she didn't need to grow out... and yet she did, as if she was proudly displaying the whimsical highlight of a dream that was too fanciful to have been true.  She glanced aside at a wheeled relic of the past, not one born unto green flames of reverse-time, but sweat and tears and victory in the face of perpetual heartache.

        Her reflection glinted off the curved body of the metallic scooter, and in a squinting glance the pony's brown skin almost appeared orange.




        Scootaloo was relishing the strong, afternoon scent of Equestrian pine when she first saw it.  It unfolded before her like a brown cloud in the midst of a green sea of trees.  To any other random pony, the barn would have looked like a dilapidated shack of gnarled wood and crumbling crossbeams.  To the seven year old filly, it stood proud and tall like a fortress.  It was antique.  It was abandoned.  It was strewn with cobwebs and dust, but it had a ceiling.  That was all that mattered.

        The little pony skidded to a stop atop the metal tray.  She kicked the wheeled platform up and hugged it to herself like a rusted pillow as she tilted her head skyward and stared, awestruck, at the lengths of the old building.  Around her, cicadas buzzed and dragonflies darted about.  The heart of the forest was playing a brief and melodic fanfare for her, as if a princess was arriving at her palace of destiny.

        “Yeah.”  She giggled to herself.  “That'll do.”




        Hours later, Scootaloo had finished shoving the last of several clumped bales of hay out from the upper loft.  Using her pink tail as a contrived broom, she swished mounds of strawdust into the corners of the creaking floorboards.  She brushed spiderwebs free and pulled jutting nails out from their foundation.

        The late afternoon sun melted in copper bands across her orange coat as she opened her satchel and unloaded her meager belongings.  Scootaloo laid out the patchwork blanket, followed by a brush, a pocketknife, a ball of yarn, two metal drinking cups, an adult horseshoe, two candles, a box of matches, a large sock full of even more bundled-up socks that acted as a miniature pillow, and several more tiny nick-nacks.  The last thing to exit her satchel was a tiny book titled The Werewolves Came On a Friday.  The contents of the cheap, pulp fiction novel weren't nearly as important as what the pages safely framed within.  Flipping the literature open to Chapter Thirty-One, the very middle of the book, Scootaloo exposed a tiny, faded photograph to the dusty air.

        The filly took a deep breath, bearing a warm and bittersweet smile.  She dragged a petite, orange hoof across the dated image taken at a Ponyville Hearth's Warming Dance.  The banner in the background of the snapshot read “Everclear Holiday Dinner”, and two smiling pegasi in the foreground—a mare and a stallion dressed in festive attire—stood side by side in mid-nuzzle, gazing tranquilly back at the little girl.  Scootaloo took a deep breath, kissed the end of her hoof, and planted it between the adult couple.




        Night fell over the forest, and a tiny yellow glow twinkled like a phantom atop the loft of the barn.  Scootaloo huddled beneath her blanket, her upper half sticking out as she cradled her last biscuit above a candle, warming the tiny morsel of bread.  Her breath came out in vapors, and her extremities were shivering.  She didn't seem to mind.

        Munching and enjoying her last bit of food, she cast a hopeful glance upwards and found herself enraptured with the stars.  Most of the barn's ceiling was intact, but a few holes permeated the structure and gave the filly a chance to stargaze while slumber slowly approached her.

        Gulping the last bit of the food down, she briefly withheld the stress of plotting out how to fetch more bites to eat the next day.  All things would happen in time.  When morning came, her destiny would be made manifest.  She told herself this.  She clung to this, as she clung to herself, smiling with a serenity that she never dreamed she would enjoy, not in so many interminable months spent in Manehattan.




        In the noonday sun, Ponyville was alive with color.  Golden roofs covered brown and red wooden buildings, edged with green bushes and violet flowers.  Ponies of all shades of the spectrum filled the dirt streets carrying satchels of bright fruit and pulling wagons full of shiny wares.  There were smiles, chuckling voices, and melodic hums.  Scootaloo's home wasn't as lovely as she remembered; it was even lovelier.

        Perched atop her metal tray on wheels, the little pegasus kicked her way across the side alleys of the quaint little town.  She gazed everywhere, gliding, as if floating through a cloud of dreams come true.  At any corner or storefront, the girl figured, she could stop and offer her services, to lend a hoof for some bits.  The ponies here were happy and approachable.  In a matter of days, she would be making a living for herself.  As homely as the barn was, she could make it even better.  She could furnish it, she could afford herself luxuries.  Then, when she got older, and when her wings worked, she could buy herself a real home.  She could fly.  She could start a business in Cloudsdale.  Then maybe, just maybe, she could afford to buy her parents a proper grave—

        “Ooof!”  Scootaloo's chin violently met the ground.  She didn't realize why she had collapsed until she saw the metal tray gliding to a stop behind her, and reflecting in its metal surface was some pony's hoof sticking out offensively across the path that she had been wheeling.  A cackling shower of laughter fell upon her twitching ears.  Wincing, she pushed herself up, blinked in shock, and raised an eyebrow towards a gaggle of young equines behind her.  “You... You did that on purpose!”

        “Heheh...”  A tall colt with a black mane hanging across his muscular shoulders smirked at her.  He lowered his hoof into the dusty sidewalk beside a candy store where four other young ponies huddled beside him.  “It's the least I could do to help you!”

        “H-Help me...?”  Scootaloo brushed herself off, too dazed to be angry.  “What...?”

        “You look absolutely stupid gliding around on that thing.  What are you, lame?”

        “Hey!”  The tiny pegasus finally found her frown.  She rolled her metal tray over towards her, clutching it defensively.  “So what if I get around a lot?  These wheels keep me from getting tired over long distances!”

        The ponies laughed around their burly ringleader.  He tossed his mane out of his ruby eyes and scoffed at her.  “That's the dumbest excuse I ever heard, blank flank.”

        “Blank... H-Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked innocently.  “What did you just call me...?”

        “Wow, not only does she have rocks for brains, but she lives under one!”  The muscular colt marched icily around her, exposing his cutie mark of a jackhammer to the noonday sun.  “Tell me, what's your name, lame-o?”

        “Uhm...”  She bit her lip, glancing forlornly back and forth between his cutie mark and her obvious lack of one.  “Sc-Scootaloo.”

        More laughs filled the street, engulfing her.  She winced as the colt stared her down viciously.  “The heck kind of name is that?!  What are you supposed to be good at?  Scooting around on dinner trays?!  Hahaha—No wonder you're a blank flank!  Anypony with 'scooting' as a talent is better off being served as Diamond Dog food!”

        “So what if I haven't found my talent yet?”  Scootaloo smirked proudly and upturned her nose.  “I'm going to make it big here in Ponyville!  I'll find out what I'm good at, work hard, and make some bits!  Someday, I'm going to be rich!  Maybe even richer than you!  So... erm...”  She tried her best to scowl.  “So watch out!”

        “Tell me, kid.”  The colt pointed into her chest.  “What pony is going to pay you bits when you've got your cutie mark in the wrong spot?”

        “I do...?”  She glanced down—

        He instantly slapped her upside the nose with his hoof.  His buddies laughed as he gave a mighty chuckle of his own and bumped into her so hard that she nearly fell down a second time.  “Works every time, ya stupid blank flank!  Do yourself a solid and go back to where you came from.  Ponyville doesn't have room for lame pegasi who use wheels instead of wings.  Yeesh!  Have y'all seen something so stupid?”

        The youthful crowd trotted away in a sea of laughter.  Scootaloo wiggled her stinging nose and turned to frown after them.  She saw a blurred image in the foreground, and upon closer focus she realized she was staring at her stubby little wings.  The feathery appendages twitched uselessly, and she sighed, her head ringing with the young earth pony's words.  Rolling her metal tray around with pitiful squeaks, she navigated a depressing cloud, cleared her throat, and summoned the previous night's enthusiasm.  Boldly, she glided forward and headed straight for the first store she could see.




        “Would I like some help?”  A stallion lifted his hat and scratched a threadbare mane.  He stood behind the sales counter of a thrift store in downtown Ponyville.  “Well, of course good help is appreciated, but I'm not sure what you're getting at, kid.”

        “I could fix the bell in your cash register for you!”  Scootaloo hopped, straining to showcase her grin over the counter.  “I'm good at fixing things!  I noticed that the front door to your business is squeaking!  I could oil it up for you!  I once helped these two bunkmates of mine attach a wheel to this wagon in Manehattan and—”

        “Wouldn't you, uh, rather be playing around with other fillies and colts your age?  It's a beautiful sunny day.  Seems like a shame for someone as young as you to be working on the weekend.”

        “Hey!  This is Ponyville!”  Scootaloo grinned wide, her seven year old eyes blinking bright and violet.  “This is the home of hard working earth ponies!  I just arrived yesterday and I wanna play my part!  So, do you need some help around here or what?”

        “Well...”  The thrift store owner rubbed his chin, then smiled awkwardly.  “Uhh... I guess—uhm—that the display counters haven't been dusted in a good long time—”

        “Perfect!”  Scootaloo winked, her teeth showing through a cheekish grin.  “I'll make them spotless in a jiffy!”

        “That's... uh... sweet of you, kid.  But I haven't had time to order a new duster since I threw the old one away.”

        The little pegasus blinked.  She glanced back above her blank flank and wiggled her wings.  Grinning, she looked back up at the shop keeper.  “Don't worry.  I got it covered.”




        Scootaloo licked her lips in the effort, but after a good hour and a half, her task was finished.  She stood atop a stepping stool on wheels, aiming her hind quarters to one of several product shelves, using her very own wings as dusters to clear the shopping area of soot and sediment.  Once the last visible surface was made spotless, she hopped down from the stool in one breath and sauntered over towards where the shopkeeper was opening several parcels of incoming product.

        “There...”  Scootaloo panted, but nevertheless smiled pleasantly.  “All dusted!  What do you think?”

        “Hmmm...”  The stallion squinted across the shopping area.  He rubbed his chin, then slowly grinned.  “Not bad!  Not bad at all!”

        “Cool!  Then you like the job I did?”

        “Absolutely... And for all of your hard work...”

        Scootaloo practically wriggled with excitement.  She bit a lower lip, her cheeks rosy.

        The stallion reached onto a nearby counter where a paper box rested.  “My wife went to Sugarcube Corner a few minutes ago.  I told her to pick something up.”  He handed the box to the little filly, smiling with a fatherly wink.  “Here ya go.  For all your hard work, little Missy.”

        The tiny pegasus' face turned blank.  Raising an eyebrow, she took the box in two sweaty hooves and opened it up.  “Uhhm...”  She glanced up, blinking.  “A cupcake?”

        “Not just any cupcake, but with royal frosting!  The same type Ms. Cake bakes for when Princess Celestia visits from Canterlot!”  He smiled with pride.  “I figure a sweet little filly like you deserves a sweet little treat on a day like today!”

        “Uhm... Eh heh heh...”  Scootaloo shifted nervously, gulped, and clapped the white box shut.  “It's nice and all, and I'm really thankful.  But... erm... I-I don't suppose you could pay me in b-bits...?”  She gazed up at him, fidgeting.

        He let loose a chuckle and ruffled her pink mane.  “Go home to your parents, darling.  My wife and I included a letter in that box telling them how thankful we are that you decided to be such a good little helper.  When you get old enough, and if you have the same work ethic, you'll immediately have our own recommendation if you want to be employed for real.”  He winked.  “In the meantime, maybe you can make some bits selling your own cupcakes!  I hear they go good with lemonade!”  He trotted off around the far end of the sales counter with several parcels balanced on his flank.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath, fighting the urge to crush the box in two quivering hooves.  She limply marched out of the thrift store and grabbed her wheeled tray along the way out.





        “Could you use some work around the kitchen?”  Scootaloo grinned pleasantly at the front entrance to a classy restaurant in the center of Ponyville.  “I'm small!  I can find hard-to-reach places and clean 'em!”

        “I have no doubt that you could, little girl,” a unicorn waiter muttered from behind a podium.  He telekinetically scribbled a quill across a reservation book in front of him.  “But we don't hire children here.  No good and well-to-do establishment in Ponyville does.”

        “But all I want to do is lend a hoof!”  Scootaloo murmured, her voice nearly taking on a whining pitch.  “Don't you have some stuff that needs to get done around here?”

        “What is this, Stalliongrad?”  The waiter managed a slight snarl.  “You want us to get in trouble with child labor laws?  Now go run and play!  I've got customers to attend to...”





        “How about chopping firewood?”  Scootaloo trotted alongside a well-dressed mare across the lobby of a two-story hotel.  “It gets cold at night!  I can fetch you the best lumber in town!”

        “Maybe when you're older, young lady.”

        “But I really need to earn bits!”  Scootaloo's face was pleading.  “I want to be a hard working earth pony like you!”

        “I'm sure your parents can give you an allowance.  Try some work around your house—whatever—but I can't help you out here!”

        “But—”

        “I mean it!  Scram!”




        “I...”  Scootaloo shivered as the afternoon sun died under the fall of a cold, starlit evening.  “I-I really need to buy some food, that's all.  That's why I need the bits.  So... uhm... c-could you give me some work around here to do?”

        “Why, you poor, poor thing!”  A unicorn mare stood in the doorway to an ivory boutique.  Her purple mane glittered in the advent of night.  “Your parents haven't cooked you dinner yet?”

        “H-Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked wide.  “Erm—No!  I-I mean, that's not what I meant.  That is... erm...”  She bit her lip, shivering in nervousness more than from the cold.  “Of course they're making me dinner.  I just... uhm... want to buy myself a different dinner!”

        “I... see...”  The adult pony raised a curious eyebrow and angled her pale face to examine the white box balanced atop Scootaloo's spine.  “You have developed an affinity for gourmet cupcakes, I take it.”

        “Oh... Eheheh—This?  I'm just delivering this.”  Scootaloo smiled under an embarassed blush.  “Somepony... erm... at Sugarcube Corner is paying me and... uhm...”

        “Then if you're already being paid, why must you encumber yourself with even more menial labor?”

        “Uhhhh...”

        “Hmmm... I have a splendid idea.”  The white unicorn suddenly smiled.  In a very warm, albeit coddling voice she cooed, “How about you step inside and I'll fix you up a nice, warm bowl of soup.  And then afterwards you can let me escort you to your parents' place.  I would very dearly like to converse with them about your... monetary needs.”

        “I... Uhh... Uhhhh...”  Scootaloo stammered, her legs weak, for she suddenly felt like this wasn't some strange Ponyvillean unicorn she was speaking with, but instead one of many foster care workers who had just magically teleported clear across Equestria to ensnare her.

        “While we're at it, I could let you try on this new winter line of foals' scarves I've been weaving together.  I have this darling little piece that matches your eyes.  Hmm?  It'll keep you warmmmmmm!”

        “Yeah!  No thanks!  Okay, bye!”  Scootaloo turned about-face and scampered off before the gasping unicorn could stop her.  In an orange blur, the panting pegasus galloped over the nearby hill, banked westward when she was beyond sight of the boutique, and trotted briskly into the forest before night darkened the Equestrian landscape completely.




        In a limp march, Scootaloo shuffled up the steps to the barn's upstairs loft.  She slumped to a stop beside her bed of blanket and nick-nacks.  A candle was lying before her, but she didn't bother to light it.  Sighing, she planted the white box on the wooden floorboard.  After gazing at it for a few seconds, she opened the tiny container.  The blue frosting of the cupcake glistened in the hovering starlight as a chorus of crickets performed a pathetic laughtrack around her.

        Her stomach growled, and she hated herself for it.  Her mouth watered at the sight of the tasty dessert.  Twenty-four hours had passed, and she hadn't had a bite to eat.  For that matter, she hadn't earned a single gold bit for herself.  The memories of the day spun around her in a blur, so that—either by choice or by nature—she became too nauseous to so much as take one bite out of the delicious treat, the infernal morsel she hadn't truly, truly earned.

        “Nnngh... Stupid... Stupid blank flank.”  Her whimper had a growling edge to it.  The sound was sharp enough to scare the tears into hiding as she closed the box, shuffled it towards the far corner of the loft, and laid down to sleep with her back purposefully pointed towards the insulting object.




        Several hours into the following dawn, Scootaloo dearly wished she had eaten that cupcake.  Every kick she made against the ground vibrated a wave of pain through her empty stomach.  She moaned to herself and clung to the metal tray on wheels with her other three limbs, holding on as if riding a ship in a sea of tempestuous waves.  In the back of her mind, she heard the cruel laughter of a young colt, reminding her of how pathetically silly she must have looked: a flightless filly surfing across town on a squeaking platform.

        Belatedly, she shook the shameful self-awareness out of her mind and summoned the same inner strength that brought her there from Manehattan.  She visited door-to-door, asking every pony she could find if there was a job available, if there was a way to earn bits, if there was something—anything—that she could do to be paid in gold and not in guffaws.  On every occasion, she was met with confused looks, shaking heads, pitiful excuses, and even a scowl or two.

        When the afternoon came again, and Scootaloo was as empty-pocketed as she was empty-stomached, it occurred to her that she was trying too hard.  She had covered a good half of Ponyville with her incessant pleading for employment.  With each subsequent shop-owner she visited, they regarded her with increasing familiarity.  She was horrified to think that she had developed an infamy overnight, so much so that she limply plodded “home” before the Sun even went down.  She huddled under her blanket, closing her eyes and trying to chase off the increasing lunacy of her situation with the dark shroud of slumber.  That night, she was too cold and hungry to cry.




        That very next morning was a numb torture.  She barely felt her legs as she glided down the lonesomely familiar path towards downtown Ponyville.  The squeaking noises of her metal tray were like distant phantoms laughing at her.  She had to open her eyes at random places to make sure she wasn't dreaming.  This was very real:  this hunger, this pain, and this restless lurch of the world spinning beneath her.

        Her trip across Equestria had been a daunting accomplishment, but at least it was fueled by an intense vigor.  At least Scootaloo had food to accompany her.  At least she had the memory of her parents—and not this suddenly thick cloud of shame—to bring wind to her sails.

        For the second morning in a row, she had ignored the cupcake.  She hadn't even looked at it.  For all she knew, it could have been covered in ants by now.  Somehow, the concept hardly fazed her.  The dessert didn't even register as food to her.  It was like a knife in her side, an appeasement for a foalhood she didn't bother to acknowledge, a length in young years she was more than willing to skip, if only her wings could have grown fast enough to let her.

        Everypony in Ponyville wanted Scootaloo to be older, to be an adult, to be much larger and much stronger and much more mature than she really was before they'd so much as allow her to earn her keep.  If she had known that the complicated laws of Equestria maintained such, Scootaloo would have paid a unicorn sorceror or a Zebraharan shaman to put a growth spell on her.  Her childhood, much like a frosted cupcake, was an obstacle, just a reminder of where she was—and where her parents weren't—at best.  If she could, she would have tossed her foalish years to the ants of a growingly heartless universe with no less zeal—

        “Ooof!”  Scootaloo grunted, having collided with something.  She teetered and fell on her haunches behind her rattling tray.  For a brief moment, her heart jolted at the thought of running into a certain coltish bully again...

        “Oh dear.  I am so, so sorry,” a soft, golden voice cascaded towards her ears with haunting tonality.  “I thought that you were going to move out of the way.  I should have known better.”

        “It's... It's alright...”  Scootaloo hissed, dizzily trying to get up.  She stumbled numbly, moaning in a woozy fashion.

        “Are you ill?”  A yellow blur with a pink mane towered above the tiny child.  A pegasus mare came into focus, carrying a basket full of flowers on her flank.  “Oh you poor thing, you are sick!  Just look at you!  Are you far from home?”

        “H-Home...?”  Scootaloo blinked with thin violets.

        “My place is not far.  How about I make you a warm bowl of soup?”

        “S-Soup?”  Scootaloo suddenly snarled, clamping her hoof down.  “Why is everypony suddenly wanting to make me soup?”

        “Erm...”  The adult pegasus flinched away from her with bizarre pensiveness.  “Well... I-I only meant to—”

        “I'm fine!”  The orange pegasus planted her hooves back onto the tray and kicked off at the dirt road, aiming herself towards the heart of town.  “I don't need anypony to take care of me!”

        “But—”

        “Just leave me alone!”  She snarled, kicking and kicking viciously.

        She glided with furious ease down the path.  It wasn't until the wind was billowing at the full length of her mane that she realized she was kicking pure air.  With a startled gasp, she clung to the tray with all four limbs, sliding left and right in a haphazard fashion.  Stifling a frightened shriek, she slammed both of her hooves down and braked hard.  Her rear legs drove two paths through the dirt road until she came to a halt, panting.

        In a breathless stupor, she gazed behind her blank flank, surprised at the distance she had made between herself and the yellow stranger in so little time.  Confused beyond belief, she realized that her two tiny wings were beating incessantly.  She stared intently at her feathery appendages, having successfully woken through the bitter veil of exhaustion and hunger to regard this curious sight.

        “Did I... Did I just flutter myself all the way here?”  Scootaloo gnawed on her lip, the wheels in her head turning as she wondered if such a new and remarkably natural trick could grant her such exceptional speed in other circumstances.  In a solid breath, she gazed towards the heart of Ponyville, her eyes focusing on the distant image of a high-class restaurant.





        Two ponies laughed merrily over several empty plates, all empty but one.  A half-eaten daffodil sandwich rested in the middle of their table as they stood under the shelter of the restaurant's front patio, gossiping and chatting in merriment.

        Scootaloo eyeballed them from behind the trunk of a nearby tree.  She shuddered and quivered in nervous anticipation.  The filly licked her lips as she glanced at them, the table, the sandwich, the ponies, and the sandwich again.

        One mare leaned against the table, giggling as she gathered a satchel and hoisted it over her flank, preparing to leave.  Her companion brushed an errant hoof awfully close to the plate with the uneaten morsel of food.

        The orange pegasus gasped, feeling her heart skip a beat.  Her hooves dug into the bark of the tree as her entire body froze.

        The mare wasn't reaching for the sandwich after all.  Gathering her own belongings, she shuffled away from the table and trotted alongside her companion as the two ponies exited the patio of the eatery.  This was it; the heavens parted and shone a bright noonday glow across the scene as the dining table was finally abandoned.

        Scootaloo took a sharp breath.  She ran, she jumped, she planted the tray beneath her hooves and landed.  As soon as the wheels of the rusted platform hit the dirt ground of Ponyville, the pegasus repeated history, filling her mind with the gliding flight from earlier.  Sure enough, her wings started beating on cue.  The air filled with a queer buzzing sound, and she was suddenly propelling herself at rocketing speed towards the restaurant, towards the table, towards the sandwich, towards the unicorn waiter waltzing up and gasping—

        “My word!”

        “Gaaah!”  Scootaloo shrieked.  Scootaloo ducked.

        The unicorn spread his legs—wincing—as the wheeled filly soared directly underneath his body.  He spun with a breathless gasp.

        Scootaloo was no less panicked.  She was sailing straight towards a metal support beam to the patio.  Squealing, she pulled her back muscles tight.  Her wings stopped beating.  She coasted towards the side of the pole.  At the last second, she stuck a front hoof out and caught the beam from the side.  Her body twirled from her grip, spun, and flung her and the tray back towards the table.

        The unicorn was snarling, shouting something in consternation—

        Scootaloo paid him no mind.  Gritting her teeth, she kicked up off the ground and beat her wings again.  She sailed with the metal tray directly over the stallion, barely nicking the tip of his glowing horn.  Gliding over him, she flung a front hoof down and briskly snatched the sandwich from the table.  The filly landed with a clatter of wheels and kicked against the ground, steering herself down a tight alleyway and wingedly speeding off with the food in her grasp.

        “Hey!  Hey you!  Where do you think you're going, you rapscallion?!”

        Scootaloo grinned sweatily to herself, gliding further and further away from the scene with beating wings.  “Heheheh... 'rapscallion.'”  She delayed the next exclamation for the length of time it took for her to poison it.  “Ya lame-o.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The orange pegasus ground to a halt behind a Ponyville warehouse.  She stood and kicked the board up so that it leaned against the bricklaid wall at her side.  Panting and panting, she shook the dust out of her mane and gazed cheerfully down at her stolen prize.

        As the seconds ticked by, however, that happiness faded—centimeter by centimeter—at her gradually frowning face.  A sour pit formed in her throat, briefly numbing her to the growling of her stomach.

        Everything she had done up until now was desperate, courageous, and maybe even foolish.  However, she had maintained herself honorably the entire time, or so she felt.  Ditching the chaperones back at Manehattan was hardly a sin, considering the spirit of vengeance that made her ambivalent to whatever worry she may have caused them.

        All Scootaloo knew was that her parents had worked all of their adult lives in the mines of Everclear to earn their keep.  Not once did they ever steal to get what they wanted.  In spite of all of the little filly's bravery, finesse, and newfound dexterity, she had grabbed for herself something that was no more rewarding then the insulting cupcake festering away in the loft of the lonely barn.

        The girl wasn't prepared for this new sensation.  She never anticipated the immortally painful kiss of shame.  It was something almost as bitter and venomous as what had made her scamper away from the unicorn at the boutique, or the flower-bearing pegasus in the middle of the road.  In three whole days of trying to manifest her destiny in Ponyville, she hadn't earned generosity nor kindness.  She had only earned another cupcake.

        What was worse was that Scootaloo's body was weighing more than her heart, and she knew it.  Every aching centimeter of her gurgling stomach was stabbing her, forcing her to foresake principals for pallet.  She could despise herself the next day, so long as she could live another day.  It was a good enough excuse... at least for that very fitful moment, at the end of which she closed her eyes for the necessary sin of taking the first bite out of that sandwich in her grasp.

        When her jaws closed, there were no daffodils in her mouth.  Scootaloo opened her violets to see that the sandwich was no longer in her hooves.

        “Wh-What...?”  She exhaustedly murmured.

        “Bet you think you're a freakin' blur, huh?”

        She glanced over and gasped.

        A jackhammer cutie mark glistened in the sun.  The pegasus' gaze traveled up the body to see a familiar colt waving the delicious morsel in his grasp.  “I saw you steal from that restaurant.  Pretty smooth moves, but still lame.  Heh... a pegasus who can't fly shouldn't bother using her wings for anything else.  From that point, it's just... pffft... sad.”

        “That... Th-That...”  Scootaloo pointed, her voice wilting through quivering lips.  She grimaced as several more shadows waltzed in from the nearby alleyway.  The colt's posse had joined his side, aiming their chortles at her as several local fillies curiously observed the awkward scene from afar.

        “What did you expect?”  The colt sniffed the sandwich up close and made a face.  “Did you think you'd get a cutie mark in the shape of a burglar's mask?  Puh-leeeeease.”  He snickered and waved a boring hoof, marching off with the sandwich in tow.  “Go home to your folks, blank flank.  You're dorkin' up the whole town.”

        Several of his friends laughed and blew raspberries at her.  Her heart was beating faster and faster, but the cold panic was melting away under a fresh fire.  She glared after him, grinding her hooves into the dirt road.  “Nnnngh—Give that back!”

        “Hah!  That'd be rich!”  He didn't bother to look at her as he took a lucious bite of the thing, consuming half of it in one chomp.  “Mmmmfff... Seriously, kid.  If you can't keep ahold of it, just give it up.  Mmmff...”

        Scootaloo frowned, her violet eyes glaring like daggers at him.  As several murming kids watched on, she grabbed her tray, planted three hooves on it, and beat her wings with such ferocity that she soared into him like an orange comet.  “I said, give it back—!”  Her voice cut off as soon as she made contact, for the sheer size of his girth caused her to fall back on her hind quarters with a grunt.  “Ooof!”

        Nevertheless, the colt was pushed slightly off-balance.  His buddies sharply held their breaths as he turned about and frowned down at the collapsed foal with towering menace.  His cheeks bulged with his latest bite.

        Scootaloo gulped.  Shakily, she sat up and murmured this time, “Pl-Please.  I'm just so hungry.  Let me at least trade you for it—”  A half-chewed chunk of sandwich was spat in her face.  “Aaaugh—!”  Before she had a chance to react to the disgusting mush, a hard hoof slammed across her cheek.  She spat bloodily and spun into the dirt.

        “Nnnngh!”  The colt pivoted and bucked her hard in the ribs.  The filly grunted as she rolled over three times and curled up against a lamppost, wheezing painfully for breath.  “You little turd!”  He stomped a hoof over one of her tiny wings and pressed his weight down onto the shrieking pony.  Ruby eyes flaring, he growled through bread crumbs that tainted his glinting teeth.  “No stupid blank flank comes to this town and pushes me around!  Do you hear me?!  I'll make sure you never fly, ever!”

        Scootaloo trembled and winced.  She clenched her eyes shut.  She fought the tears.  She fought them.

        “Come on, chicken!”  The snarling colt raised his hoof, this time to impale her once more in the ribs.  “Get up and slam into me again!  I dare you—!”

        “Blackjack!”  A squealing voice emanated from the sidelines of the violent event.

        The colt glared aside, raising a perplexed eyebrow.

        Three fillies rushed over and squatted bravely by Scootaloo's twitching body.  They frowned mutually up at the sadistic adolescent.  One of them, a peach-coated earth pony with fluffy red hair, adjusted her spectacles and lisped, “Haven't you done enough?!  She's not from around here!  She doesn't know what a big jerk you are!”

        “Yeah!”  another filly exclaimed.  “Why don't you go pick on somepony your own size for once!”

        “Hmmm... Hmmm-Heh... Heheheheheh...”  The colt chuckled, gulped the last of the sandwich, and let loose a loud belch.  “Will you look at that!  A blank flank saved by a little army of blank flanks!  Ooooh... I'm so scared.”

        The redhead bit her lip, her pale cheeks blushing.  Her spotless companions likewise shifted shamefully where they stood.

        “Meh...”  Blackjack tossed his tail hairs and marched off in a heavy trot.  “Come on, fellas.  I'm bored.  Let's leave the lame militia to have a tea party with their new namby-pamby friend.”  His chuckling band of colts joined him as they galloped off towards another end of Ponyville, bumping brutishly into each other and scoffing at the flightless pegasus from afar.

        Scootaloo sniffed, struggling to get up under a cloud of fresh welts over her orange coat.  She gasped at the touch of the ring of fillies helping her to her hooves.

        “I'm so sorry that you had to run into that creep,” the redhead lisped.  “His parents spoil him rotten.  We've all learned to ignore his bullying, but it's not so easy to teach newcomers the same thing.”  She smiled pleasantly.  “My name's Twist.  Are you hurt really bad?  You can come to my place!  My parents keep ice around—”

        “I'm fine,” Scootaloo grumbled, reaching blindly for her metal tray.

        “Heh!  You're tough!  But he hit you something fierce!  Why don't you let us—?”

        “Nnngh—I don't need your help!”  Scootaloo snarled, summoning a gasp from the flinching fillies around her.  “Just... Will you just buzz off?!”  She stumbled briefly, hissed through bleeding lips, and clamped her hooves over the metal tray.  “If I'm hurt, let me be hurt!”

        “Why, that's the silliest thing I ever—”

        “I don't care!  I just want to be alone!”  Scootaloo snarled and blurred away as the confused foals stared after her, their faces as blank as the rest of them.




        Halfway back to her barn, Scootaloo could barely push herself any further.  The pain had bled through her body from Blackjack's multiple blows.  It was as if she had been wearing a cloak full of needles all day but didn't realize it until the weight of the afternoon fell on her shoulders.  Fighting back a whimpering breath, she stumbled through the forest, hissing with each hooftrot she took as the pegasus resorted to carrying the rattling platform across her aching spine.

        The shade of the barn was hardly a blessing when she finally stumbled under its dilapidated roof.  She dropped the tray with a clattering noise and slumped to her haunches.  With each straining breath, she re-awoke to the depths of her empty, gurgling stomach.  She tried to sit up, but ultimately fell to her chest, as if desperate to suckle from the bosom of the naked earth.

        She smelled a sharp fragrance amidst the settling dust of her collapse.  With thin eyes, she gazed directly in front of her nose and saw several blades of natural wildgrass.  Something between her teeth clicked, and her mind went briefly numb.  She scooted forward on four shuffling limbs, and before she knew it, she had taken a bite out of the green strands in front of her.

        Four bites into the desperate scarfing, and she stopped completely.  Her tongue quivered in her mouth, and when she swallowed the blades down her throat, it was followed with a whimper as she brought two hooves up and shamefully covered her eyes.

        Scootaloo couldn't earn bits.  She couldn't even take a bite out of something she had stolen.  Now she had eaten of the grass of the earth; she had reduced herself to the rank of a common animal.  Still, as she tilted her blind eyes up towards the loft of the barn, where a white box resided, she couldn't motivate herself to climb up and eat that delicious treat that she knew was waiting for her, taunting her, insulting her with every blue shade of melted frosting.

        The little orphan's manifest destiny had inverted.  For the first time that the brash foal could remember, she hated herself, and it was for all of the same reasons that made her proud beforehand, that made her want to kiss the photo of the two Everclear pegasi instead of blanketing them with tears.

        She had come to Ponyville to do the impossible, but what point was there in making the impossible happen if there was no reward to it other than the dream that conjured it up to begin with?

        The barn had hidden her homeless life from the heart of Ponyville for three days.  She curled into a corner and hugged the shadows.  She couldn't bear to open her eyes, or else risk nausea from all the sick colors of her dying dreams.





        The two moonrock gravestones were dull and dead: a pair of monochromatic memorials for a couple of colorful souls.  With a lasting grunt, Scootaloo gripped her brown hooves over a hammer and pelted the rightmost obelisk into the earth.  Stepping back in the center of Ponyville, she gazed at the twin graves planted before the collapsed shell of a crumbled novelty shop.  The first flakes of snow fell onto both mounds of soft earth, glinting in the twilight like froth off of a warm beach surf that was forever lost to time.

        The last pony raised her goggles, exposing a pair of soft, sleepy scarlets to the twin stones before her.  In a somber breath, she dropped her tools and then reached into her saddlebag for a canteen.  Unscrewing the flask, she raised it lonesomely before the graves.

        "Here's to making the impossible happen,” Scootaloo slurred.  “A honeymoon that never ends.”

        Under a cold breeze, she took a mighty swig from the canteen of reclaimed water.  She gulped, exhaled, and gazed softly beyond the ruins of the village around her.

        “It is ever a labor of love...”

        Her nostrils flared.  Her eyes took in the ruined shells of houses like so many stars under a freezing, forested night.  Then, with a shuffle of her hooves, she turned around and strolled liquidly towards the bony shape of a charred treehouse library...




        “So?”

        “So what, Spike?”

        He leaned down under a rotating array of brass planetoids and smirked whelpishly at her.  “Did you read what I gave you?”

        “Oh, jee, Spike...”  She hissed through wincing teeth as she stood precariously atop a wooden stool, pasting several large sheets of constellations onto the cavern's wall of stars, one at a time, slowly completing the illustration of the Equestrian night sky.  “I barely had any time!  What: with piloting the Harmony towards the Southeast Reaches and all.  I had to spot from a high altitude the sight of post-Cataclysm Dream Valley before I could even think of finding the ruins of the hotel where Lyra, Bon Bon, and I stayed.  Do you know how hard that is, even for a time traveler?”

        “But...”  His emerald eyeslits blinked quizzically.  “You most certainly utilized your vessel's autopilot for a good part of that lengthy venture, did you not?  I'm quite familiar with the Southeast Reaches of the Wasteland.  Even in the midst of a stormfront, the skies there are rather tranquil, if I may say so myself.”

        “Alright—Alright!”  Scootaloo groaned.  She stifled an exhausted giggle as she slapped up sheet after sheet of illustrated stars.  “I read the snippet of your memoirs that you gave me.  There, you happy?”

        “Most deliciously felicitous!”  The fuming dragon grinned wide.  “Tell me, did you think my prose was too pretentious in addressing the nature of chronological immutability?  Should I leave out the little anecdote about my futile attempt to hide the stash of gemstones from my past doppelganger in the hollow of the Canterlotlian Mountains?  I feel that if I keep my writing indicative of neo-classical literary motifs, I could provide a reading experience that is as equally poetic as it is enlightening.”

        “You... certainly... are... ermmm—poetic, and stuff.”

        He squinted.  “'Stuff?'”

        “Exactly where in the memoirs did you... uh... write that anecdote again?”

        “I do believe it clearly begins at the third paragraph of page one hundred and twenty-one.”

        “Nnnnghhh... Yeah...”  Scootaloo exhaled.

        “Is there something amiss, old friend?”  He ran a clawed hand of purple across his green scales, slicking them back in the twinkling manalight of the laboratory.  “I thought you said that you read my memoirs.”

        “And I did, Spike!  I did!”

        “And you do not remember the anecdote about the gemstones or—?”

        “Okay, so... So I skimmed over a few parts, alright, Spike?”  She gulped nervously and gazed over her pink mane at the towering dragon.  “But—Can you really blame me?  I mean, leaping Luna, do you ever hear yourself talk sometime?”

        “What, pray speak, makes listening to my oration such a detrimental experience?”

        “Exactly!”  Scootaloo pointed a hoof, lost her balanced, and flailed with a girlish yelp.  Spike tapped her ribcage with the thick of his tail.  She regained her hooves, exhaled with relief, and gave him a thankful nod.  “It's just that... well... you're so friggin' dense, Spike.”  She bit her lip awkwardly as she slapped more stars across the wall.  “Your words, that is.  Not your head, of course.”

        “So I gathered.”

        “Reading so much as a paragraph of your stuff feels like running a gauntlet of harpies.  Only, instead of trying to claw my eyes out, the pirates are smacking my skull with dictionaries, and not the marshmallowy kind.”

        “Three hundred years of cyclical existence within a domain defined solely by my own introspection has produced a vernacular that is just as complicated as the draconian mind that has come to produce it.”

        “And I get that, Spike!  I've been known to get rather stuffy in my journal entries as well, but that's because I've only ever written for myself!  If I had the ability to leave something for ponykind, I'd have arranged my words a lot differently, so that they were far more digestible.  One thing I've learned from the tomes of Equestria is that history's best writers weaved their words with their audience in mind.”

        “Hmmm... A very wise sentiment.”  Spike nodded, his violet pendant dangling around his neck.  “Though, I do regret that reality puts me in a rather pathetic bind.  I'm sure you can relate, child.”

        “Who knows, Spike?”  Scootaloo briefly muttered as she plastered up the last of the white sheets.  “Maybe someday, a thousand or a million years from now, a new race of sentient creatures will be blessed with Gultophine's spirit, and they'll have your written memoirs to inform them of what was done here to give them their Sun and Moon.  But if you keep writing as thickly as you have, I fear such creatures will only take a brief look at your scrolls before belching 'Too long, didn't read' and resume slamming rocks against each other's heads.”

        “I suppose it would only be redundant to proclaim,” the draconian elder said with an iron grin, “that the last dragon and the last pony are the best authors of their time, in that they're the only authors of their time.”

        “That's the way to keep your purple chin up, Spike.  Worship yourself, and eventually—by osmosis—the world will worship you too.”

        “Do you sincerely believe that?”

        “What does it matter?”  She stepped down from the stool and let loose a sharp breath, smiling proudly at the elaborate constellation that brightly stretched before the two of them across the granite skin of the library basement.  “Behold, Spike, I give you Epona's Exodus, in all of its glittering glory.”

        “Two-dimensionally speaking, of course,” he murmured with a snort of green fumes.

        “Pfft!  What's that supposed to mean?”  She smirked at him over her shoulder.  Settling down on folded hooves, she gazed once more at the elaborate assortment of starry dots and nebulous strings in her own hoofwork.  “This, right here, is a frozen snapshot in time, a look at a night sky that is forever lost to us.  But you and me, Spike?  We pulled it up to the surface from beyond the Cataclysm.  We scavenged this beauty, and now it's close to giving us answers to what we seek.”

        “About your elusive 'Onyx Eclipse', no doubt.”  Spike nodded, then did a double-take.  “Wait, what do you mean by 'close to giving us answers?'”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared slightly.  She raised a forelimb out from underneath her brown body and pointed up at an off-center gap in the stars.  “You see that spot right there?  I first started sketching that part of the sky from atop Braeburn's stables—”

        “Was that before or after Applejack's cousin summoned the courage to ask you out for dinner?”

        “Yeah, shut up.  Like I said—I sketched it in Appleloosa, because I couldn't see that part of the sky from Pinkie Pie's house in Dredgemane.  However, there was the smoke from the Appleloosan bakeries constantly blocking the way.  Those crazy tree buckers could never stop making pies for one measly second, even if Elektra herself was to come back to earth and slap them for their ridiculous obsession.  Anyways, I always thought I would eventually get around to illustrating that part of the sky.  I even had a chance in Stalliongrad when Dr. Whooves and I were held captive in the State Military Bunker.  But—well, y'know—my Stalliongrad experience was almost nothing but galloping around like an idiot and trying to keep that silly professor alive.”

        “Are you eventually getting to a point, old friend?  I'm beginning to re-assess your opinion of the density of my memoirs.”

        “The point is this, Spike.”  She glared at him with a smirk.  “I still have a piece of the sky left untouched.  It's close enough to the center of the diagram, and that's where I think I'm finding the most evidence of the Onyx Eclipse.  See how bunched up the constellations are there?  It's so unnatural!  The stars appear to be bending around a fixed location, as if something is exhibiting enough gravity to affect the rest of the celestial matter hanging above our planet.  However, so long as that one piece of the sky isn't mapped, I can't pretend to know how the stars are operating around that part of the cosmos.  There could be a huge slew of clustered specks that I haven't taken into account.  If that was the case, then it might upend my entire theory altogether!  Who's to know?!  I need to find out what's missing there.  I need to cover up for my stupid mistakes.”

        “What, pray tell, is your plan to go about doing this, child?”

        “Well...”  Scootaloo shifted on her folded hooves, exhaling softly.  “I did the smart thing by picking anchors who were traveling abroad just before the Cataclysm hit.  When Pinkie Pie brought me to Dredgemane, I was incredibly miffed at first, but it turned out that dropping in on such a far-off corner of the Equestrian continent was the best thing that could have happened to me.  Visiting Braeburn, Dr. Whooves, Lyra, and Bon Bon gave me an opportunity to map out the stars from completely different locations, so I wasn't just observing from one subjective spot.  However, as awesome as all of that audacious starcharting has been, I think I should perform one last rudimentary check.”

        “Oh?”

        “In Ponyville,” Scootaloo said, gazing up at Spike with a soft smile.  “I mean—Why not?  It's what I wanted to do with Pinkie Pie to begin with, right?  Besides, observing the stars from a spot so close to Canterlot seems like an appropriate way to finish this whole thing, then I can have a succinct map to trace the Onyx Eclipse with.”

        “Dear friend, if I may interject—”

        Scootaloo was too busy with her excitement to register his interruption.  “So, I think anchoring myself to a far more homely companion of yours is in order.  How about Mrs. Cake or Mr. Cake?  You knew them well enough to have a dragon tooth enchanted with their soul selves, right?  Or what about that one earth pony farmer who was always working gardens next to the Ponyville Produce Market?  What was her name...?  'Brusselsprout?'  'Lil Pit?'”

        “'Carrot Top,'”  Spike answered.  In a deep breath, he flexed his iron-thick muscles and murmured, “Scootaloo, as much as I respect the scientific diligence that honorably paints your current zeal, I do not think that you are making any true progress by retracing your chronological hoofsteps.  I can very easily point you to Carrot Top's remains, or to Mrs. Cake's, or to any of several other Ponyvillean mainstays.  But even if I could send you to their souls across reverse-time, I'm afraid that such a trip is going to have to wait for another two days... possibly three...”

        “Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked.  With a crooked grin, she regarded her draconian companion incredulously.  “For the love of oats, Spike!  It's been a good friggin' two weeks in your time since you belched me to Bon Bon and Lyra's beachside honeymoon.  I know you; you could have filled a good three runic jars with your fiery breath by now.  What's the matter?  Cat got your flame?”

        “Hardly the case, my jocular little pony.”  He suddenly stood up.  On thundering limbs, Spike shuffled over to the far side of the lab and gestured towards a series of bubbling chemicals atop a granite table.  “As soon as you left for Dream Valley, I started a little experiment I had always dreamt about, but never could have scientifically applied, seeing as I didn't have a flesh and blood pony like you over the centuries to utilize her equine essence.”

        “I'm a little lost, but I'm listening.”

        “The truth is, old friend, that not all of my baby's dragon teeth were enchanted with the souls of my companions.  A few of them I kept as spares, in the possibility that I might be able to use them as ingredients in a different and far more audacious endeavor.”  He picked up a large crystalline vial of bubbling liquid and swirled it between clasping claws.  “As you can understand, I have very few teeth left to spare, so this is an exercise that I can only do once, possibly twice.”

        “Just what is that stuff anyways?”  Scootaloo asked, squinting from afar.

        “An elixir that I made,” Spike explained.  “It was concocted by grinding up the spare dragon teeth and incorporating the powder into a potion that I swiftly consumed.  If my alchemic skills prove to be as expert as I spent the last several centuries training them to be, then the enchanted quaff will have filtered directly to my flame glands, where I regularly stoke the green plumes of magic that make reverse-time possible.  As you can probably imagine, I have been spending the better part of two weeks incubating the next breath, only this time buffered by the experimental quaff that I have thoroughly ingested.”

        “To what end...?” the last pony murmured with brief trepidation.  “What's so different about your next breath of green flame that you've been saving up for?”

        “Well, old friend, if my hypothesis is correct, the green flame will bind you far stronger to your anchor than ever before.”  He placed the glass vial down and slowly marched towards her, his scaled features calm and collected as he stared at the pegasus.  “Instead of having only forty meters of room to distance yourself from your anchor, this time and this time only you will have something along the lines of one hundred and forty.”

        “Heh... Yowsers...”  The pegasus smirked, her wings flexing at the sound of that.  “Boy would that have come in handy around Pinkie Pie, or better yet in Stalliongrad when that infernal parade of tanks separated me and Dr. Whooves for a few frightening minutes.”

        “As you can imagine, this next breath—which will be ready in two days' time, I imagine—shall be a concoction you will not want to use frivolously.  I do not think your next venture should be wasted, however good-naturedly, on one of our Ponyvillean companions.”

        “Well, I have to get this night sky finished completely one way or another!”  Scootaloo exclaimed, pointing at the one lonesome splotch of barren white sheet.  “How else am I going to get a firm hoof-hold on the Onyx Eclipse to present the matter to Princess Celestia?”

        “Hmmm... Yes, about that, old friend...”

        “Ah jeez, Spike,” Scootaloo moaned and facehoofed.  “Not again with the lecture...”

        “Do not be so quick to assume the worst, child.  I have long learned to not only accept your theory concerning this cosmic phenomenon; I have learned to embrace it.  However, I reiterate the fact that retracing your hooftrots should not be the next endeavor.  You've spent four completely different time jumps essentially doing the same thing, and though they were noble in having used varied and distant spots of Equestria for observation, I cannot help but feel that you have only afforded yourself a safe refuge from the inevitable task that hangs over the two of us next.”

        “Just what are you getting at, Spike?  How can I map the stars any better than I already have been?”

        “You've constructed for yourself a lovely starchart, Scootaloo.  However, it is most definitely a two-dimensional facade of what we obviously seek to understand.  Even with Entropan eyes, you can only map so much from the naked surface of this once-warm world.  What you need is a sight that is beyond your own, that is beyond my own, that exceeds all of the devices of observation that have blessed the legacy of Equestria long before it was ever constructed.”

        “Erm...”  Scootaloo gulped and leaned her head curiously to the side.  “What sight is it that you speak of?”

        “Tell me, oh learned scavenger: in the many books that you have dredged and read, have you ever educated yourself on the Observatory of Nebula?”

        “Well, the name is certainly familiar,” Scootaloo said with a chuckle.  “If I'm not mistaken, it was the largest telescope ever built after the death of Starswirl the Bearded.  You gotta understand, Spike, I'm an expert on history; astronomy is a new thing for me.  Aside from that one 'magic camp' fiasco that Sweetie Belle once dragged me to before the Cataclysm, I barely had any chance to learn about the nature of Equestrian star charting.  All of this map-making of mine has been a clumsy experiment of errors at best, but I'll do anything to narrow down all of this 'Onyx Eclipse' crap that I first heard from Dinky.”

        “Truly, old friend?”  Spike leaned his head to the side.  “You would do anything?”

        “I do believe I just said that, Spike.”

        “Because if you were to go back in time and utilize the Observatory of Nebula, you would see far deeper into the starry cosmos of Epona's Exodus than ever you have before.  Since you already know where to look, I might even venture to say that you would spot the Onyx Eclipse for your own mortal eyes, assuming there is anything to visualize whatsoever.”

        “Yeah, alright.”  The last pony nodded with a soft grin.  “Sounds like a good idea, actually.  A darn good idea!  So... like... who would I anchor to in order to do that?  Was this big, hunking telescope located in Canterlot or something?”

        “No, dear friend,” Spike gravely shook his head, and in a soft breath uttered, “It was in Cloudsdale.”

        Scootaloo was silent.  Her brown ears wilted like a melting crown, and she let her deadpan gaze fall to the immaculate stone floor of the laboratory.

        “It was constructed out of sky marble and positioned atop the highest reaches of the airborne pegasi maretropolis.  The only thing that exceeded the observatory's altitude was the tall, windy, and unnavigable cliffs of Griffon Mount.  From such a heavenly position, the Observatory of Nebula afforded Equestrian astronomers a lofty, pristine look at the cosmos, unblemished by the natural clouds of the troposphere.  What they saw, they recorded and sent via winged messengers to the smartest and most gifted scientists in Canterlot, who took it upon themselves to make beautiful, detailed star charts in time for the next census every two decades.  Obviously, they couldn't fill out such a chart in time for the coming Cataclysm, but you can, old friend.  You know what it is that you are looking for, and if you go to the right time and place, you will have an opportunity to capture it, once and for all.  Then and only then will you be able to construct a case to finally present to the appropriate souls of the past, and hopefully find answers to what leeched the magic from this great, glorious world.”

        “Just what do you expect me to do?”  The last pony mumbled.  “Go back to Fluttershy, interrupt her in the middle of caring for that motherless Capricorn, and somehow convince her to take 'Harmony' on a tour through Cloudsdale?”

        “My good friend...”  Spike smiled gently and knelt down beside her.  “You and I both know that we are not talking about Fluttershy.”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She gazed down at a pair of brown hooves, the same limbs that once scratched at the black bars of an arcane vault, in a time when her coat was orange and her tears were fresh.

        “After all, you could never get Fluttershy to leave her cottage, to part from her precious creatures, to abandon her post as Ponyville's chief animal tamer.”  He managed a deep, bass chuckle.  “And you most certainly wouldn't need one hundred meters—much less five—to maintain such a gentle-spirited pegasus as your anchor.”  He shook his head.  “No, my friend.  In the grand history of the Third Age, Equestria only ever had one soul, one pony, one brash and agile lightning bolt of a spirit who could be in twenty places at once, who could fly from Manehattan to Dream Valley in a day, who could do so many courageous and dashing things that she never grasped how innately she outshone the very same royal fliers that she ever so faithfully idolized.  You know her, Scootaloo, I daresay more than you've been allowed to know yourself.  She was a hero and a villain all rolled up into one devilish smirk.  She only ever awed me during the days I spent living in Ponyville, and I know that she can and will take you to the heights that you need to go, if not for the Onyx Eclipse, then for yourself.”

        “I wish you'd friggin' stop talking about 'myself.'”  She grunted sourly.  “This whole dang experiment of ours is about Equestria, isn't it?  Stop pretending like you know me, Spike, or that what I feel actually matters in the long run...”

        “Doesn't it, though?”  Spike gently reached a hand out and tilted the mare's face up to meet his gaze.  “You are the last pony, Scootaloo.  In a world full of monsters and suffering, you are the last living thing equipped to feel pain from it all.  When history has run its course, and a new sun and moon hover over the scars of the past, this planet may forget that there ever was a Cataclysm.  If that's the case, then we will have accomplished our task most righteously.  But what an injustice it will be when you are forgotten, child.  Make no mistake.  Eternity is a long time, and both you and I will be forgotten.  We have it within ourselves and ourselves alone to make amends with a legacy that dies with us.”

        “I'm only doing all of this to fix what the Cataclysm has done to the landscape, Spike,” Scootaloo said, though it was in a disgruntled murmur.

        “What about your own life, Scootaloo?”  He gazed deeply into her with warm eyeslits.  “Has it not been a cataclysm from the very beginning?”

        The mare opened her lips to speak, but hesitated.  She clenched her mouth shut and looked away from him, fighting a sudden bout of trembles.

        Spike gently let his clawed fingers stroke down her mane before softly embracing her shoulders.  “Do you remember what I told you months ago, when we reunited in Sugarcube Corner, dear friend?”

        The last pony shuddered.  “K-Kinda...”  Her voice was struggling to keep its pitch.

        “I told you that you needed to stop running.  You were a brave spirit to have endured all of those years spent alone in the Wasteland, Scootaloo, but you were also a floundering spirit.  You fled from so many horrors and monstrosities because you had to; it was your only strategy for survival.  Then, when I presented to you the nature of this experiment, you very boldly agreed to become the avatar of Princess Entropa.  Though I'm proud to have provided you a new opportunity to employ your amazing talents, I regret that I have only given you another avenue through which to continue running, only this time you have aimed your flight down tunnels of green flame instead of oceans of gray cloudbanks.”

        “What are you g-getting at, Spike?”

        “You are such a selfless and sacrificial spirit.  So many other ponies I've had the pleasure of knowing wouldn't have been able to face the old phantoms of the past like you so fearlessly have.  In spite of all of your bravery, you need to face the fact that there is something just as important as the Cataclysm that needs to be resolved.  There will only be one end of ponies, Scootaloo.  It would be a shame for that end to be a bitter one.”

        “It is a bitter one, Spike.”  The girl breathily shuddered.  “Nothing can change that.”

        “A life that begins bitterly only naturally believes so.  Don't pretend that you can't afford to stay still for once and realize that you need this, Scootaloo.  You need this, and you need to see to it now or else Epona help you ensnare the Onyx Eclipse with any fervor whatsoever, for all of the peace in your life will have been snuffed out long before you could ever postulate restoring that same tranquility to a world that has been fractured almost as much as your own, precious existence.”

        Spike reached his one free hand over to a counter where the scavenger's saddlebag rested.  He dipped his claws into it and pulled loose a dragon tooth hanging from a blue string.  Gently, he held it directly before the last pony.

        “You need to stop running from her, Scootaloo.  As your friend, I implore you, for your sake... for the sake of the last decent soul of ponydom, find her.  Find her and fill up the final gaps of the cosmos while you fill up the holes in your soul as well.”

        Scootaloo's scarlet eyes glistened.  She held the stringed bone matter in her grasp.  She felt every centimeter of her soul being flung forward in invisible winds of speed and adrenaline, like she was falling into a great and deep pit.  The mare nevertheless sat still like a stone mountain and muttered, “I do not need the tooth, Spike.”

        The draconian elder tilted his head aside.  “No?”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  She tilted her face up to stare past him.  “I know where Rainbow Dash is.”




        “Hello?!  Anypony there?!”

        A bruised and bleeding filly limped through the labyrinthine inner ruins of sunken Cloudsdale.  A fine mist from several unseen waterfalls billowed through the already freezing depths of the place, chilling Scootaloo to the bone as she strolled through crumbled burroughs of sky marble and a forest of collapsed ivory pillars.  Nothing was alive.  Nothing had a single speck of color.  Shattered granite and rock hovered above her, breaking the twilight of the moon-burning Wasteland so that the glowing bands scattered like harpstrings across the dusty, claustrophobic air.

        “If anypony can hear me, I-I need help!”  Scootaloo coughed, sputtered, and struggled her way forward through the three dimensional maze of carnage.  “I'm stuck down here!  I c-can't fly my way back up!  Please, somepony!  Just say something!  I need to see you!  I need to f-find you!”

        Her echoing voice was drowned out by the roar of trickling water and the distant thunder of falling moon meteorites.  After struggling to climb over a tall mound of black and white rubble, Scootaloo tripped over herself and slid—grunting—down a steep incline of pale pebbles.  She slumped to a painful stop on a large white plateau, jutting over a huge gaping abyss in the center of the inner ruins.  A black chasm lingered beyond the white dust and ashes of death falling from the distant surface of the Wasteland high above.  Every pained breath Scootaloo let loose in this place was like a tiny clapping sound at the bottom of a steep sepulcher.

        “Mmmmff... Ughh...” The filly winced as she rubbed a fresh bruise on her shoulder.  Braving so much pain as she had done before, the lonely orphan took a deep breath and bellowed towards the shattered, monochromatic ceiling above.  “Hello?!”  For a brief second, it sounded as if a ring of pegasi was immediately replying, but they all carried the desperate pony's unmistakable pitch.  “Will somepony please answer me?!”  More noise, no solace.  “I c-can help you as well!  We can get through all of th-this together!”

        Her panting breaths only grew more and more painful.  Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned her battered saddlebag of belongings, and it only pained her heart to realize that it was forever unobtainable.  Grunting, the tiny pegasus hobbled back up to her hooves.  She pivoted to face the black chasm beyond.  Trotting forward, she began scanning the shattered scenery for a possible outcropping that might give her enough room to bravely leap to the other side of the expanse.  In the middle of that thought, she froze.

        Scootaloo's wings were twitching.  They were twitching because something had flickered before her eyes.  Breathless and wordless, Scootaloo had spotted color.

        She had spotted color, and it broke the grayness of the crumpled ruins like a torch in the middle of a blackened sarcophagus.  Craning her neck, Scootaloo saw it lying beside an overturned ivory pillar, resting in the center of a round halo of twilight that was shining down from the sundered world above.  She saw it, and her heart skipped at the realization that it was not one color, but many.  She counted four shades... five... then six, and all of them in a heavenly sequence that filled her lungs with a furious and felicitous fire.

        “Rainbow Dash!”  Scootaloo squealed.  The only thing twitching more than her eyes were her hooves, scampering her tiny body desperately down an embankment of shattered sky marble, thrusting her forward by the sheer brilliance of a teeth-glinting smile.  She slid once, she almost fell on her face.  She didn't care.  She ran.  She fluttered towards the halo of light.  “Rainbow!  Omigoshomigoshomigosh!  It's you!  You have no idea how glad I am to have found...”

        The scraping noise of her hooves was a violent thing as she came to a cold stop.  She fell silent upon the precipice of a heaving breath, blinking hard as her smile reached a boiling point, but suddenly froze at the peak there.

        “R-Rainbow Dash?”

        It was in a slow, liquid fashion that her smile faded, like the binding to a brightly paged book being closed slowly, confusedly, as she furrowed her brow in a sudden and numbing perplexity.

        “Rainbow Dash, why are you lying like...?”

        Scootaloo gulped.  Scootaloo gazed, her eyes darting left and right.  The colors ended as soon as they began.  Beyond them, there was too much dust, too much obscurity to make sense.

        “D... D... D-Dashie...?”  the filly murmured, her lips quivering, her eyes flitting sideways until they could barely stay open.  She summoned an auxiliary strength by frowning, creasing her bloodstained brow angrily.  “Th-This isn't funny, Rainbow Dash.  It's me, Scootaloo.  I need... I-I...”

        Something fluttered in a gust of snowy air.  Colors that shouldn't have been torn apart separated in a chilling gust, along with a flurry of blue feathers, and all of them taking separate paths into the black chasm below.

        Scootaloo saw them, and yet she didn't.  The world around her now was shaking, blurring, buckling as she knelt down and whimpered, “Come on, Dashie, g-get up.”  She bravely nuzzled the colors, only to have them spread from her touch.  She gasped desperately into the powdery mess, barely carrying her words on threadbare strings, “Get up.  You're stronger than this.  You can't... y-you can't... be...”

        She lowered a trembling hoof in front her, and the last of the colors covered her limb, spreading almost as quickly as she was losing the parts of herself, sobbing, falling, clutching the spectrum before her and watching with increasing hyperventilation how she was being blanketed by the residue of the past, the sounds of her voice, and the shine in her eyes, like so much worthless dirt across an abandoned horseshoe.

        Scootaloo sobbed into it, sobbed into her, bathed in her, kept afloat by foalish sobs, sobs that morphed fitfully into bellicose wails that baptized the basement of the dead world.  Each time she closed her eyes, she saw her soaring through the air.  Each time she opened her eyes, she saw her coating her limbs.  There were many tears, and yet not enough tears to wash it all away.  She never wanted to wash all of her away.  She howled names that belonged to her, but now belonged to nothing, as the last remaining colors that covered a brittle and lifeless core flew above the halo of twilight, casting a curtain over the sanctity of the moment, the birth of the last pony unto the ashes of the rainbow.





        Twenty-five years later, the mare's ears never stopped ringing with those cries.  She listened to them as if she was being serenaded by a lonesome record player.  Scootaloo dangled a twirling dragon’s tooth before her deadpan face.  Her scarlet eyes remained frozen upon the string itself, as if she was far more engrossed in its color than in the enchanted, calcified shard that it held.

        The filly sat, perched atop the loft of a scorched and dilapidated barn.  Her legs dangled loosely, just as brown and lifeless as the forest of dead trees that formed a desolate ocean around the lonesome structure.  The roof to the orphan's shelter had long crumbled to bits, so that the drifting ash of the world fell undaunted upon her shoulders and the contents of the barn around her.  She didn't bother fighting the white flakes from settling on her shoulders.  She had learned long, long ago that the fight was useless.

        The last pony sat there, uninterrupted, submerged in placid silence and isolation, until a great beating sound suddenly filled the air.  With a flash of aged, purple wings, a gigantic dragon touched down beside the barn.  Gazing with squinting eyeslits at the twilight blanketed forest, Spike let loose a curious hum before pivoting to look inside the barn.  Shuffling up, he sat on his scaled haunches and gazed at his quiet, equine companion.

        “A place of significance, I imagine?”

        “Hmmm...”  She pivoted the string around in her grasp, deeply weathering the centripetal rush that it sent spiraling through her stone-still soul.  “Something like that.”  Her pink hair billowed under a brief flurry of snow.  With a shuddering breath, she tapped the dragontooth lightly and watched as it spun chaotic circles before her jaded eyes.  “There are so few places of significance left in this world, and even fewer that I've had the pleasure of sharing with others... with or without the aid of green flame, for that matter.”

        He gazed at her.  Swallowing, he pivoted his snout eastward towards the gray splotch of ruins that was Ponyville.  “After our last conversation, you left in such a hurry.  I didn't dispute your departure, though I doubt even someone of my stature could have made a difference in your case.”  He managed a smirk; it came out like an iron wince.  The dragon sighed.  “I suppose it goes without saying, dear friend, that you are always a subject of my concern.  This would be true even if you weren't the last of your kind.  I hope you know that...”


        “I do, Spike.  I do.” She nodded, craning her neck to stare at the tooth-and-string from another angle.  She exhaled softly, “There was a time when—if I had known how much you cared about me—I would have left your presence and never come back.  Long ago, before I had to survive in the wastes, before I was desperate, I saw affection to be a plague, and concern to be a dead weight.  But now...?”  She clutched the tooth around the crook in her hoof and finally tilted her blank, scarlet eyes towards the sea of snow flurrying above them both.  “What have I left to earn myself but pain and regret?”

        Spike gently nodded.  “You were always a rogue, I take it.”  He snorted green smoke, and his smile was truer this time.  “Just like her.”

        “Just like her?!”  Scootaloo flashed him a look.  Instead of a frown, it ever so briefly—and bravely—bore a smirk.  “Spike, I was a rogue long before I met her.”  She cleared her throat and shifted her weight on the flimsy wooden floorboards of the loft beneath her.  “I was... I was homeless, Spike.  Not only didn't I have a family, but I didn't have an adequate roof over my head, nor a guaranteed meal every day.  Did I ever tell you that?”

        His emerald gaze fell to the cold, powdery floor below the barn.  “No.  But... But looking back after three hundred years of contemplating all of the ponies I've ever had the grace to know, I saw the signs, Scootaloo.  I realize now that you were... very brave.”

        “I was stupid,” Scootaloo said.  “I had so many friends, so many loved ones, so many opportunities at my beck and call, and I refused every single one of them.  And for what?  To prove that I was a strong and self-dependable equine being?  Spike, I slept in forests and ate out of dumpsters.  I performed menial tasks for gold bits to buy my friends gifts to make them think I actually had money to spare.  I skipped out on school, avoided social gatherings, and made unholy falsifications to paint a picture of a normal, healthy life to all who observed me.  And for what?  For some reason, I just had to prove myself to a pair of dead pegasi who had every right to lie in peace and not worry about how much their obstinate little daughter was suffering.”

        The air of the hollow barn briefly surged at the end of her exclamation.  The Wasteland had a dull roar to it, like a hushed audience that was always excitedly murmuring to hear what a lonely survivor had to say next, whether or not she made any sense.

        Scootaloo didn't bother to try.  “Here I am, two decades later, and guess what?  I'm still having to prove myself to dead ponies.”  She sighed long and hard, absent-mindedly wrapping and unwrapping the length of the tooth's string around the body of her forelimb.  “My foalhood, for all of its stupidity, was field practice for the life Entropa had destined me to live.  So don't think that I'm complaining, Spike.”

        “I never said that you were...”

        “Good.  Because the point is...”  She gritted her teeth as the first wave of pain hit her.  Nervously, she whispered forth, as if slowly peeling the charred brown coat off her flesh to reveal the soft orange one underneath.  “The point is that I didn't need Rainbow Dash to bring direction to my life.”  She hesitated, her lips quivering.  “Only purpose,” she whimpered.

        Spike leaned forward so that his snout was at a parallel angle to her body inside the barn.  “I may have been a mere whelp at the time, old friend, but I bore witness to your adoration of her.  Even to this day...”  He smiled pleasantly.  “...I have always found it to be a sweet, endearing thing.”

        “'Sweet'... 'endearing'...”  She murmured, gulped, then said, “Spike, Rainbow Dash kept me alive.  Even when she wasn't around me, she breathed life into my lungs in ways that Gultophine never could.  I thought of her when I woke up and I dreamed of her when I went to sleep.  All of the daylight spent in between was all about finding new and exciting ways to emulate her.  I was as surprised as I was elated to find out that my life was becoming happier and healthier in the process.  Rainbow Dash was my whole world, Spike.  I can't even pretend to tell you how much it meant to me just knowing that she could always be there—at any random moment—slicing the sky like the gorgeous spectrum that she was.  I may have been homeless, but so long as I knew there'd be her rainbow in the sky, the world had become safe, the whole of Equestria had become my home.  And I... I was happy, Spike.  For the first time in my crazy, broken childhood, meeting and knowing Rainbow Dash made me happy, and not because I was forcing myself to feel that way, but because everything was just... just awesome when she was around.”

        “If I may say so, child, Rainbow Dash had a fine taste for souls of like spirit: honest and brash, yet reserved in expressing affection.  You are in so many ways like her; I have no doubt she would be proud of you now.  I'm sure that she dearly adored you then, maybe even in a fraction of the manner that you so exalted her.”

        “She cared for me, Spike,” Scootaloo murmured with a nod.  “For better or for worse, I would not be alive today—I would not have survived the fall of Cloudsdale—if it wasn't for a sacred act of bravery that she saved for me and me alone.”  She gulped something hard down her throat.  “I have always known that my being alive, that my being the one to bear the brunt of this experiment, is a testament to the fact that... that I meant something to her.”

        “All the better reason for you to—”

        “To what?”  Scootaloo flashed him a look, a briefly angry one at that.  “To drop in on her little world and encumber her with the baggage of all of my broken hopes and dreams?  I've held my tongue before you as much as before myself, Spike, each and every time I've made these delightful little sojourns into the past.  Cataclysm or not, what more am I doing than disturbing the peace of living, warm graves?  Because that's what they are, Spike.  Our friends' lives are animated graves, locked blissfully within the climactic throes of a lost, breathing world.  Perhaps I've summed up enough courage to disturb the Apple Family, or Fluttershy, or Pinkie Pie—but Rainbow Dash?”


        She shuddered suddenly.  Her hooves dropped towards her lap as she tilted up and aimed a pair of glossy eyes towards the roof of the dead world.





	After a spell of heaving breaths, she finally spoke, “I feel as if the least I can do is let her rest.  She's done me a huge favor; why can't I do the same for her?  You say that I've been running from her, Spike.  You couldn't be any farther from the truth.  The soonest I found out about the amazing power of your green flame, about reverse-time, I instantly dreamed of hanging with Rainbow Dash again, of being able—for once—to fly in the clouds with her, of being able to finish so many unfulfilled promises that had been turned to ashes by horrific fire.”

        “But you won't let yourself... You can't,” Spike uttered, knowingly.  “Would it be any different if I could somehow allow you to meet your parents?”

        Scootaloo sniffed.  She gave Spike a bitter smile, her eyes watering.  She cradled the blue string in her grasp and murmured, “I had hope, Spike.  I had hope beyond the holocaust of the Cataclysm that there were survivors other than myself when Cloudsdale fell.  Can you believe that?  The first few days after the world friggin' blew up, I wandered the wreckage of the pegasus city like a moron, calling out for other ponies, looking for others who were alive.”

        “What happened, old friend?”

        “What do you think happened?”  She bit her lip.  Scootaloo leaned forward and clutched the string to her forehead.  “You have to understand, when I... when I found her... when I saw her body crumbled to bits like a d-discarded piece of broken pottery...”  She clenched her eyes shut.  Tears rolled down her brown cheeks as she shook her head blindly into the string and hiccuped forth, “I knew... I-I knew that there was nothing left of ponydom.  For years, with the rainbow s-signal and with flamestones I pretended otherwise, but right then and there... in the ruins of Cloudsdale, upon the threshhold of her ashes, I knew, Spike.  I knew that I was the last pony.  Because if Rainbow D-Dash didn't make it...”  She quivered, choked on a sob, and murmured to the shell of her lost, orphan years.  “Then how c-could anypony?  Rainbow Dash was... is the best.  The best.  There was n-never and there will never be somepony as awesome... as amazing... and as... as...”  Her face scrunched up.  She navigated a heaving breath, sniffed, and opened her eyes.  Sitting up straight, she bravely dried her cheeks with a forelimb and murmured, “You must realize, Spike.  When Rainbow Dash died, all the colors died with her.  Everything that was once glorious and beautiful about this world went away when she did, and not with the Cataclysm.  How—Spike—how in all that is holy would you... could you expect me to somehow be able to go b-back to all of that?”  She sniffed and stammered, “How could I go back to her, after all that's happened, after all that I've b-become?”

        Spike stretched the iron scales of his neck in thought.  He pivoted on his haunches and leaned gently over the barn, his fingers toying with the dangling violet pendant about his neck, gently holding it still in the furious, random gusts of the merciless Wasteland.  “Have I ever told you, dear friend, about the Canterlotlian ritual of purple dragon whelping?”

        Scootaloo navigated a sniffling expression to raise a confused eyebrow at that.  Calming down slightly, she dried her cheek a final time, gulped, and muttered, “No.  Wh-What about it?”

        “Mmmm... I'm surprised you wouldn't know enough about it already, from all of your years of reading.  I do suppose you've had very few dragons to contend with in your travels, so perhaps it is just as well.”  He smirked slightly and twirled the pendant gently in his grasp.  “Long ago, in the early half of the Second Age, the Chaos Wars blanketed this entire continent in flame and mayhem.  It wasn't nearly as horrible as the Cataclysm, but it almost brought all of Equestrian life to a bloody end.  The campaign that the Alicorn Sisters fought against Discord was a long and arduous battle, spanning eons.  Many amazing, fanciful species that once populated this landscape met a terrible fate, forever to become extinct.  Among the afflicted creatures were none other than Cassius and Phalinore, the mother and father of green flame, the first purple dragons to exist on this planet.”

        Scootaloo brushed her pink mane aside and gazed intently up at her draconian companion as his voice filled the air in a deep hum, shaking the foundation of the barn with the somberness of his story.

        “Such is the consequence of war.  Life that has the chance to perpetuate itself was snuffed out for an eternity.  The Alicorn Sisters were not directly responsible for the pestilence that befell the first and only purple dragons, but Princess Celestia—who by then had become the chief Goddess in charge of restoring harmony to the landscape—felt a deep guilt for what the battle with Discord had done to end Cassius' and Phalinore's lives.  She discovered within their mountain lair no less than five hundred eggs, all unhatched.  You see, purple dragon whelps go through a metamorphic stage of development.  Even though the eggs are laid, they remain dormant for a long time, for they never have a chance of hatching until the parents decide it's time to provide a spark of magic to the outer shell in order to finish the last leg of the whelping process.  With Cassius and Phalinore gone, Celestia had the eggs taken into her care.  For the millennia to follow, the eggs would be stored in a special area of Canterlot, where only the wisest and most sagely of unicorns would be granted the honor of providing just the right magical spark to bring the draconian orphans into the world of the living.”

        Spike smiled down at Scootaloo, raising a scaled eyecrest as he spoke.

        “This unicorn Order of Purple Whelping persisted in Canterlot beyond the Chaos Wars, well beyond the Second and Third Age, as a matter of fact.  Fate would have it that Twilight Sparkle, a young and humble Canterlotlian native, would be bestowed the honor of bringing such an infant dragon into this world.  As a test of her commitment and character, she was told that it was a merely an 'entrance exam.'”

        Spike chuckled, filling the snowy air with green smoke.  He coughed briefly, sputtered, but ultimately refound his breath.

        “Her power was more than sufficient to bring me into this world.  She held within herself a phenomenal well of magical abilities, so much talent that—even until the end of days—they remained forever untapped.”  There was a somber breath.  He clutched the violent pendant tightly, but then continued, “You probably know what happened next.  She was taken under Princess Celestia's wing and made to be the Goddess of the Sun's special and most beloved pupil.  What you probably don't know is that, in being given charge over me, she was merely playing a chaperone—a foster parent, as you can probably relate—and one day she would see me sprout wings and fly off, rejoining the rest of my purple brood, destined to protect Equestrian sovereignty with all of my natural, magical talents, as a sign of gratitude for having been safely hatched into this world.  There was a place for that, you know:  Skybreak Point, where the pegasi held shop beneath Cloudsdale before sending weather fliers off to do their continental duties.  It was the same spot where purple dragons traditionally went to make their first flight.  I used to dream of that day.  I used to imagine myself becoming one with my own kind, and feeling the warm wind beneath a pair of majestic, flowing wings.”

        He took a deep breath as the color drained from his emerald eyeslits.  His webbed appendages coiled tighter against his massive size.

        “In three hundred years of loneliness, all I've ever dreamt about... all I've ever thought about... has been her.  The very reason I started on this experiment and boldly launched the first breaths of reverse-time was in a fitful attempt to... to maybe reunite with her.  It wasn't until later, much later—when I awoke to the reality of time's immutable nature—that I settled for the more selfless goal of fixing that which the Cataclysm burned to a crisp.  Still, I can't help but wonder if perhaps my infant obsession with my foster parent had made me a bad dragon.  Perhaps I was different and more pitiable than the rest of the whelps who were hatched in Canterlot before me.  But that doesn't matter, Scootaloo.”

        He gazed at her, and a hint of moisture showed along the edges of his scaled eyecrests.

        “Twilight Sparkle was more than just my mentor or my magical guidance.  She was my mother, Scootaloo.  She was my mother and I loved her.  In the life that we have both lived, dear friend, a life full of flames and orphans and ash, we have every right to choose the ones who define us, and the ones we love.  The only difference between you and I is that... is that you—my dear friend—you have the ability to go where I can't.  You have the chance to bask in that warmth that is forever lost to my spirit but not to my dreams.  You can experience that love again, first-hoof, and in such a glory that is unbecoming of all the lonesome shades you've painted yourself with throughout the years.  The colors were never dead, Scootaloo, so long as you've been alive to envision them, just as Rainbow Dash shared them with you.  Don't you see, old friend?  All of those centuries I spent trying to find a way to reunite with my mentor, I was actually—and quite fatefully—finding a way to reunite you with yours.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo shuddered.  She ran a hoof through her pink threads, gazing towards the desolate floor beneath the barn.  “I don't know... I-I just don't know, Spike...”

        “Oh child...”  He removed his hand from the pendant and lovingly cradled her chin in between two claws.  “Do not bother so much with knowing.  Embrace your chance to feel while you still can, before you are encompassed by the very end that defines you.  All of history, both glorious and holocaustal, is brimming with knowledge.  Love, however, is a far more challenging, far more elusive treasure to scavenge from annihilation, in all of its multiplicitous shades.  This Onyx Eclipse that spites us may or may not be the key to uncovering a great and terrible secret.  But what fills you with joy and purpose isn't a secret, Scootaloo.  Go back in time and look for answers, look for stars, but most of all look for that joy.  Patch it together, piece by piece, and hug it one last time before the day comes when you—like me—will no longer have a second chance.”

        Scootaloo stared at him, her eyes wilting—but not tearing this time.  She was both weak and powerful at once, a queer and alien sensation that excited her as much as it frightened her.  She gave the dragon tooth one last look, pulled hard, and broke it free from the string.  She dropped the bone matter to the wooden floorboard like a flimsy white box and clutched the blue string to herself.

        “'Observatory of Nebula,' huh?”

        “Yes, my friend.  In the upper heights of Cloudsdale.”

        She took a deep breath.  “This will be... a long, long trip.”

        “I'm sure you're more than equipped to overcome whatever lies in the path which leads back to where you started from.”

        “It's not a matter of what I'll encounter on the voyage to sunken Cloudsdale,” Scootaloo said, then glared firmly at him.  “It's who.”




        Scootaloo huddled, alone with her bruises, at the bottom of the dilapidated barn.  Sniffling, the seven year old glanced up towards the loft.  Something inside her was beginning to crumble away.  Defeatedly, she stood up on all four limbs, and made to climb the ladder towards the upper floor, towards a white box, towards the blue, frosted dessert inside that was about to fill her and shatter her with the shameful consumption that was to follow...

        Then, out from the great bolting blue, there came a rasping shriek, followed by a rush of billowing air.

        “H-Huh?”  The hungry pegasus hung halfway up the ladder, glancing up through a hole in the roof to see a bright speck of random colors suddenly hurtling towards her like a missile.  “Holy crap!”  She flung herself to the floor with violently twitching wings.

        “Yaaaaaaugh!”  The hulking body of a sapphire blue pony bore a new hole in the barn, ricocheted off the loft, and shattered through a rustic crossbeam in the center of the place.  “Augh!  Ooof!”  She landed in a thud, spilling hay and sawdust through the claustrophobic air of the Ponyvillean afternoon.  “Hoboy...”

        Panting, Scootaloo shot up from beneath a bed of straws.  Her eyes widened at the tumbling splinters and wreckage of her once pristine hovel.  “What... Wh-What...?”  She sputtered, stumbled up to her hooves, and barked, “My barn!  What the heck did you do to my—”  The orphan winced in mid-speech, her violet eyes twitching.  “Erm... What I mean was—Ahem—You just totally smashed up this stupid, ugly barn!  Are you insane?!”

        “Nnngh... Not insane... Just dizzy...” A pegasus sat up, wincing, rubbing her hoof through a tattered mane of red to green to violet.  “Whew... Eheheh... Guess I'm not exactly ready yet to pull off the buccaneer blitz...”

        “Look... L-L-Look at the hole you made!”  Scootaloo squeaked, staring bug-eyed at the offending chunk overhead, brimming with blinding sunlight.  “You could have brought this whole place down, you crazy psycho!”

        “Pfft!  If you love this stupid barn so much, why don't you marry it?!”  The adult pony raspberried and shook the last of several haystalks loose from her skull.  “What were you doing here anyways?  Counting ticks in the hay?”

        “Nnngh-No!”  Scootaloo frowned.  After a blink, she realized that she was scratching her neck.  She flung her hoof down in a furious show of anger.  “Still, who are you to talk?!  I was minding my own business when you suddenly—”

        “Who am I?!”  The pony gasped in violent disbelief, flinging a pair of ruby eyes in the foal's direction.  “You mean you haven't heard of me?!”

        “Why?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Should I have?”

        “I'll say!”  The pony performed a devil-may-care smirk.  In a gust of wind, she twirled up from the pile of wooden debris and hovered high above the barn's loft, her mane and tail hairs whipping in the breeze like living spectral flame.  “The name's Rainbow Dash!  And I'm only the awesomest, coolest, most talented flier in all of Ponyville!”  She smiled wide, her teeth glinting.

        Scootaloo gazed up at her, silent, blank, and dumbstruck—at least until she stuck her tongue out.  “Pffft!  Yeah right!”  The filly smirked venomously, scoffing, “More like 'Rainbow Crash!'”



> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Six – Somepony Who Earns




        A puff of hot steam wafted towards the whalebone ceiling of the Harmony's cabin.  With expert precision, Scootaloo operated a steam-powered drill and unscrewed the fastener bolts of her cockpit seat.  It was an arduous process, but she eventually loosened the entire rig beneath the pilot's chair.  Shoving the structure aside, she turned the drill off and reached two hooves down towards a panel, lifting it open for the first time in over a decade and a half.

        She revealed a hollow within the bulkhead of the Harmony's upper gondola.  Inside of this immaculate crevice, there was a porcelain-white container built out of Cloudsdalian sky marble.  The box was fitted within a metal frame fashioned to perfectly encompass the fragile little object.

        Gently, as if cradling the preserved heart of Princess Celestia herself, Scootaloo lifted the white container in two brown hooves.  She raised the amber goggles off her scarlet eyes and gazed solemnly as she turned the box around, tapped its lid, and opened it before the flickering lanternlight.

        Inside the box, resting softly on a bed of velvety fabric, were three perfectly preserved feathers, and all of them were blue.  They shone with a brilliance that was not lost to the ages, and their sapphiric glory pierced the decrepit brown shadows of the cabin, as if the apocalypse was being stabbed by a preserved sliver of the once-blue sky.

        Scootaloo reached one hoof down and softly, lovingly petted the soft blue fibers, reveling in their touch, though her eyes watered progressively upon the hauntingly familiar sensation.  With each bend and flutter of the blue feathers in her grasp, she saw smiles, she felt warmth, she heard voices.

        She heard...

        






        “Pffft!  Yeah right!” a  seven year old Scootaloo scoffed, “More like 'Rainbow Crash!'”

        Hovering high in the rustic barn, Rainbow Dash's ruby-violet eyes twitched.  She frowned down at the little orange filly.  “Oh, hardy-har-har!  Didja think that brilliant crap up just now, or have you been talking to a few punks around Cloudsdale?”

        “I'm not from Cloudsdale,” Scootaloo uttered, “and even if I was, would I seriously hear ponies talking about a pegasus who's too blind to miss the broad side of a barn?”

        “Hey!  There's nothing wrong with my sight!”  Rainbow Dash fluttered down to the ground, brushing herself off with a blue hoof.  “It's not my fault the barn was in the way!  Who builds a barn in the middle of a forest anyways?”

        “I've got an even better question!  What were you doing flying like a comet into the middle of the forest to begin with?”

        “Jee, I dunno.  Maybe I just have a serious grudge against squirrels.  Besides, who died and made you expert on flight trajectories?—Whoah!”  Rainbow Dash did a double-take, giving Scootaloo the first solid glance since she arrived there.  “You're a filly!”


        The orphan pegasus blinked wide.  She stamped her hooves down and growled, “Of course I'm a girl!  What did you think?!”



        “I guess it's just something about the tone in your voice.  It sounds like you were born to pitch overhoof.”

        “Grrrrr...”  Scootaloo's hunger disappeared in an angry flash as she ground her hooves in the floor of the barn and made to charge the rainbow-maned mare, only to have her limbs shuffling endlessly in place.

        This was because the young adult pegasus had planted a hoof on the foal's forehead and was holding her there.  “Heheheh.  Whoah there, Wonder Whinnie.  I'm just joshin' you.  How about we start over?  I don't like picking fights with ponies unless they're at least twice my size, otherwise it’s unfair.”

        “Well your... your...”  Scootaloo slumped to her haunches, folding her front limbs and blushing in furious frustration.  “Your face is certainly asking for a fight!”

        “Ha!”  Rainbow Dash hovered in place and thrust her grin in Scootaloo's blinking vision.  “That's the best compliment I heard all day!  Heheheheh.  Still, ya gotta be careful, kid.  You say that to just any pony in town and they're liable to give you a clean lickin'!  And I don't mean the type your momma gives you when you're freshly foaled!”

        “Uhhhm...”  Scootaloo bit her lip and gazed off to the far side of the barn, still feeling the fresh stings from Blackjack's hooves across her face.  “Yeah...”

        “You got a name, pipsqueak?”

        Scootaloo frowned again.  “Don't call me 'pipsqueak.’”

        “Tell me your name and maybe I won't!”

        “Mmmm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  She mumbled something in a low, low voice.

        “What are you, now, Fluttershy?  Speak up!”

        “'Scootaloo.'”  The filly frowned.  “There, you happy?”

        “Ehhhh... I think I like 'pipsqueak' better.”

        “Grrrr—Just what's the big deal about my name?”

        Rainbow Dash smiled and laid upside down in midair, hovering lazy circles around the filly.  “I'm always refreshing my list so I can keep track of who's on the 'Rainbow Dash Fanclub.'”

        “You have a fan club?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow, then frowned for the millionth time.  “And why the heck would I want to join it?”

        “Why the heck wouldn't you?”  Rainbow Dash smirked, spun, and performed a few blazing, close-quarter loops around the support beams of the barn's upper loft.  “I'm only the coolest thing to ever happen to this town, aside from the first Hearth's Warming Eve of course.  Heheheh.  I tell you, even wendigos have nothing on this supreme frostiness!”  She kicked off a wall, wrapped her tail-hairs around a horizontal crossbeam, spun around it twice, loosened her tail, and vertically dismounted to the floor, landing and rearing her front hooves in a heroic stance.  “Ha!  Y'know, when I get up in the morning, I plant one hoof onto the ground at a time so that I don't upset the Earth's rotation.”

        Scootaloo let loose a barking laugh.  “Okay, now you're just being stupid on purpose.”

        “Actually, I was trying to under-exaggerate.  AJ is always nagging me, saying I should learn to brag less around town.”

        “Who?”

        “But AJ's also a goody-goody-fourshoes who probably snorts appleseeds when nopony's looking.  You think she got those freckles on her face naturally?  Nosiree.”

        “The heck are you talking about?  Is this suddenly your world, now?”

        “Well you're living in it, aren't you?”  Rainbow Dash trotted past the filly, stood below a horizontal crossbeam, and leaped up.  Using her front limbs, she started spontaneously performing chin-ups, her blue wings coiled tightly behind her.  “Nnnngh... I'm telling you... nnnngh... twenty years from now... nnngh... fifty years from now... nnnngh... a hundred years from now...”  She grit her teeth through a snarling grin and only just then started breaking a sweat.  “... I'm gonna be a legend, known all across Equestria.  When historians put 'Ponyville' into textbooks, my name will be the first thing to come up, followed by 'smackdown.'  Heck, they should just rename this town 'Rainbow Dashville' in order to contain my awesomeness.  After all, someday I'm going to be more than a weather flier.  I'm going to be a celebrity, an athlete, a Wonderbolt—”

        “What's a Wonderbolt?”

        “Nnngh—Augh!”  Rainbow Dash fell off the beam and landed in the dust, her legs and wings sticking straight up like an arrowed albatross.  Scootaloo winced, then bounced back as the blue pegasus leered over her.  The mare's face was white as a sheet.  “You've never heard of the Wonderbolts?!”

        “I-I've heard of insane asylums...”  Young Scootaloo gulped, suddenly shrinking away from this blue stranger.  “And p-ponies that should pr-probably be sent there...”

        “But... You... It... They... How... Nnnght!”  Rainbow Dash twitched at the last exclamation, as if the wires in her brain were fusing.  The orange filly imagined smoke pouring out of the adult pegasus' ears as the blue pony took a deep breath, calmed herself, and eventually uttered, “The Wonderbolts are only the coolest, most spectacular, most radical bunch of fliers in all of Equestria!  They perform airshows in every major city and make thousands upon thousands of fans cheer like mad!  They can fly more loops around the continent than Princess Nebula ever could!”

        “If they're so 'cool' and 'radical'...”  Scootaloo glared with a smirk.  “Then how come you're not one of them?”

        “Hey.”  Rainbow Dash glared.  “Shut up.”

        “Heeheehee...”

        It was the blue pegasus' turn to turn red.  She paced across the barn, dragging her hooves.  “So what if I'm stuck being a boring weather flier for this dull flea-speck of an Equestrian town?  I'm a pegasus, and a pegasus has to do his or her part for the countryside.”

        “You mean like slamming full-speed into the countryside?”  Scootaloo exclaimed, her limbs buckling as her chuckles intensified.

        “Hey!  I was practicing!”  Rainbow Dash ground her hooves into the floor.  “The day I get to show myself off in front of the Wonderbolts, I gotta make sure I can make their jaws fall through the ground and travel all the way to Chyneigh!”

        “And just why would the most awesome pony in all of Ponyville need to practice anything, huh?”

        “Heh... Kid...”  Rainbow Dash finally managed a smirk of her own.  “You really think too much, y'know that?”  She narrowed her eyes and smugly uttered, “Unless you've ever been awesome, I don't think you should be second-guessing real coolness when it stands in front of you.”

        “Oh, I happen to be pretty awesome myself.”  Scootaloo stuck a tongue out and upturned her nose.  “Thank you very much.”

        “What are you awesome at?  Passing yourself off as a colt scout?”

        “No!”  Scootaloo growled into the echo of Rainbow's laughs.  She smirked devilishly and raised a hoof.  “Check it!”  She scampered over on tiny limbs to the far side of the barn and kicked a metal tray into her grasp.  She brandished the wheeled platform before the blue pegasus.  “You ever seen something like this before?”

        “Er... yeah, the last time I went to a buffet restaurant.”

        “Oh hush.  Take a look at what I can do.”  The little orphan fought a sudden bout of nervousness.  She was suddenly running off of a bizarre adrenaline she had never felt before, even in the midst of her hunger and desperation.  All she knew was that she had to get this braggart of a blue pegasus to shut up, to eat her own words.  For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable need to impress somepony, at least somepony who was alive.

        In a bright orange blur, the filly ran, tossed the metal board in front of her, jumped, and landed on it with four hooves.  Gripping it tightly, she scrunched her body down against the metal platform and flexed her wings.  With a buzzing sound that echoed across the wooden walls of the hovel, she shifted her weight to the left and spun several blazing circles around the blue-feathered mare.

        Rainbow Dash produced something that surprised the girl in mid-“flight”.  The mare let loose a whistling sound.  “Hey, pretty nifty.  Though, I gotta say...”  She chuckled slightly.  “You kind of look like a runaway suitcase.”

        “I bet you couldn't do this when you were my age!”  Scootaloo murmured in mid-glide.

        “Nope.”  Rainbow Dash crossed her front limbs and smirked with pride.  “As a matter of fact, I was outflying griffons and earning my cutie mark.”

        Scootaloo gasped and glanced at Rainbow.  “You're lying!”  Blindly, she slammed face-first into a vertical crossbeam in the center of the barn.  “Oooof!”  Her tray went flying outside and she landed hard on her rump.  Her body rocked from mane to tail, irritating all of the bruises she had received over the past few days.  “Unnngh...”  The tiny filly couldn't help it.  Memories of hunger and streetside bullying bubbled to the surface, and she hung numbly on the precipice of a sob.

        “Whew!  Nice bump there, pipsqueak.  Heheheh—You're pretty tough.”

        Just like that, any hint of moisture lining Scootaloo's eyes immediately shrunk back into the core of her being.  She flashed a surprised look the adult pegasus' way.  “I... I am...?”

        “I'd say.  When I was your age, I knew many a foal at flight camp who'd trip on a cirrus cloud and go running home, crying for mommy.”

        “Eheheh...”  Scootaloo chuckled nervously, her tiny wing-stubs twitching.  “I guess it was... erm... their fault for having a mommy.”

        “Snkkkt—Haha!  Uhhh... Yeesh, I never heard that one before.”

        “Really?”  Scootaloo broke into a bizarre smile.  She was only vaguely aware of a loud groaning sound directly in front of her.  She glanced up and gasped with foalish fright, for the hulking body of the barn's support pillar—already knocked off-kilter by Rainbow Dash's entry—was falling down over her with deathly menace.  “Aaaaah!”  Scootaloo curled up into a pathetic orange ball, shivering.

        There was suddenly a gust of wind.  The blood rushed to Scootaloo's head, as if the entire globe had spun five times around her in the span of half a second.  She felt a sea of grass blades and feathers settling down across her mane, and then she heard the thunderous crash of the wooden beam, only it was several meters away.

        “H-Huh...?”  Scootaloo slowly, pensively blinked her eyes opened.  She was outside the barn, bathed in sunlight.  She glanced towards the structure in time to see a cloud of dust settling from the fallen beam's chaotic impact.  It wasn't until five seconds into registering the distance she had traveled from such a grim fate that she became aware of a strong pair of blue limbs clutching her from behind.  “Whoah...”  She glanced up breathlessly at the blue silhouette of her sudden savior, her wings still outstretched.  “Did you... D-Did you just...?”

        “Hmmm...”  Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes and smirked wickedly.  “Maaaaaaybe.”

        “You're... You're...”

        “Awesome?”

        Scootaloo gulped.  “F-Fast!”  She was dropped to the ground in a dusty heap.  “Oof!”

        “Heheheh...”  Rainbow Dash trotted away from the collapsed filly, brushing herself off.  “What'd you think?  I said my name was 'Rainbow Dash,' not 'Rainbow Drag.’”

        “Nnngh...”  Scootaloo sat up, shaking the cobwebs loose from her skull.  “I'm willing to settle for 'Rainbow Dunce.’  Still, for what it's worth, thanks for saving me... er... and stuff.”

        “Pffft!” Rainbow Dash raspberried.  “You call that gratitude, ya lil’ pip...”  She blinked, went cross-eyed, then grunted,  “—squeak?!  Feh!  Because of that, I just might not ask you to help me with doing something wickedly fun!”

        “Something wickedly fun?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

        “Oh, so now you're up for the challenge?”

        “What challenge?  What are you even talking about?”

        “Maybe it was fate that my screwing-up the buccaneer blitz had me almost crash land into the most stuck-up excuse for a fanfilly in all of Ponyville!”

        Scootaloo frowned.  “Who said I was your fanfilly—?”

        “‘Cuz I've been meaning to do business with this one farm filly, and I need somepony's helping hoof, or else the end result is going to be really lame.  You look cute and innocent enough to pull it off, at least when you're not frowning as if a porcupine's sliding down your esophagus.”

        “Pull what off?”

        “Hehehe... What’s with all the questions, kiddo?”  Rainbow Dash hovered in the air and spun lazy circles around random tree trunks.  “A foal your age shouldn’t have to know everything.  You don’t want to turn into an egghead, do you?”

        “Uhh...”  Scootaloo nervously gulped.  “No...?”

        “Anyways, you gotta learn to expect the unexpected!”  Rainbow Dash flipped in the air, hovered upside down, and smirked down at the blinking filly.  “Life's too friggin' short to plan to... plan everything!  Come with me!”  She motioned with her prismatic mane and spiraled towards the northwestern edge of the forest.  “I promise it'll be a blast!  Heheheh!”

        “I... Uh...”  Scootaloo shifted nervously in place.  “My parents—uh, yeah—my parents say that... uhm... I shouldn't encourage strangers!”

        “Pfft!  Did I or did I not say that I was Rainbow Dash?!  I'm hardly a stranger here in Ponyville!  If anything, I'm a recipe for fireworks and lightning bolts!”

        “You're a nutcase.”

        “And I think you're just chicken!”  Rainbow Dash scoffed from up high, like a taunting meteorite.

        Scootaloo twitched.  She remembered the words of Blackjack.  They were words that hurt her.  But now, in the mouth of this rainbow-colored braggart, the insult wasn't so much a dagger of venom as it was a dangling carrot.  More than angry, more than frightened, and more than desperate, Scootaloo was hungry.  She grit her teeth through a fresh and exciting breath of righteous fury, rushed over to her metal tray, and planted it underneath her with a buzzing of wings.

        “I'm no chicken; you're a turkey!”

        “Ooooh... Ouch...”  Rainbow Dash winced as if struck with a mortal wound.  “Yeah, we gotta work on that.  Follow me if you can, pipsqueak!”  And she bolted off towards the gradually-setting sun.

        Scootaloo glided swiftly beneath her, huffing and puffing, sweating up a storm.  All day, she had been starving and miserable.  Suddenly, for the first time since she made the arduous trip from Manehattan, she reacquainted herself with excitement.  Only, this time, it wasn't half as lonely.  She didn't understand it; she merely smirked.





        “I can get you a merchant's license,” Pitt said, smirking as he polished the bar counter of the M.O.D.D. under smoke and cold lanternlight.  “The price is two hundred and fifty thousand silver strips.”

        A battle-scarred ogre blinked confusedly at the balding baboon.  He flashed his overweight cohorts a weird look, then squinted suspiciously at the monkey bartender once more.  “Now, the price of a merchant's license is less than twenty thousand strips, is that correct?”

        “Yes,” Pitt said, stifling a yawn.

        The ogre took a deep, fuming breath, folding his fat arms.  “So why would I ever consider paying more than that?”

        The baboon grinned wide, yellow teeth glinting in the light of the bar.  “Because I intend to squeeze you.”

        The ogres exchanged lethargic glances.  The ringleader picked his beaten helmet up from the counter and droned, “I swear, life was easier when ponies were running the world.”

        “Then go dig some of them up and have an orgy!”  Pitt pointed a gnarled finger.  “If you lazy, A.W.O.L. melon fudges can't handle the Wasteland economy outside the protective wings of your bone-headed armies, then maybe you have no business trying to become zeppelin merchants to begin with!  It's a long crawl to the top of the food chain, fatties.”

        “We're never coming to this trading post again.”

        “Good!  Because this building has a hard enough time staying atop this mountain without the whole lot of you adding your godawful weight to it!”  Pitt waved a dishrag at them as they lumbered hulkingly through the double doors of the wooden place's exit.  “Go fly off and play exploding football or whatever it is you obese slobtards do in your spare time.  Like I need more flies gathering in this place than there already are.”  Once they were gone, the baboon wriggled his ugly red nose crests and resumed polishing the glossy counter as several nearby patrons slurred and belched between wandering shadows of monkey waiters.  “Frickin' humor of the gods—I swear.  We're living in the apocalypse, and the fatties just refuse to go quietly into that stinky night.”

        “You take things for granted, Pitt,” a voice droned.  “It's hard to smell anything in a life that forever stinks.”

        Pitt's nostrils flared.  Without looking up, he smirked.  “Harmony.  Long time no inhale.  If I do say so, you're a lot more fragrant than normal—”  He glanced up.  He stopped in mid-speech, blinking hard.  “...You're not the last pony.”

        A brown equine with long, flowing pink hair and a matching tail marched up towards the bar counter, carrying a saddlebag that bulged more than usual.  Several drinkers glanced over curiously from their wooden tables, giving the pony second glances until their eyes finally stumbled upon the familiar image of a copper rifle resting atop her spine.  They no longer pretended to be interested and resumed drowning themselves in alcohol.

        “I'm disappointed, Pitt,” Scootaloo spoke.  She did something strange within the confines of the M.O.D.D.  She smiled.  Pitt blinked awkwardly at her as she planted her saddlebag down on the counter and leaned casually against the bar with a positively cheerful posture.  “You're supposed to have the most gifted nose in all of the Wasteland, and yet you don't know a gift horse when you look her in the mouth?”

        “If you're a gift horse, Harmony, then I'm Ape Lincoln.”  He made a face at her.  A monkey waiter planted a tray down before him and he proceeded to grab a tall bottle from the shelves, pouring a fresh drink.  “Every time you come here, something explodes or someone is thrown through a table or some other ghastly destructive crap happens.”  He planted the fresh drink onto the tray and the waiter carried it off with a flicker of a brown tail.  “I suppose I should be thanking the monkey gods that you just missed those former war ogres by a few seconds.  Rumor is that the Battle over the Valley of Jewels has gone south for the Fire Ogres, ever since some naga mercenary infiltrated their lines and  performed some sabotage.  The Mountain Ogres have been kicking the Fire fatties' blubbery butts ever since, and we've had several deserters waltzing in on the bar here, asking for a job.  Yeesh, couldn't the Cataclysm have killed off all the bums in the world?”

        “I figured that it only made bums of us all, Pitt,” Scootaloo said with a sly smirk.  “Otherwise, a place like the Monkey O'Dozen Den wouldn't exist.”

        “'Monkey Ten Den.'”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

        “I'm changing the name,” Pitt muttered, shelving several drinking glasses.  “It's the 'Monkey Ten Den' from now on.”

        “What happened?”  Scootaloo squinted.  “Did two of your brothers...?”

        He nodded.  “Terry and Brad.  Three weeks ago, they fell into a vat.”

        Scootaloo glanced briefly across the eatery, then looked back at the baboon.  “A vat of what?”

        Pitt shuddered.  “You don't wanna know.”  He hung the dishrag over his shoulder while pouring another mug of ale for a half-conscious patron two stools away from the pony.  “So, Harmony, if you're not here to shatter my tables or chat it up about war ogres, just what are you here for?”

        “What am I ever here for?”  Scootaloo smirked.  “Business, Pitt.  I need strips.”

        “Nnngh!  Glue stick!”  A drunk, mangy raccoon with a metal prosthetic jumped up behind the pony, ready to slam his twitching claws into the back of her pink mane.  “To the horseshoe grave!  Nnngh!  With glue stick—OOF!”

        Scootaloo blindly back-hoofed the varmint so that he fell to the wooden floorboards with an ineffectual thud.  Her tranquil gaze remained locked on Pitt.  “Lots, and lots of strips.”

        “Heheheheh—Heyyyyy, kiddo, I want strips!”  Pitt grinned yellowly.  “My brothers want strips!  The whole crap-shoveling world wants strips!  There's not a single one of us here who wouldn't strip for strips, even those of us who don't wear clothes!  But you don't see me waltzing up to honorable business establishments begging for handouts—Or in your case, hoof-outs.  Heh.”

        “You should know me by now, Pitt.”  Scootaloo's brow furrowed ever so slightly.  “I don't beg.  I earn.”

        “That's a tough claim coming from a pony who almost entirely does her business with a vertically challenged flying squirrel from Godknowswhereistan.  I swear, it's a miracle you aren't spitting out peanuts every time you open them pretty molars of yours.”  Pitt slid a mug of ale to the nearest patron.  Reaching into a glass jar, he planted a toothpick into his mouth and smirked towards the pony.  “Seriously, Harmony.  Talk silver before you talk smack.  I've had it up to my ear hairs with cowardly ogres trying to scrape a bite to eat.”  He folded his arms in a smug posture.  “I can only toss so many fat lards into the canyon below before my shoulders get tired.  I do hope to retire someplace where there are trees for me to climb before these biceps of mine turn into string beans, y'know.”

        “Funny you should say that,” Scootaloo murmured, reaching a forelimb into her bulging saddlebag and rummaging through its contents.  “Tell me, Pitt.  How do you say 'banana daiquiri?'”

        Pitt huffed.  “'Banana daiquiri.'”  He smirked at her, but then the smirk fell—along with the toothpick from his mouth—as the last pony thumpingly placed a cluster of yellow fruit down onto the bar counter.  All the sound of mumbling, belching voices instantly drowned out throughout the entire room.  In the far corner of the M.O.D.D., a patron shouted in consternation as an entire tray full of dishes was dropped in his lap.  The guilty waiter—along with two simian siblings—immediately rushed over to the counter and gawked with bulging eyes.

        Scootaloo leaned her chin against a hoof, staring calmly at them, quietly waiting.

        “How...”  Pitt muttered in a suddenly dry breath.  His voice was dead and distant, as if reborn to a humble atmosphere.  He gulped and ran a gnarled, hairy palm across the pliable contours of six fresh and undeniably real bananas.  “Where in the wide world of crap did you get these?”

        “They were not gotten,” Scootaloo said.  “They were grown.”

        “You... You...”  Pitt's eyes fluttered, as if the bald primate was fighting off an inexplicable seizure.  One of the monkey waiters reached a shaky finger over to touch the holy fruit.  Pitt slapped his palm away and leaned possessively over the yellow objects on the counter.  “You mean to tell me that you've found a way to grow—to actually plant and breed edible bananas somewhere in the Wasteland?”

        “Actually, I mean to tell you that you can find a way to grow and breed edible bananas.  How you plan to do that here in the freezing heights of this Celestia-forsaken rathole is beyond me.”  She motioned a hoof towards the double-doors of the establishment, beyond which her airship was moored.  “I have three whole stalks potted and resting in the hangar bay of my ship.  The rhizomes are still ripe and there are plenty of suckers to graft off the things and regrow a new stem.  Why, with enough light and heat, you just might be able to—”'

        Pitt waved a hand in her face.  “D-D-Don't tell me how to grow bananas.  I'm a baboon.  My brothers and I knew how to grow bananas before we were even born.”  He took a shuddering breath, rubbing a soot-covered palm over his bald spot.  “It just begs the question... How and where did you find these, Harmony?”

        “There's an even better question.”  Scootaloo smiled icily, her scarlet eyes narrow.  “How much are you willing to pay to not bother having to know, because you'll have this stuff growing here?”

        Pitt blinked, biting his lip as the wheels turned in his balding head.

        Suddenly, the lights overhead flickered.  A door behind the counter flung open and a breathless, sweating chimpanzee stuck his head out.  “Brother!  Brother!  Do I smell what I think I smell?!”

        “Willis, ya worthless pile of showerdrain lint!”  Pitt hollered at the monkey while his other siblings cowered away from him.  “Get back on the bike!”

        “B-But brother—!”

        “You'd better resume pedaling before I paint the bathroom with your tooth enamel!”

        “Y-Yes, Brother!”  The door slammed shut and the generators resumed pumping electricity throughout the place.

        Pitt took a deep breath.  He rubbed his face and lips with a shivering hand, gazing at the bananas, at Scootaloo, then at the bananas again.  “Silver strips, huh?  You can bet my red butt this will get you silver strips.  I haven't seen you for ages—I imagine you're at the end of your last drop.”

        “I've been working on a project, Pitt.  It's something of a scientific endeavor.  For my latest experiment, a special business partner of mine needs me to acquire some ingredients.”  Scootaloo lingered halfway through her speech, staring at a random row of blue bottles on a distant shelf.  She briefly envisioned a trio of sapphire feathers fluttering in their place.  In a blink, she brought herself back to the here and now.  “Stronger ingredients, that is.  I need to get these things or else I can't perform the next leg of scientific... observation.”

        “Is this partner of yours someone who knows a thing or two about growing bananas in the Wasteland?”

        “Pitt.”  Scootaloo frowned at him.  “I need strips for where I'm going.  I need lots of them.”

        The baboon actually had to think for a few embarrassing seconds before finally uttering, “Five thousand strips.”

        “Don't insult me.”  Scootaloo grunted.  “Five thousand per friggin' banana plant, you volcano-nosed cheapskate.”

        “Now there's the pony I remember.”  He briefly smirked, cleared his throat, and said with a surly squint, “Eight thousand strips, and you give me two plants.”

        “You're such a kidder, Pitt.”  Scootaloo smirked.  “I know as well as you do that you want all three.  How about thirteen thousand silver strips for all three plants and you throw in a bushel of iron rivets just to show what a generous businessmonkey you are?”

        “Thirteen thousand strips...”  Pitt scratched the exposed skin of his head and whistled.  “Harmony, you do realize that I rarely ever give out ten thousand strips for a regular restock of ale.”

        “I bet you feel depressed for keeping track.”
        
        “Why would I ever consider bestowing a living soul more than that in a single transaction, much less a pony?”

        Scootaloo winked.  “Because I intend to squeeze you.”

        Pitt blinked, then smiled slyly.  “You've got the hooves of a pony, but the ears of a fox.”

        “I'm about to give the crap of an elephant if this conversation goes on any longer.”  Scootaloo stared at him.  “Is it a deal or isn't it?”

        “Hmmngh...”  Pitt folded his arms and sighed hard.  “There's an old monkey proverb: 'Money is impermanent; bananas last forever.'”

        “You just made that up, didn't you?”

        “So sue me.”  He cleared his throat.  “It's a deal, Harmony.  May the gods help me, it's a frickin' deal.  I don't know how you did it, but you just brought to this bar the last remaining good thing in this world.”

        “Yeah, well, to each his own.”  Scootaloo flung the saddlebag back over her spine.  “Oh, by the way, I want the twelve thousand strips packaged in brass bars.  I'm sure you have some sitting around somewhere in your stockroom, collecting dust.”

        “Brass bars?”  Pitt raised an eyebrow in her direction.  “Are you intending to do business in an impcity?”

        “The only impcity around these parts that matters.”  Scootaloo pulled a canteen out from her bag, unscrewed it, and raised it to her lips.  “Remember the ingredients I told you that I need for my partner's science experiment?”

        “Yeah...?”

        She took a swig of reclaimed water, swallowed, and exhaled.  “Well, my search is taking me to the Northern Plains.  It just so happens that the goblins there have built a huge frickin' factory on top of the location.”

        “Ahhh...”  Pitt nodded with a knowing smirk.  “So you're headed to Petra.  Good luck, Harmony.  I hear those halflings love ponies like they love a good scythe in the eye.”

        The last pony's brown nostrils flared as she screwed her canteen shut.  “Yeah,” she said with a stifled grunt.  “I know.”

        “Cheer up, though.”  Pitt winked.  “I heard the boiling steam clouds are pretty this time of year, assuming there haven't been any gremlin pilots falling into the smokestacks like what happened last month.  The resulting explosion took out about two hundred halflings along the city's upper strut below.”  Pitt snickered, laughed, and slapped his knee.  “Ahhhhhhh... gods, I am so broke right now.”

        “I'll have the plants delivered immediately.  You just have the silver strips ready in their brass casings, and I promise you won't be seeing me for a long time.”

        “I don't know whether to be sad or relieved.”

        “Try settling for indifferent.”  Scootaloo walked towards the swinging doors of the place.  “It's always been my favorite way to be treated in the Wasteland.”

        “Before you skedaddle, Harmony, I gotta say...”  Pitt pointed from afar, causing the pony to stop in her tracks.  “Whatever this scientific experiment you're working on had better be frickin' important.  To imagine you waltzing straight into the neighborhood of half-lings all alone...”  He shrugged with a pathetic smile.  “...All I can say is, I'm going to miss the prancing chaos you bring here from time to time.”  He winked.  “Just a little.”

        “Don't try to be sentimental, Pitt.  It gives off a bad smell.”

        “Well, you brought us bananas, kiddo.  That deserves some benchmark in history, if I may say so.  Heheheheh...”

        The last pony took a deep breath and marched beyond the double doors.  “I'm not the pony who deserves a memorial...”


     




“And so this one time at flight camp, I got into a dare with a pegasus colt named Dumb-Bell.”


        Rainbow Dash smirked in mid-flight, her blue wings flapping majestically over the foal’s head.
        
        “No, seriously, that's his friggin' name, 'Dumb-Bell.’  I think his parents sniffed one too many bands of the aurora borealis at Whinniestock long before he was foaled.  Anywho, he said that I couldn't handle the cold temperatures of high-altitude flight.  I told him he was a pile of crap.  Guess which one of us was being honest?  Heheheh!  Anyways, one thing led to another, and eventually we decided—in front of all of the Young Fliers School's alumni—to fly together towards the edge of the stratosophere.  The first pony to lose their nerves, or bloodflow, would be the loser.  The winner would get the other's lunch money.”

        Scootaloo kicked at the ground, rolling forward on her metal tray.  She gazed up at the shadowy blue pegasus hovering high above, leading the two of them down a dirt path and into thicker and thicker orchards.

        “So,” the orange foal droned, “was this before or after you bare-hoofedly fought the invading band of harpy thugs and won back the recipe for sculpting sky marble that they stole from the Cloudsdalian Central Archives?”

        “Shhh!  This is different!  Something else that's awesome!”  A crescent moon of a grin glistened overhead.  “Anyways, Dumb-Bell had this thing for sarsaparilla, and I knew it.  So, the morning before our skyward soaring, I made a snide remark about how a high altitude climb can dehydrate a swift flier.  It was total horse hockey, of course.  But, living up to his name, Dumb-Bell bought it, and right before the match he supposedly drank four bottles of the crap.  Anywho, to make a long story even longer, we started the vertical climb.  The two of us soared straight up into the wild blue yonder with all of our friends cheering us on down below.  I was pacing myself, y'know, expecting to show off my sweet moves of acceleration at the last second, just to spite him.  Then, all of the sudden, he fell down past me like a heavy bag of cinderblocks.  Did I laugh at his dumb flank?  Well... snkkt—Yeah.  Hehehehe.  A little.  But I saved him too.  Yup.  I stopped what I was doing, rocketed down at blinding speeds—which was pretty incredible considering how heavily he was falling—and I grabbed him with strong hooves and swooped him up—WOOSH—just seconds before he could become a pegasus pancake against a platform of Cloudsdalian sky marble!”

        “What happened?”  Scootaloo blinked, gazing up at this pegasus stranger with bright violet eyes.  “Did he pass out or something?”

        “Snkkkt—Heheheheheheh...”

        The filly raised a perplexed eyebrow.

        “I told you that he drank four whole bottles of sarsparilla before the challenge, right?”

        “Er.... yeahhhhh?”

        “Well, about halfway through the climb, we reached freezing altitudes, and he got scared—I mean really scared.  And, well... Heheheheh...”  Rainbow Dash hugged herself and spun in mid-air.  After a chuckling spell, she exhaled and glided down to ground level.  “Ohhhhhh—Whew!  Well, by the time he thawed in the Flight Camp infirmary, the entire cloudbed smelled like a buffet table full of asparagus.  Hahahaha—Poor Dumb-Bell couldn't use the little colts' room for a week without it stinging.  Goes to show he could eat his words, but he sure as heck couldn't drink 'em.  Heheheh..”

        “So, wait...”  Scootaloo, unenthused, made a disgusted face.  “Wasn’t it you who talked him into downing all of those bottles of sars... sarass... saspaaaaa—”

        “Sounds stupid when you say it out loud, doesn't it?”

        “You cheated!”  Scootaloo squeaked.  “You knew that if you egged him on, he'd drink all of that stuff and do something stupid so that he'd lose and you would win!”

        “Hey!  I didn't cheat!”  Rainbow Dash touched down and trotted briskly beside her.  “I improvised!”

        “What's the difference?”

        “The difference is, cheating is breaking the rules.  Improvising is taking advantage of them.”

        “You mean 'bending them.'”

        “No, I mean to say that Dumb-Bell knew all about what we were going to do that day and still he decided to do a stupid thing.”  Rainbow smirked down at the orange filly.  “Whether or not I had a hoof in his stupid decision-making doesn't matter.  He should have had the gumption to know what was a bad idea when it was given to him, as well as the self-respect to not handicap himself when his own ego was on the line.”

        “I still think you cheated.”

        “Heheheheh—Look, kid.  It's all simple.  Can you fly yet?”

        Scootaloo frowned.  “What does that have to do with—?”

        “Can ya fly yet?  Yes, or no?”

        “What does it look like?”  The filly twitched her wings as she scooted along the road on the metal tray.

        “What it looks like to me...”  Rainbow Dash grinned wickedly, nodding with her prismatic head in mid-trot at the little foal's instrumentation.  “...is that nature is telling you that you can't move around quickly, and yet you've given nature the brush-off.  So maybe you’re too young to fly.  You’re smart enough to have found a way to move faster than you can, and that’s pretty cool.  Don’t you get it?  Just because the impossible seems impossible doesn't mean you gotta settle for less than half-awesome.  There are a million stinkin' Dumb-Bells in this world.  The earth is filled with boring ponies who make stupid decisions because they settle for lame and dull when they could really be radical.  Those are the kind of ponies who make themselves lose, whether they know it or not.  Ever since that day when he froze himself with his own... erm... lemonade—heheheh—Dumb-Bell got better scores and eventually graduated in the top percent of his class!”

        “Are you trying to say that you helped him?”

        “Nah, pipsqueak.  Dumb-Bell helped himself.  Sometimes you gotta do really stupid things to become really smart.  Those are the bumps and bruises of living and crap.  Still, I owe him one.”

        Scootaloo did a double-take.  “What do you mean you owe him one?”

        “Flying into the stratosphere is a huge no-no for pegasi at that age.”  Rainbow Dash smirked slyly.  “If Dumb-Bell hadn't had his embarrassing moment, the two of us could have flown so high we would have frozen to death.  You see, I've been known to do stupid things too.  As a matter of fact, I make a friggin' career out of it.”
        
        “But why?  Why do it and then admit to doing it?”

        “Because the impossible won't make itself happen on its own, now will it?”  Rainbow Dash hovered again, gasping with a wave of sudden excitement as her eyes locked onto something directly ahead.  “Hey!  Lookit!  We're here!”

        Scootaloo skidded to a stop on her metal tray and squinted at a sign that stood before a dazzling array of apple orchards stretching as far as her eyes could see.  “Uhhh... Just what kind of a fruity name is 'Sweet Apple Acres?'”

        “Only the most delicious kind.  And, hey, don't squawk at me.  I didn't name it.  That was all strawhead's doing.”

        “'Strawhead?'”

        “Shhh—You ready to be Rainbow's little helper?”

        “Exactly what do you need help with?”

        “What is this, preparation for a yearly physical?  Kid, stop acting like a scaredy-cat.  It's simple.  Look for a blonde, blonde, blonde mare in an ugly brown hat and ask her about her apples.  Be cute, be innocent, be curious—and I'll do all the rest.”

        “Why do I feel like this is some sort of trap?”

        “Don't even pretend like you're that smart yet.”  Rainbow Dash soared high up into the air, squinting towards a large structure in the distance.  “Ah!  There she is!  Hehehehe—Ahem.  Just walk up the road and head towards the big red thing—”

        “You mean the barn, Einstallion?”

        “Shut up!  Anyways, I won't be far behind.”

        “Hey, uhm...”  Scootaloo nervously fidgeted atop her metal platform.  “Rainbow Deutsch?”

        “'Dash', ya little pipsqueak!  'Dash!'  Do I sound like I'm from Fillydelphia?”

        “What did you do with the lunch money?”

        “Whozzitwhat?”

        “When you... er... improvised to win against Dumb-Bell in the stratosphere challenge.  You said that the winner got lunch money, right?”

        “What's it matter?”

        “I just...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “I'm just curious what other pegasi do with what they've earned...”

        “Pfft—I have cooler ways of grabbing bites to eat.”  Rainbow flung a bored hoof through the air as she hovered and smirked.  “I gave the money to some silly little filly who could barely fly and whose mom wasn't giving the light of day—she still doesn't, come to think of it.”

        “You... gave it away to some random filly?”

        “Ehhh, we got to know each other better since.  She's not so random anymore.  Plus, on the day that I earned my cutie mark, I nearly threw her to a horrible, screaming death!  It was cool!”  Rainbow soared off in a spectral blur.  “Okay, kiddo!  Just as we planned!”

        “Planned?!  But we've hardly planned anything—Ughh!”  Scootaloo tossed her pink mane and frowned, scooting ahead towards the distant farm engulfed in a sea of apple trees.  “Mom and Dad should have named me 'Dumb-Bell;' I'm doing gruntwork for a talking rainbow.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The orange mare was most definitely blonde.  Trotting with weighted hooves, she hoisted a basket brimming with fresh fruit over her flank and onto the back of a wooden wagon parked inside a red barn.  The farmfilly was humming a pleasant tune to herself, engulfed in an enthusiasm that made her ritualistic chore appear more like a jubilant hobby.  As soon as she spun about from her latest task, she stumbled upon a tiny orange filly standing in front of her.  Instead of showing shock, surprise, or anger like so many a Ponyvillean local that refused the child some work, she merely smiled with a brightening of her gorgeous green eyes.

        “Well, howdy there, lil’ missy!  What brings a foal yer age ‘round these here parts?”  The mare adjusted the brim of her hat.  An absurdly long ponytail dangled over her neck as she stepped over and squatted so that her face was even with the child's.  “Do yer parents know where you’re at?”

        “I... uhm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  She bit her lip as she gazed past the pony and locked her eyes on the mountains upon mountains of apples succulently stacked in the back of the wooden wagon.  She shivered, afraid that her growling stomach would announce itself to the fresh air above the aromatic orchards surrounding her.  “My parents... uhm... they... they're...”

        “Speak up.  I won't bite.”  The freckle-faced mare gave a sisterly smile.  “Ya reckon that yer lost, sugarcube?”

        “L-Lost?”  Scootaloo's violets finally jerked away from the apples, suddenly swimming in a fountain of golden mane hair instead.  “Strawhead...” she absent-mindedly murmured.

        “'Strawhead?'”  The mare spat out an invisible haystalk and chuckled helplessly.  “Just who've you been talkin' to around town?  I haven't heard that since I was about yer age!”

        “I... Uhm...”  Scootaloo gulped and smiled awkwardly.  “I was just... uhm... stopping by to... uh...”  She shook her snout, envisioned a blurred band of rainbow colors, and refocused her sight on the farm filly standing in front of her.  “My parents sent me to ask you about apples.”  Scootaloo bravely improvised.

        “Well, shucks...”  Applejack stood up straight, emerald eyes blinking.  “That's openin' a mighty huge well of discourse, if I do say so myself.  Just what are you hankerin' to know about 'em?”

        “Uhmm...”  Scootaloo winced her way around the edge of a glinting smile.  “E-Everything...?”

        “Heheheh... Well, it's one thang to be chattin' it up about apples in general.  I reckon yer folks must be new tradeponies in town if they're sendin' their young'n to ask about the local market.  It t'ain't all that underhoofed, come to think about it.  Why, I remember my pa sendin' me to get a gander of the Carrot family's crops when I was barely old enough to drink from a trough!  I guess the best way to take advantage of bein' a family of harvesters is to use the family for everythang.  Ha!  Why, I remember this one Hearth's Warmin' Eve dinner when Ol’ Granny Smith invited all of the local Ponyville farmers.  She was merely carryin' on the Apple family tradition of gettin' harvest counts from the local gossip.  The way I see it, you can't be connivin' so long as you're supportin' each other in the end.  Why, without the Carrot family's bounty these last few seasons, we'd be...”

        Scootaloo nodded and nodded, her head spinning from the explosive monologue that she had unwittingly sparked.  She was only vaguely aware of a blue shadow hovering overhead.

        “...not to mention that one blasted winter when our apples nearly froze to kingdom come and Carrot Top herself came to lend us a hoof with salvagin' the orchards.  Of course, she nearly left in a huff when I said that apple pies could beat carrot cake at any bakery competition.  She said that apples were as boring and old as the Third Age itself.  Can you imagine the nerve of that filly?!  Apples are as delicious and as important now to the Equestrian palette as they were in the Second Age!  Why, every Nightmare Night, I sell at least one hundred bushels of the things!  And don't get me started on the upcoming Summer Sun Celebration a week from now!  I swear, the only reason Princess Celestia is coming to this here town is because the apples will be the freshest in Ponyville!  And who does she have to thank for that?  It sure as oats ain't the Carrot Family!  Nuh-uh!  I'd love to see Carrot Top try to bake some carrot cake to top our golden delicious apple strudle, apple fritter, caramel apple delight...”

        Scootaloo was gnawing on her lip at this point.  Her hooves backtrotted slightly against the metal tray.  She struggled to find a moment in the mare's mountain of speech when she could swiftly and politely interject an excuse to glide away, when suddenly the blue shadow above morphed into a blue pegasus.  She twitched, her eyes widening.

        Rainbow Dash was hovering in a stealthy manner, her flapping wings slicing the air with such grace that she barely made a sound above the chattering blonde.  She cast a devilish glance towards Scootaloo and raised a hoof to her mouth, her lips producing a mute and emphatic “Shhhh!”  With expert hooves, she reached down and grasped onto the opposite brims of the farm filly's brown hat.

        “...Don't forget fried apple dumplings.  Now, I know that it's an acquired taste amongst most ponies, especially those from the city.  But it's a mouth-melting reward in the long run.  You ever been to Manehattan?”

        “S-Sure.”  Scootaloo grinned plastically.

        “I have an aunt and uncle who live in Manehattan.  One summer I invited them all the way over from the city and tried to get them to understand the rich stock that can be taken in apple farmin'.  You know what they did?!  They spent the whole dang week here complainin' about havin' to use an outhouse within range of hearin' the livestock.  Can you imagine the nerve of them folks?”

        Scootaloo watched with a nervous twitch as Rainbow Dash licked her lips and expertly lifted the hat off the clueless pony's mane.  Smiling victoriously, the blue pegasus stifled a giggle and soared off in a blue blur towards a muddy part of the orchards.

        “...As a matter of fact, keepin' pigs around is important to apple farmin'!  My Ma used to say that if the swine won't take a bite of the fruit harvest, then ya might as well be tossin' them apples into a trash barrel because somethin' is wrong with that year's bounty!  Heheheh—My Ma may have been raised to respect oranges, but Pa won her over to the apple buckin' business somethin' fierce!  Why, she learned to kick the fruit off of trees so quickly that ponies around here started callin' her 'Apple Blossom' instead of her real name 'Orange Blossom,’ which I suppose is what got my folks to namin' my baby sister the way they did and all...”

        The orange foal suddenly gasped as Rainbow Dash hovered back.  She covered her lips with a hoof, spasming frightfully upon the sight, for the prismatic pegasus had gathered fearlessly in her hoof no less than five living grass snakes.  The squirming reptiles hissed and twirled in ungainly, scaled ropes around the adult's limb as she breathily snickered, then dropped all five into a writhing pile inside the brown hat.  Biting her lip to contain her giggles, the blue pony hovered down and softly planted the bulging article back onto the farm filly's blonde mane.

        “...which is a funny thing because Apple Bloom's got Pa's hair.  It's her eyes that look so much like Ma's.”

        “Uhhh... Uhhh... Uhhh...” Scootaloo helplessly uttered, her hoof pointing shakily upwards.

        The blonde pony snapped out of it, grinning curiously.  “What's the matter, missy?  You look as though you've seen a snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!”  The mare's green eyes bulged as she flung her hat off and hopped up and down in one place, shaking the leathery things off her with high-pitched shrieks that betrayed the normally strong twang in her voice.

        “Snkkkt-Hahahahahaha!”  Rainbow Dash finally exploded from overhead, lying on a jutting crossbeam of the barn while hugging herself.  “Ohhhhhh—What's the matter, Applejack?!  I thought you were good at spotting worms in your fruit!  Whew!  Look at them suckers wriggle!  Ah ha ha ha!”

        “Nnngh!”  Applejack flung the last of the writhing reptiles onto the ground and stomped her hooves in an impromptu square-dance, frightening the creatures away.  “Rrgghhh!”  She fumed, her freckled face turning red as she flung the empty article over her steaming skull.  “Rainbow.”  She launched a furious snarl towards the top of the barn.  “Of all the gul-dern, insensitive, outright wicked shenanigans—”

        “Whew!  Listen to you go!”  Rainbow Dash hiccuped a lasting chuckle or two, wiping a joyful tear from the edge of her eyes.  “I expected to scare the snot out of you!  Not a year's worth of Apple Family vocabulary lessons!”

        “Did you rope her into this?!”  Applejack pointed a vicious hoof at Scootaloo, before finally staring at Scootaloo herself.  “Did she rope you into this?!”

        “I... I... I...”  Scootaloo shivered all over.  This was not the first impression she was wanting to make in Ponyville, even if Ponyville had dealt her far less joyous cards thus far.

        “You're one to talk about rope, AJ!”  Rainbow Dash smiled wickedly.  “Especially since you're in the habit of tying up more than a hog or two!”

        Applejack did a double-take, her emerald eyes shrinking into twitching pinpricks.  “Is this whole thang about the chariot wrangle joke last week?!  That was Pinkie's idea!”

        “Yeah, but you helped!”  Rainbow Dash stuck out her tongue.  “Tying me up to a royal chariot in the middle of my sleep?  That wasn't nearly creative enough to be anything but lame!  Sure, I give credit to Pinkie!  She had to use a friggin' trampoline to get to my napping cloud.  But you?  You gotta learn to only write checks that your sorry flank can catch, strawhead!”

        “Why you cloud-sniffin' smartaleck!”  Applejack snarled, waving an angry hoof.  “If y'all think for just one second that this makes us even—”

        “Uhhh... I think you missed one, AJ.”  Rainbow Dash snickered and pointed.

        “Huh?”  Applejack turned around to see a wriggling reptile stuck in her tail hairs.  “Oh land's sakes!”  She spun in cyclonic circles, attempting to fling the thing loose.

        “Hey everypony!”  Rainbow Dash shouted towards the farm air.  “It's Snakes on a Flank!  Starring Ponyville's favorite cowfilly, in that she's Ponyville's only frickin' cowfilly!”

        “Nnngh!”  Applejack flung the offending reptile out of her tail, caught it in midair, and tossed it Rainbow Dash's way.  “Get outta here before I toss ya outta my orchards in pieces, you blue spitwad!”

        “Whoah!”  Rainbow Dash ducked the tossed reptile.  “Yeesh, what would Fluttershy think of you!”  She soared down and clutched Scootaloo by her shoulders.  “Time to skate, kiddo.  Applejack's about to plow the orchards with our skulls!”

        “I'm so sorry!”  The orphan pleaded in the blonde's direction.  “I didn't mean to—!”

        “Don't make this lamer than it already is!”  Rainbow Dash blazed skyward with the shrieking filly in her grasp, navigating a cloud of her own giggles.

        “Come back here, ya varmint!”  Applejack predictably squawked.  “I ain't done yellin' at y'all!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Wooooohooo-Yeah!”  Rainbow Dash touched down immediately after flying over a wooden fence.  “Now that's how you spend an afternoon!”  She stood at an angle, blinking, realizing that she had a bizarre weight hanging off her side.  She glanced down to see a shivering orange foal clutching her right front limb, her eyes clenched shut.  “Ahem.  We're on the ground again, ya lil’ squirt.”

        Scootaloo gasped, her eyes twitching open.  She trembled with every centimeter she had to move in disentangling herself from Rainbow's limb.  “That was the first time... th-the first t-time that I was in the air...”  The tiny pegasus was beside herself with hyperventilation.

        “It's gonna be the first time you get skewered by a pitchfork if you don't stand behind me.”

        “I don't get it!”  Scootaloo took a hint and scurried on the far side of the pegasus' blue flank.  “Why'd we stop here?!”

        “Because this is outside of Applejack's property!  On this side of the fence, it's finder's keepers!”

        “What's that supposed to mean?  Shouldn't we get more distance from—?!”

        At that very moment, a galloping mare's voice angrily barked, “Hey!  I can see you!  Come back here, RD!  We've got a score to settle!”

        “You couldn't catch me if you tried, ya trotting farm plow!”  Rainbow Dash joyously raspberried and made a series of juvenile faces over the edge of the wooden fence.  “Say, nice singing voice you've got!  If I'd known snakes could make you shriek so high, I would have brought bottles of champagne for you to shatter open for me!”

        “Why you—!”  The distant orange splotch of Applejack bucked the nearest tree to her, grabbed a hoof-full of apples, and flung them murderously in the pegasi’s direction.

        “I don't get it!”  Scootaloo stammered.  “What's happening?”

        “Predictability, that's what.”  Rainbow Dash smirked and squatted down on her haunches.  “Aaaaaaaaaaand—”  She leapt up high above a gasping Scootaloo, flung her wings out, and grabbed four whole apples in her feathery appendages.  “—she makes the catch!  Ha ha!”  She landed in a reverse-slide through the dirt, juggling her victorious bounty.  “Finder's keepers!  Hehehe—See?  I told you that I have cool ways of grabbing bites to eat!”

        Scootaloo gazed up at her, and suddenly her trembles disappeared.  Just then, a smile started to form—

        Her world jolted as a tossed apple exploded across the side of her face.

        “Unngh!”

        “Whoops!  Go time!”  Rainbow Dash clasped the apples under her wings, grabbed Scootaloo by the hoof, and dragged her down the woods bordering the farm.  “Thanks for the snack, strawhead!  We're off to make several gallons of apple juice!  With friends like you, who needs enemas?!  HA!  Get it?!”

        “Y'all come back here!  This isn't over!”

        “You'll get me back!  I'll be waiting for you!  Snkkt-Hehehehe!”  Rainbow Dash broke into a gallop, forcing Scootaloo to glide after her on a rattling tray.

        The tiny filly shook the apple mush off her face.  She could hardly breathe, hardly protest, hardly speak.  She merely clung to Rainbow Dash for dear life, not wanting to let go.





        The bone-white spokes of a pair of pegasus wings glistened in a halo of twilight, but were quickly covered with ivory stone shards.  Laying the last few chunks of sky marble into place, a nine year old Scootaloo finished burying the remains of Rainbow Dash.  Exhaling several heavy breaths, she slumped down to her haunches before the mound of boulders she had spent the entire day hauling to that cliff-face within the inner ruins of Cloudsdale.

        The filly's violet eyes were thin, contemplative.  With each passing second that she spent gazing at the mound of stones, her irises jaded one tiny sliver at a time, spiraling outward from the deep abyss of her pupils, as if giving birth to a scarlet malaise that would become the new windows to a weathered soul.  She scraped a pair of hooves against the granite floor lit by the halo of twilight.  Scootaloo felt as if there was something wrong with her limbs, as if they weren't supposed to feel so empty.

        A shiver ran through her tiny body.  The little pegasus knew that it wasn't because of the cold.  Every time her violet orbs swam over the rocky edges of the grave, her heart sank deeper and deeper into a frigid abyss.  Somehow, the grave didn't seem anywhere near fitting.  It was hardly a memorial fit for Rainbow Dash.  The mare deserved something unearthly, something grand, a mausoleum built inside a comet or a burning castle in the sky.  If Scootaloo could live out a million lives just to carve an effigy out of the tallest mountain of the world using her bare hooves, she would, if only it'd mean that she had truly, lovingly, epically honored the soul whose shell was now decaying before her, piled underneath a mound of pathetic and unpolished stones.

        The last pony shuddered under the weight of her own breaths.  She needed to move on.  She needed to search for resources, for shelter, for supplies.  She needed to find a way out of that insufferable pit that she had fallen so foolishly into, only to discover the death of her dreams.  Every time she contemplated acting upon her necessities, her hooves felt heavier and heavier, gluing her to that spot, freezing her upon the threshold of Rainbow Dash's ashes.  All that was left of the prismatic pegasus was a brittle pile of bones and ashes, and yet Scootaloo would rather suffocate herself than wrench the grave that held it from her sight.  There was nothing left of Rainbow Dash's essence—of Rainbow's soul inside that crumpled mess—but it was the closest Scootaloo had to her, the closest she would ever have.

        Perhaps, then, it was fate that made her gaze down upon a lasting sigh, only to spot four bright blue shades against the twilight-glistening slab of granite.  Among the ashes that had shaken loose during Rainbow Dash's burial, a random flock of feathers had fluttered free.  While every other part of Dash's body had dissolved into the same powdery mess that the Cataclysm had reduced the whole of Ponydom to, the adult pegasus' feathers—those of which hadn't flown off into the gaping chasm beyond the cliff-face—had remained intact.  Their soft strands still sang with pristine, sapphiric color.  The stalks were strong and they could still catch air, as they had been grown to do.

        Scootaloo very slowly, very gently scooped these four feathers up in her hooves.  She clutched them to her chest, enthralled and embittered all the same to feel their softness, and—however impossibly—a magical state of warmth.  She shuddered, clenching her eyes tightly shut to hold the tears in.  No matter how deeply she flung herself into the darkness of her mind, she saw Rainbow Dash’s face, she saw Rainbow’s gaze, and she saw a coat that shone with the color of a blue sky, a sky that was now as mythological to the dead world as smiles and laughter.

        When her eyes reopened, all was desolation.  All was gray and lifeless.  All was real.  The last pony acquainted herself with it, one painful breath at a time.  Her eyes dried as did her resolve, pulling herself up on weak limbs as she stuck the feathers behind her ears—two on either side of her shaved mane—and marched off into the crumbling caverns beyond, wrenching her sight from Rainbow Dash's grave as she slowly embraced a life of broken and colorless dreams.




        
        The tiny equine figure shuffled up gigantic, subterranean mounds of crumbled sky marble.  Her hoofsteps made tiny, scraping sounds against the ambiance of distant waterfalls and the echoing groans of settling Cloudsdalian structures.  She was no longer shouting, no longer wailing, no longer calling out for other pegasi souls to answer her.  What was dead was dead; what was pointless was pointless.  Her breaths were solid and regimental things, merely pulling her over the next hill of rubble and the hill after that, diligently searching for salvageable buildings to scavenge from.





        Scootaloo found one such building, a lopsided post office that had fallen sideways into the grand abyss of the inner ruins, but had somehow remained intact.  A waterfall from melted sky marble above was relentlessly drenching the middle of the split structure, horribly soaking several mounds of parchment that now floated in a blighted pond of bobbing office tools.  Scootaloo waded over the surface of the liquid, keeping her head above water.  It wasn't so important that her shaved mane remain dry as it was to protect the four blue feathers tucked behind her ears.

        With patience and perseverance, the flightless pegasus paddled her way towards a dry platform of wood and ivory, atop which several splintery cabinets of post office materials were lying.  She rummaged through the drawers, pulling out every dry and tangible object she could find.  Upon discovering a mailpony's delivery bag, she let loose a victorious breath and fastened it to her flank.  It was made for an adult pony, and the canvas lengths of the material utterly dwarfed her.  Scootaloo reasoned that she could make adjustments later.  For the time being, she filled the pockets of the saddlebag with as many tiny nick-nacks and miscellaneous objects as she could find.





        Hours later, Scootaloo stumbled upon the imploded ruins of the Cloudsdalian Defense Ministry.  She knew what it was because the structure was filled to the brim with dead pegasi, and almost all of them were encapsulated with the heavy armor of royal guardponies.  The shells of golden armor were like giant eggshells, in the center of which were flimsy skeletons frozen in agonized death throes.  The bones had been seared to ash; the great fires of the Cataclysm had spared nopony.

        Scootaloo could care less.  There was only one corpse in all of Equestria that deserved exaltation, and she had turned her back to her several hours ago.  The last pony marched ahead, dragging her loose saddlebag from the post office, which was already filled to the brim with chunks of random tools and supplies.  The weight of what she carried was becoming unbearable. That didn't stop her from fishing through the armories of the Defense Ministry with desperation.  This place was a treasure trove of metal shields, polearms, helmets and several other samples of Cloudsdalian military craftwork.  Scootaloo eagerly snatched anything that she could.  The only resource she couldn't pretend to hold sway over was time.





        Marching up a steep mound of ivory debris, Scootaloo heard a haunting, shrill sound.  She dropped a trio of clattering spears from her gasping mouth.  They rolled uselessly down the steep incline she was ascending—at least until she stopped them with a firm rear hoof next to her dragging saddlebag.  Shivering, the lone pegasus glanced forlornly back past her flank.  The chilling wind of the Wasteland surged briefly down to flutter at her ear-tucked blue feathers.

        A wide, spacious vista opened up before her, exposing the grandiose inner ruins of Cloudsdale, stretching for hundreds of meters beneath the gaping mouth of the gigantic pit that had trapped her.  Rows upon rows of roaring waterfalls lined the cylindrical wound in the ashen earth.  The snowy sky above the mouth of the abyss had turned grayer than Scootaloo remembered.  The burning crimson of the horizon had died off, so that she speculated that the falling moonrocks had lessened in frequency at some point since she first fell into that subterranean nightmare.

        All of these visuals were the least of Scootaloo's interests.  She bit her lip and craned her neck aside, tilting a good ear towards the wide, cavernous expanse stretching before her.  All she heard was the gentle roar of perpetually trickling water and the occasional crunching noise of settling granite and marble.

        However, the pegasus knew that she had heard a whooping noise.  She knew it.  And with that noise there came a vision—cold and heartless before the twitching contemplation of her mind's eye—fitted with pale leathery skin that lurched after her, trampled after her, hungered after her with clawstreaks and growls.

        Her teeth began chattering as she rediscovered her fear.  She still couldn't remember what her foalday was, but she was suddenly sure she wouldn't live to see her next one, whenever it was.  Glancing towards the top of her climb, she clamped her mouth once more over the spears and scampered towards the crest of the hill of rubble, making straight for a black hovel of hollow debris that she had suddenly spotted at the top.




        The little niche of rock and ivory granite was pathetically small.  It felt more like a closet than a cave.  Nevertheless, Scootaloo scrunched her tiny, shivering body into the furthest corner of the craggy chamber.  She laid the Cloudsdalian spears before her—two against the walls and one on the floor—and all of them with their pointed edges aimed at the mouth of the crevice.  She had no room to produce a makeshift bed, even if she had the materials to do so.  Scootaloo settled for emptying the saddlebag of all its numerous, seemingly useless nick-nacks and stretched the canvas material along a slab of granite.  Against this, she rested her quivering body.

        Her teeth had never stopped clattering.  Of all the random junk Scootaloo had acquired, none of it was flammable enough to make a fire with, even if she possessed the lunacy to attempt igniting something within such a claustrophobic space.

        She was cold, yes, but that wasn't nearly as awful as how hungry she was.  The pegasus was lucky to have found a few crumpled structures that could offer both weapons and tools.  Still, she would give away all of her scavenged things—saddlebag included—if she could somehow trade them for a single jar of wheat... or even a shattered wooden box of hay.

        There was always the next day; Scootaloo tried to convince herself that.  However, with each passing hour spent in that lonely hovel, struggling for sleep, suffering from the endless groans of the crumbling ruins around her, she realized that—sooner than later—she would no longer have the luxury of anticipating the “next day.”  Scootaloo wasn't sure what would give out on her first: her stomach, her muscles, or her nerves.  One way or another, the Wasteland was going to consume her.  It was only a matter of time.

        She had to keep trying.  She wasn't sure what the point anymore.  She wasn't sure if she had any logical reason to keep struggling.  Still, as she laid there, cradling the blue feathers in her grasp, stroking the fine sapphiric threads before her bloodshot eyes, she felt pulse after pulse of bizarre energy bolting through her, burning something deep inside of the last pony that no campfire or digested bit of food could illuminate with as much strength or heat.

        Scootaloo stared into the microscopic spaces between the dancing blue threads under her hoof.  She couldn't put a name on what she saw, nor did she need to.  She closed her eyes...





        ...and was serenaded by Octavia's strings.  The last pony's eyes reopened, gazing deeply upon the blue feather cradled in her brown hooves.  The tiny fibers bent and fluttered under her touch.  Flaring her nostrils, she tilted her gaze up across the wall of the Harmony stretching just above the workbench.  The Royal Grand Biv outfit, the golden lyre, the piece of Stalliongrad, and the many numerous novelty fossils of the scavenger's pilfering hung before her in a suddenly worthless array.  None of these miraculously preserved memories shone with the same glory as the tiny, downy strand in her gentle grasp.

        There was one exception:  Suntrot's golden illustration hung in the center of the memorable mosaic.  The filly's crayon streaks were jagged and juvenile, but they held more worth and sanctity than all of Princess Celestia's journal pages combined.  Scootaloo bit her lip as she gazed deeply at the humble masterpiece.  She wondered—in yet another round of somber breaths—if Rainbow Dash had ever kept a memento of hers before the Cataclysm took everything away.

        Just then, an alarm buzzed.  Raising an eyebrow, Scootaloo swiveled in her seat and stared over her shoulder.  A tiny light was sparkling across the leftmost side of the Harmony's dashboard before the cockpit.

        In swift order, Scootaloo placed the blue feather down into the tiny white container along with its two siblings.  She slapped the box shut and moved it to a safe part of the workbench next to an elongated jar of glowing green flame before she galloped across the lantern-lit gondola.  Sliding into the cockpit seat, the last pony slid her copper goggles down and switched the dashboard from autopilot to manual.  The alarm subsided, having fully warned the dirigible owner of rising levels of electromagnetic current in the vicinity.  That only meant one thing: Scootaloo was swiftly approaching a large structure that harnessed electrical energy.  From the rising temperature gauge measuring the outside of the aircraft, she judged that there was a huge buildup of steam as well.

        This became apparent as she descended through a natural cloudbank, only to be engulfed in a  wickedly synthetic cloud of black smog.  The windows were briefly covered in soot.  Cursing herself for her own carelessness, Scootaloo flicked her hoof across a switch.  Quadruple jets of hot, pressurized water sprayed over the sloping dashboard of the gondola's exterior, clearing the view for the pilot to see beyond the bow.

        What loomed before the scavenger's sight was a gigantic valley of watery lake beds and barren rock, pock-marked in innumerable places with deep pits and dipping valleys.  This were once the spacious and emerald green fields of the Equestrian Northern Plains.  She could still remember the bright, sunlit vistas that had stretched before her, full of rivers and ponds that had glittered in the afternoon glow.  Every grassy knoll had been flanked by luscious fruit trees and sporadic beds of clover.  Above all of that—casting a prismatic glow across the rolling landscape—had been the enormous and awe-inspiring sight of Cloudsdale, floating angelically high in the troposphere, a junction for all life and all purveyors of life.

        Now, the sky was filled with a black smog formed by dozens upon dozens of steam fountains jetting high into the air, coalescing with all of their combined pollutants to form an opaque ceiling that blocked out any hint of twilight, so that the once-sunny valley was now a sunken and saturated landscape shrouded in endless, pitch-black night.  This section of the Wasteland would have been utterly blinding, absolutely devoid of luminance, if it weren't for one enormous structure that was ironically responsible for the blackening to begin with.  In the middle of a jet black cloud of desolation, Petra stretched skyward like a great golden flower, and it lit up the dead world as though it was the last breath of fire to ever linger in a cold and infinite abyss.  At the same time, it was the author of its own foggy veil, for its spokes upon spokes of smoke stacks endlessly billowed steam and smog into the atmosphere above the golden super-structure, filling the air of the Wasteland—and even the cramped interior of the Harmony itself—with a constant, high-pitched whistle.

        Petra was only incidentally deserving of the right to be called a “city.”  Scootaloo had heard many Wastelanders speak of Petra.  She had read in Equestrian history books about ancient goblin cities that in some ways resembled Petra.  Nearly five years ago, entirely by accident, the last pony almost flew the Harmony straight into the heights of Petra.  Soaring towards it now, even at a slow speed, with the full intent of making a landing, the last pony realized that she had only ever underestimated its majesty.

        Even from several kilometers away, the body of Petra was enormous.  The goblin construct wasn't a metropolis made up of multiple buildings so much as it was one giant building divided into smaller, far more complicated parts.  What surprised her the most was just how organic and accidental the entire engineering marvel was.  There was a beautiful ugliness to it, an asymmetrical assortment of large, circular, horizontal platforms built along the body of a winding cylindrical stalk that jaggedly spiraled its way skyward.

        The central stem of Petra flickered from within, billowing red plumes of flame every few hundred meters up the gigantic trunk of iron and steel as it wove its haphazard way towards the veiled cosmos above.  Scootaloo judged that most of the factories and foundries of Goblin industry were housed up and down the vertical beam's infernal interior.  At the very base of the stem—where the immense cylinder strut met the lifeless and sterile rock of the earth—thousands upon thousands of perpetually self-consuming oil fires vomited smoke across the Wasteland’s surface, marking where the refuse of the goblin metropolis' population fell to the bosom of the world and continuously burned.

        Then, there were the platforms.  For their amazingly spacious grandeur, it was a time-consuming procedure to actually count them.  When she had flown by the sight of Petra five years ago, she could have sworn she had counted no more than twentyplatforms.  Now, if Scootaloo had to guess, there had to have been over thirty, and it boggled her mind t hat creatures of any size—much less goblins—could have erected even a fraction of that many structures in such a small span of time.

        The discs were huge, at least three hundred meters across and almost just as wide, and all of them brimmed with buildings, alleyways, balconies, courtyards, upper levels, lower levels, support struts, extensions, and electrical generators.  Scootaloo remembered the gigantic moonrock that housed Ponymonium, beneath which she had scavenged what remained of Pinkie Pie's skeleton.  It suddenly occurred to her to imagine each of these discs as an equivalent to a one hundred meter tall cut-out of such an epically large structure, and yet the goblins had built dozens of them—all out of iron and steel, reinforced with copper and brass—and they jutted out in a spiraling formation along the jagged stem of the city's central core, so that Petra resembled a giant, dead tree clustered from top to bottom with glowing leaves.

        This ridiculous feat of tumorous engineering stretched no less than two kilometers into the sky, making its peak higher than any other point in Equestra, save for the abandoned heights of Griffon Mount.  The only thing keeping Petra from piercing the clouds was the simple fact that the only clouds around that portion of the Wasteland consisted of the smoggy miasma that the city had produced with its numerous smoke stacks and steam jets billowing black soot forever into the sky.  The structure was ablaze—burning like a Hearth's Warming Tree in the center of a great, ghastly nothingness—with every single one of its horizontal platforms shimmering with white electricity and golden lanternlight across the blackened expanse.

        Swarming about the plethora of gigantic discs was a thin, luminescent swarm of dozens upon dozens of industrial and merchant airships hovering from one vertical destination to another between the city's “branches”.  Beneath the glowing stalk of a city—at ground level—the Wasteland was also alive with lights and stirring commotion.  As majestic as Petra was, it was merely an offshoot of an endless industrial project transpiring several kilometers to the west of it.  Immense concrete platforms stretched between the goblin city and a spacious mining operation.  Across these platforms, monorail trains ran on steam, delivering hundreds upon thousands of kilograms of white matter:  sky marble.

        Scootaloo tilted her gaze and glanced towards the west.  It was then that she saw what she had truly flown there for:  it wasn't Petra, it was Cloudsdale... or at least what was left of Cloudsdale.

        When the pegasus city in the sky collapsed from the wake of the Cataclysm, the resulting impact had smashed a gigantic hole into the face of the world.  Scootaloo, of course, knew this very well.  What she hadn't witnessed—but had only heard about in passing—was that for the twenty-five years that transpired after the Cataclysm, the goblins had been salvaging the sky marble of Cloudsdale from the ruins... and to this very day they hadn't stopped.

        It would appear that a quarter of a century was not enough time to pilfer the entire grave of Cloudsdale of all it had to offer the imps of the Wasteland.  Even from a distance, the pilot of the Harmony could make out droves upon droves of tiny half-ling shapes, clambering over the sunken wreckage like ants, hoisting what remained of the ivory buildings onto cranes and carts.  The salvaged materials were then loaded onto trains, equipped with steam engines that dragged the cargo all the way to the factories of Petra's inner stem.  There, Scootaloo imagined, the goblins had engineered a way to break down the structure of sky marble into its lesser components.  From this, they were able to extract compressed steam and sell it to the various, needy factions of the Wasteland.  The end result was the imps being paid ungodly amounts of silver strips which made the perpetual construction of Petra possible.

        Scootaloo felt a weight encompassing her heart.  It wasn't so much that the pegasus' soul was affected by the sight of Cloudsdale being reduced to a mere steam reserve.  Rather, Scootaloo realized that she was bound to be a complete and total alien to this place.  Petra was immense, grand, and rightfully intimidating.  The city was also young—about eight years younger than her—and Scootaloo knew a thing or two about being surrounded by hot-headed children of the Wasteland equipped with even a smidgen of power.  If the last pony had a hard enough time being accepted in places like the M.O.D.D., she was bound to be absolutely crucified here.

        Gently, she flew the body of the Harmony high above the grand pits of Cloudsdale.  The ruins burned in a dozen dark places with torchlight as thousands of goblin workers milled about, hammering and blasting away at the rock to uncover more and more pockets of pure sky marble.  A lump formed in the mare's throat as she adjusted her goggles and peered into the depths of the place for a sign—any familiar landmark—that her young and tortured memories could have pointed out to her aged self.

        With so many parts of Cloudsdale being penetrated, pilfered, and pulled apart before her goggled eyes, the last pony couldn't help but wonder—with a reborn spirit of helplessness—if there was still any chance of finding what she was looking for in one piece.  What if there was nothing left of Rainbow Dash?

        The last pony took a deep breath and quietly remembered a conversation still gnawing at her mind.





        “What do you mean they're not enough?”  Scootaloo balked, frowning.

        “I do not mean to discount their infinite value of sentimentality, old friend.”  One week before Scootaloo arrived at Petra, in the skating rink garden of Ponyville, Spike had walked across the magical glow of Princess Celestia's mirror and stood before the incredulous pegasus.  “I only mean to say that they are not sufficient for junctioning you to Rainbow Dash.”

        The pony stifled a frustrated growl, waving the white box full of three blue feathers in consternation.  “They are a part of her body, Spike.  They are imbued with Rainbow's essence, are they not?”

        “A valid argument, child.”  Spike wrapped a purple tail about the two of them and gently patted the pony's brown shoulder.  “But try convincing my green-flame of that.”  The elder dragon smiled, albeit awkwardly.  “Alas, just as with Bon-Bon, Dr. Whooves, Braeburn, Pinkie Pie, and all our other companions before them, I need a great deal of preciously preserved bone matter to anchor you to Rainbow's soul self in the past.  If I attempted using the feathers as an ingredient—no matter the good intention—they would not provide the desired result.  It would be just the same as exposing you, unguarded, to the raw heat of my green fire gland.”

        “And...”  Scootaloo blinked, then squinted at him.  “What would happen to me then, exactly?”

        “Why...” Spike chuckled, coughing up a cloud of green smoke.  “Without a spiritual anchor, child, you would hardly become the avatar of Princess Entropa!”  He waved the fumes off and sauntered over towards a bed of flowers which he promptly watered with a pair of pitchers hooked under one claw.  “You would simply fall victim to the throes of accelerated reverse-time!”

        “So, what?  I'd jump back in time to meet myself five days ago and play hop-scotch or something?”

        “Hardly, my friend.  You'd either get stuck in an eternal time loop, or—in a far less hellish fate—your body would de-age in a blink and you'd be reduced to a puddle of undeveloped amniotic fluid.  You would be unborn unto death, if you can properly interpret the metaphor.”

        “Well, the feathers are here.”  Scootaloo clutched the white container to her chest and sighed.  “Would it be so hard to at least try and see if it's possible to use these as an ingredient?”

        “Honestly, Scootaloo, must I lecture you even more on the hazards of impulsive actions than I already have?”  His iron jaw curved in a soft smile as he finished watering the plants and glanced back at her.  “I assure you, I have done enough proper experimentation in my time to know what is or isn't appropriate in these regards.  You need Rainbow Dash's bones.  I do believe you related to me two days ago that you know where her remains are, am I correct?  Or perhaps there is an impediment to your acquisition of her remains that you have yet to relate to me?”

        The last pony bit her lip and pocketed the white box in her saddlebag.  She shuffled across the green garden.  Bees and dragonflies buzzed past her flicking ears in the Celestial light.  “I haven't exactly had the most... pleasant of experiences in dealing with goblins, Spike.”

        “Is this supposed to surprise me?”  Spike raised an eyecrest towards her before leaning down to examine the fruit hanging off a cluster of nearby trees.  “From the stories you've had to tell, it seems as though you've butted heads with all sorts of creatures from harpies to ogres to monkeys to diamond dogs, and none of them are all too pleased to have experienced you either.”

        “With the goblins, it's a lot more complicated.”  Scootaloo trotted slowly around the giant hourglass dedicated to Rarity.  She watched with jaded, scarlet eyes as the two enclosed chambers exchanged growing and dying lavenders along the flaming tongues of reverse-time.  “They're cruel, and yet they're capable of reason.  They're pure industrialists, and yet they somehow afford a culture.  For all of their faults, they have a tiny speck of respectable mettle.”

        “I suppose there is one question that can utterly simplify this matter.”  Spike glanced down at her.  “Do you appreciate them?  As a race, that is?”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  “They're of this Wasteland, Spike.  What's to appreciate?”

        The dragon contemplated that silently.

        The last pony continued, “All that matters is that I need to get to Rainbow Dash now, and the goblins are in the way.  From what I understand, they built this big frickin' factory on the top of what remains of Cloudsdale.  To this day, they're constantly siphoning off what pegasi like her built out of engineering and nature.”  She shook briefly with a boiling rage, then slowly breathed the heated emotion out through her lips.  “Finding her won't be like finding all the others, Spike.  This isn't some lonely expedition into the Everfree Briar or a dip into the belly of a fallen moonrock.  I'm going to have to go deep into a place surrounded by creatures convinced that they own the landscape.  What's to stop them from ripping my wings off and feeding them to me on sight?”

        “My word, do half-lings detest equines that much?”

        “Spike, I love you to death, but you really don't get out that much.”  Scootaloo turned to gaze forlornly across the garden at him.  “I have hooves.  By nature, that means I'm lowlier than dirt in the Wasteland.  I think the only reason all sentient beings in Equestria know that one pony is still left alive is that they wake up each morning hating something unnameable for a reason they can't understand... at least until I cross their paths.”

        Spike leaned his head aside with a quizzical gaze.  “Why do you think that is, perchance?”

        Scootaloo snorted with a single, barking laugh.  “Ground Control to Major Obvious!  The dragon has landed!”

        “Seriously.  This intrigues me—this hatred for all things equine.”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “I've read many books salvaged from the libraries of dead cities, Spike.  The biggest lesson that history has taught me is that power is forever a precarious balance between the 'haves' and 'have-nots.'  For as long as there've been scholars to record the events of the First, Second, and Third Age, ponies made up the 'haves.'  Go figure: when the Cataclysm happened, it gave the 'have-nots' the leftovers of an apocalyptic dinner table.”

        “So you think that goblins—like so many other creatures of the Wasteland—will witness you and immediately be angered to be within the presence of a former oppressor?”

        Scootaloo gave him a double-take.  “Spike, the ponies of Equestria may have been fortunate.  I would hardly call them 'oppressors.'”

        “What finer oppression is there than an absolute monopoly?”

        The last pony blinked at him, her mouth agape in mixed shock and disgust.  “Spike... just what are you insinuating—?”

        “Please, dear friend, do not interpret my words as an insult to ponydom.”  He smiled gently as he lowered his snout to her level.  “I was raised by your kind, and I shall forever cherish them above all else.  It is with absolute zero bias that I declare ponies to be the essential substance of Equestrian magic, peace, tranquility, and beauty.  Regardless, the key thing here is to get into the mind of a sentient being without hooves.  When you imagine the history of the world from that lowly perspective, and you take into account the Alicorns' dominion over the Sun and Moon, and you realize that pegasi, unicorns, and earth ponies altogether maintained the functions of seasonal variation from equinoxes to solistices, how can you not perceive it all without a modicum of envy and—dare I say—malice?”

        “If you're trying to convince me that goblins have hated ponies for what they meant to this world, you can save your fuming breath.”  Scootaloo gazed emotionlessly into a far corner of the garden.  “I discovered that first-hoof a long time ago.”  She took a deep breath, running a forelimb over her brown coat, as if feeling for several ancient bruises and welts that she was suddenly reawakening to.  “It's not something that I wish to repeat.”

        “Then you should endeavor to approach this situation in a different manner,”  Spike said, pointing a clawed hand.  “This is not Pinkie Pie's city of Dredgemane you are paying a visit to, dear friend.  There are no pony souls to win over; there are none who will respect Goddess Gultophine or her teachings.  Perhaps you should put yourself in the mind of a goblin... when dealing with goblins?”

        “How do you mean?”

        “You yourself said that they were not without respectable qualities, however deeply buried in Wasteland malice and distrust.  Perhaps you should seek a path in accordance with the honor of their hearts, assuming it is indeed there.”  He smirked.  “And if that doesn't work, I'm sure there's another language all creatures of the Wasteland speak: the language of silver.”

        Scootaloo blinked at that.  She fidgeted where she stood.  “I'm kind of stripped of strips at the moment, Spike,” she murmured, then glanced off towards the far side of the garden.  Her scarlet eyes caught several hanging, yellow shapes pointing upwards towards the celestial mirror.  Her lips curved ever so slightly.  “But I may be able to procure some, with a little bit of persuasion.”

        “What are you thinking of, old friend?”

        “It depends.”  Scootaloo glanced his way.  “Think you might be willing to part with a plant... or two... or three?”

        “If it will help you get to your goal, absolutely, child.”  He raised a finger.  “Though, might I suggest that I part with a breath first...”

        Scootaloo was briefly confused.  Then she jumped in place.  “Y-You mean you're ready now?”

        He smiled with a brief wince, clutching a clawed hand over his burning chest.  “If I wait any longer, I do believe my fire gland will burst out of my sternum.”

        She was already fumbling through her saddlebag to procure the glass jar.  “And you promise me that this will give me anywhere between one hundred fifty to two hundred meters of anchorage?”

        “I would hesitate to put such a theory to an absolute test,” the dragon mumbled, clearing his throat as the temperature of the room heated up before his nostrils.  “It will be a good two to three weeks before I can produce another breath—regardless of its potency—considering how much enchantment and focus I've put into this flame.”

        “In other words...”  She smirked slyly while hoofing a long glass jar—two times larger than normal—into his palm.  “'Don't royally screw this one up, Scootaloo.'”

        “What I lack in your poetic gusto, let me compensate with my own endearing words.”  He paused with the open jar hanging before his jaws, his eyeslits glinting emphatically her way.  “Do not do this for me, Scootaloo.  Neither do it for the Sun and Moon.  Do this for Rainbow Dash.”

        She slowly, slowly nodded.  “Believe me, Spike,” she murmured in a low voice.  “I couldn’t possibly give more of a crap about this ugly world than I do this very moment.”

        The elder dragon gazed blankly at her, looking neither sad nor relieved.  Whatever reaction he had to give those bold words would come in time, as he tilted his body forward and exhaled the brightest and richest burst of emerald flame Scootaloo had yet witnessed into that small, glass jar.





        The container rattled loosely atop the last pony's workbench as the entire gondola of the Harmony shook.  The same buzzing alarm from earlier was now an ear-splitting scream.  Scootaloo gasped and flashed her dashboard a goggled look.  Every instrument panel was flickering madly, indicating a large burst of energy heading toward  her location.  Breathless, she gazed through a porthole along the side of the airship.

        A bright, glowing blob of electrical discharge was rocketing her way.  She barely had time to yank hard on her levers and steer the ship so that it protectively angled the least vulnerable part of its hull towards the unavoidable projectile.

        The resulting impact shook every square centimeter of the dirigible.  A pocket of thunder exploded all around the aircraft.  Scootaloo grit her teeth, struggling to keep the dirigible upright.  Bolts of static electricity danced from bulkhead to bulkhead.  Octavia's strings scratched and skipped as the record player rocked precariously on the edge of its shelf.  For ten seconds, Scootaloo felt that the entire cabin was going to fly apart, bolt by bolt, starting with the swaying hangar deck below.

        “Friggin' A!” she exclaimed, struggling against the pressure of the jolting levers.  She heard a rattling noise intensifying behind her.  She flashed a glance over her twitching wings.

        The elongated glass jar of pure emerald dragonflame was rolling straight off the workbench's edge.

        Scootaloo hissed through her teeth, shot her body up, and yanked hard on a chain-linked handle.  The ship ascended madly through the thundering air above the goblin mining operation.  In a single breath, she backflipped out of the cockpit, flapped her wings, and flew upside down towards the workbench.

        The glass jar of flame fell towards the bulkhead of the cabin floor below.

        “Nnngh!”  Scootaloo caught the container in two jittery hooves.  She landed on her spine with a grunt as the rapidly-ascending craft continued rocking and swaying from the electrical impact.  “H-Holy haystacks...”  She blinked under her goggles, then frowned viciously.  “Somebody shot me!”  Angrily, she kipped up to her hooves, shoved the glass container safely into the netting of her swaying hammock, and pulled the handle dangling above the cockpit once more.  As the Harmony evened out to a steady, elevated hover, she grabbed her rifle from underneath the fallen folds of the Royal Grand Biv outfit, and practically slid her way down the spiral staircase to the hangar level below.

        Marching across the flickering lanternlight, she hopped over several brass bars full of silver strips, nearly tripped over a loosely sliding metal scooter, and approached the copper aperture entrance at the ship's lower bow.

        “Friggin' pegasus target practice, I swear to Epona—'H'jem!'”

        A burst of smog funneled through the entrance as the catseye doorway opened wide.  Scootaloo coughed, wheezed, and bore the brunt of the unearthly fumes as she gripped the rifle in two front hooves, stretched her wings, and briskly flew out into the windy madness


~*~*~*~*~*~


        The gigantic, golden stalk of Petra shimmered in the distance as the last pony flew up to the very top of her dirigible.  Planting three hooves down onto the balloon of the craft, she hugged her rifle to her chest and peered down, down through the waves of smog and towards the port side of the inflated structure.  She groaned, for upon close examination she found several iron bulkheads charred and bent at horribly mutilated angles.  The tell-tale sign of an electrical impact burned across the side of her vessel.  Scootaloo had experienced lightning strikes from flying too low in a stormfront before, and this most definitely wasn't the same thing.  Guessing from the nature of the singed metal, the trajectory of the electrical discharge was about even with the last pony's aircraft.  This was the work of weaponized engineering.

        “Dang it dang it dang it dang it dang it!”  Scootaloo hissed into her flowing mane before tossing it aside with a jerk of the neck.  She frowned and spat towards the distant, torchlit ravines of Cloudsdale’s ruins, her voice shouting ineffectually into the beating winds and smog of the blackened world.  “Alright, which one of you wrench-huffing, bat-eared freakazoids wants to climb up here and take the hoof to the face that's coming to ya?!”

        Scootaloo's enraged voice was cut off by a pair of roaring engines that rose loudly from below.  She backtrotted and knelt on her haunches, aiming her rifle full of runestones at a pair of hovercraft levitating suddenly before her.  Both of the twin vessels were open platforms with copper railings and powered by bulbous, brass tanks full of compressed steam.  The hissing machines fed hot air to several thrusters rigged to the bottom of the rusted contraptions like hollow, jagged teeth.  Inside either of these vessels were five to six creatures, and each of them had a steam-powered, double-barreled, semi-automatic rifle fixed on the last pony.

        Scootaloo did not lower her firearm.  She continued aiming at the creatures, her goggles trained on them, her lips ready to spout out a runic command upon the next breath—even if it might be her last.  During the paralyzing seconds that consumed the high-altitude stare-off, she got a good look at the goblins... but realized they were not goblins at all.  Their frames were too tiny, and their heads were much larger in proportion to their torsos.  What was more, there was little to no visible portion of their craniums exposed.  All eyes were obscured with thick black visors, and all mouths were encompassed by brass breathing masks that gave their voices a metallic ring:

        “You have trespassed impcity airspace, sky traveler.  Identity yourself.”

        “I'm pissed off!”  Scootaloo barked.  “Who are you?”

        “On behalf of the Outer Aerial Gremlin Defense Initiative, you must remove yourself from impcity airspace.  If you have business in the city, make a landing in Fifteen Strut, Level Beta of Grand Petra.  For now, redirect your aircraft from these premises or you shall be fired upon.”

        “And just what was that earlier?!  Huh?!”  Scootaloo snarled.  “A sneeze?!”

        A blue glow shimmered along the front of one of the hovercrafts.  A gigantic tesla coil sparkled, affixed to a cannon fork that was twirling to aim once more at the Harmony as if in answer to the last pony's question.

        “You shall redirect your aircraft from these premises immediately—”

        “Yeah, Yeah—I friggin' heard you!”  Scootaloo snarled, finally lowering her rifle as a sign of trust.  “You know, for a welcome wagon, you could certainly do with more wagons.”  She blinked, then frowned harder.  “Or welcome.”

        The gremlins said nothing to that.  They muttered to each other with a series of metallic ringing noises channeled through their masks.  In a roar of steaming thrusters, the two crafts gave the Harmony a wide berth, but kept within firing range, patiently waiting for the equine pilot to comply with their orders.

        Grumbling to herself, Scootaloo took wing and flapped her way back to the dirigible’s aperture entrance.  “Why not fling a cannon through my dashboard as a gift basket while you're at it?!”





        Scootaloo piloted the damaged Harmony slowly—like a dissipating cloud—over the chasms upon chasms of mining goblins, past the tall, stretching monorail tracks, beyond the rows of smoke-strewn shanty towns until she finally reached a wide, golden platform positioned halfway up the breathtakingly high reaches of Petra.  She didn’t know to what degree her aircraft was damaged until she was coasting the swaying thing into the docking bay of a shadowy, metal hangar enclosed on all sides by rusted copper grates.  The last pony had to manually adjust for a last-second drift, or else she might have accidentally rammed her airship into one of the solid walls of metal that flanked the docking platforms.

        At that point, the gremlin hovercrafts escorting her finally soared off towards the wide, black expanse, but she paid them no mind.  She had her goggled eyes locked on the instrument panel ahead of her, fidgeting with greater and greater nervousness as she saw the pressure in her steam compartment dropping rapidly by the minute.  Once she was safely moored to the frame of the enclosed hangar, she dashed over to her lateral clamps and locked the metal claws in place.

        Rushing back to her instrument panel, Scootaloo turned three sets of knobs, unbolted an emergency lever, and pulled hard on it.  A loud clanking noise echoed through the bulbous body of the balloon above the Harmony's gondola as she redirected the gas into an auxiliary compartment opposite the damaged hull.

        In less than a minute, the last pony had once more exited the craft.  Her ears were assaulted by an endless chorus of hissing steam and venting gases pouring out from all metal walls and platforms of the imp-built hangar.  Flying up to a ceiling support beam, she hung off it, pulled her goggles to her forehead, and gave the balloon of the Harmony a naked glance.  She saw the structural damage from the electrical blast in far greater clarity, and it was obvious to her that the port-side chamber of the balloon had been leaking gas up until the point she redirected it.  Until she fixed that leak—which required far more resources than she had at her own disposal—she couldn't make any sort of long-distance flight across the Wasteland.  As far as she was concerned, she was grounded.

        Scootaloo sighed long and hard.  This should have diffused the rising temper in her being, but it didn't.  Her body shook and her teeth gritted and her hoof slammed offensively against the metal beam she was hanging off of.  “Nnngh—Celestia dang it!”  Her voice echoed across the hollow of the steaming hangar bay.  She suddenly became aware of multiple shapes turning and glancing up at her.  She looked back down, seeing an assortment of dogs, monkeys, raccoons, and other random sentient creatures tending to their parked vessels.  They all regarded her with a nervous curiosity.  The ugly distaste for equine souls hadn't registered yet in their eyes.  Perhaps, Scootaloo imagined, they had never seen a pony before.  The pegasus realized that the gremlins must have directed her to a hangar segregated off for non-imp species.  In a way, she owed them a tiny bit of gratitude.

        Then she remembered who launched the bolt of electrical discharge at her vessel to begin with.  She sighed, fluttering back down to her aperture entrance and peeling the goggles off her skull completely.  She fiddled with the copper articles, feeling random gusts of steam mixing with the Wasteland wind to kick at her long pink mane.  After several fuming breaths, she calmed herself enough to survey her cramped, metal surroundings.  The wheels in her head turned like so many gears and servos flanking the elevated garage.





        Slowly, Scootaloo marched back into the upper level of the Harmony.  She slumped down on her workbench stool, rubbing a hoof over her face and through her mane as she sighed hard.  The seconds ticked away like an invisible clock beyond the walls of her cabin's bulkheads.  With a dwindling thought, she turned her gaze towards her wall of souvenirs.  She saw colors, trinkets, and instruments—all of her souvenirs of dead Equestria.

        Ultimately, however, her gaze drifted to one object and one object alone.  The white box rested beneath her, pristine and immaculate in its ivory contours.  She gently opened it up, reintroducing the lantern-lit hollow of the cabin to three ocean-blue threads of immortal softness.  A deep breath cycled through her, and she briefly closed her eyes in meditation.






        Less than an hour later, Scootaloo had packed her things.  She wore enough armor and leather to battle an entire army of Phoenixes; not even her wings were exposed as she finished the ensemble with a leather cap and mask pulled over her brown snout.  Hiding every bright bit of her pastel mane, she even tucked her tail in as she marched firmly out of the mouth of the vessel's hangar bay.  She turned around and eyed the ring of ivory rocks lining the catseye entrance.  She had spent the last twenty-five minutes triply reinforcing her vessel with magical runestones.  The last pony would much rather have her airship explode in a burst of mana-flame than let it fall into the claws of half-ling hijackers.

        “W'nyhhm.”

        The purple aura of the runestones' magical shield was positively blinding.  It would take an arcanium cannon to blow a hole through it.  She hoped that the same goblins who built a two kilometer skyscraper in twenty-five years weren't capable of building such an improbable weapon overnight.  She worried very little about the other pilots inside the hangar.  They gazed at her with trembling trepidation as she marched past them on loud, rattling horseshoes.  Seemingly, the creatures regarded her with shock instead of hatred.  After all, she was about to march head-first into a city that they were obviously too frightened to venture into themselves.  Petra was the largest congregation of like-species that far from Mount Ogreton, and any entity that wasn't an imp in those streets had just as many rights as an insect.

        Ironically, then, Scootaloo stumbled upon a squirming sea of cockroaches feeding off a dead rat.  She paused briefly, blinking at the black little things and their twitching antennae.  Even they didn't bother giving the last pony any space as she drifted past them.  This city belonged to them far more than it would ever belong to her.

        “Heh... perfect...” she muttered and trotted over them like a good shepherd of scum.  “Now all I need to find are the cats.”

        As she navigated a sharp ramp of rusted copper plates, several vents spat bursts of white steam to either side of her.  The last pony breathed claustrophobically into her mask.  The goggles over her eyes fogged briefly as she marched into a grand, oceanic cacophony of thousands upon thousands of grinding cogwheels, gears, pistons, levers, and belts.  The mechanized womb of Petra swallowed the pegasus up, and as she was engulfed in the industrial miasma A flicker of color graced her figure.

        Hanging off the side of her mask, tied to her ear, was a soft, sapphire feather dangling from a matching blue string.







        The ground shimmered with a rust-red color as the sun burned its way past the western horizon.  Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo trotted side by side into the burning gaze of the dying afternoon.  All of Equestria around them hung in a gentle murmur as the bands of night settled over the world like a soothing blanket.

        “Whewwwww... Yeahhhh.”  Rainbow Dash grinned widely, her teeth glistening in the scarlet bands of the sunset.  She clutched four apples in her wings as if they were separate limbs.  “You feel that, ya squirt?”

        Scootaloo limply pushed against the metal tray beneath her, battling a pit in her stomach so large that she wasn't sure she had a stomach left at all.  “Feel what?  It's just a sunset.”

        “I know.  But it's our sunset.”

        The tiny foal's face scrunched.  She glanced up quizzically.  “What's that supposed to mean?”

        “Just think about it.”  Rainbow Dash came to a stop on a hilltop and slumped to her haunches, basking in the crimson glow.  “Without ponies, where would the sun and moon be?  Our very own Princess Celestia keeps them spinning around this crazy world with her awesome powers.  Then, when it comes time to change the seasons, legions of pegasi push the clouds away to make the snow melt.  It's amazing how simple it all works to make something so wickedly cool.  It also makes you wonder just how ugly this world would be if nopony was around to look after it.”

        “Jee, I dunno...”  Scootaloo winced, feeling yet another bruise beneath her flexing limbs.  She plopped down, weak and tired, beside the blue pegasus.  “There are enough ugly things in this world as it is.  It's kind of hard to shake it...”

        “Yeesh.  Ain't you kind of young to be that emo?”

        “Mmm...”  Scootaloo whimpered and hung her head.  Just then, something bright and red rolled into view atop the grass in front of her.  She blinked brightly and clasped the fresh apple between two shivering hooves.  “Wh-What... What...?”  She glanced aside at the young adult pony.

        “It's an apple, smarty pants.  Y'know, the round things that hang off of trees and occasionally get tossed around by angry strawheads with more freckles than boyfriends?”  Rainbow Dash winked across the rays of melting sunlight before taking a luscious bite out of one of the three remaining fruits in her possession.  “Mmmphh... Hmmph... And before you start spreading rumors, Applejack and I don't really hate each other.  Mmmph... We’ve had this lovely little game of 'tag' going on since the dawn of time and today was just her turn to be slapped upside the mane.”  She gulped down the bite and smirked.  “You just got a front-row seat to our little prank war, so enjoy your souvenir.  You've earned it.”

        Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat.  She blinked wide.  “I...”  Her lips quivered.  “I-I earned this?”

        “You were my bait, weren't you?”  Rainbow Dash managed a snicker, took another royal bite of the apple, and glanced off towards the burning west horizon.  The rows and rows of trees whispered with the fluttering advent of starlight.  “Nothing scarier than being the front meatwall before Ponvyille's resident cowfilly losing her cool.  Heh—AJ thinks she's such a straight-laced, dependable saint.  Still, I'm the only one in town who's figured her out.  There's an angry hothead boiling beneath the surface of her freckled shell; I can smell it.”

        Rainbow Dash took another bite, nearly choked on an explosive giggle, swallowed, and smirked.

        “I remember this one time that a guard pony from Canterlot tried hitting on her.  Applejack kept her cool until he licked her, right in the middle of downtown Ponyville!  I dunno how young you are, kiddo, but grown-up ponies only lick each other in public when they're engaged, married, or what-have-you.  Anyways, I never saw a filly buck a stallion so hard through a store window.  Hahahah—Bon Bon was at her wit's end.  Naturally, Applejack felt sorry and helped patch up the front of the novelty shop the very next day, with no help from the guard pony—that coward ran back to Her Majesty's Palace.  Heheh... Still, I don't know what embarrassed AJ more, the fact that it all started from a stallion hitting on her, or that a random temper tantrum made her show her true colors for once.  Heh... 'Honest Applejack' my left flank-cheek.  The way I see it: every pony has an angry warhorse spirit hiding deep inside.  I bet you've got a fury of your own to let loose every now and then, squirt.  Why, the way you mercilessly pound away on that metal slab of yours—I swear—it looks like you're ready to take on the whole world—”

        Rainbow Dash glanced down.  She stopped in mid-sentence, blinked wide, and nearly dropped her partially-eaten fruit .

        In less than a minute, Scootaloo had completely scarfed her way to the hard core of her apple.  Every edible part of the fruit had been shoved down her throat.  A splash of apple mush hung off her orange face in sloppy curds.  She was nibbling pitifully on the black husk left over, her teeth crunching at the seeds, when she froze under the gawking gaze of her older companion.  Still as a statue, she wilted with furiously blushing cheeks.

        “Erm... Uhm...”  The orphan raised a forelimb to her face and wiped half of the fruit bits off her nervous grin.  “It's... It's good stuff... Applejack's apples... eh heh heh...”

        Rainbow Dash raised an eyebrow, her colorful mane blowing in the last warm breeze of the day.  Such a beautiful snapshot melted under a snorting sound as the blue pegasus fell to the grassy hilltop, slapping the soft soil with a hard hoof and laughing her face off.  “Hahahahaha—Whew!  You're a trip, Skunkaloo.”

        “Scootaloo.”

        “Whatever.  Heheheh...”  Rainbow wiped a tear or two away and grinned, red-in-the face from hysterics.  “You'd darn well better work on those ladylike manners of yours.  Haven't you heard we've got a princess visiting in a week?”

        “We... Uhm...”  Scootaloo gulped and wiped her cheek again before sitting up straight beside the mare.  “We do?”

        “Heck yeah!  We've got the Summer Sun Celebration coming up!  Didn't you listen to Applejack?”  She stared blankly at the foal, then rolled a pair of ruby eyes at herself.  “Oh—pffft—right, who can?  Ahem.”  She smiled.  “Once a year, Princess Celestia visits a lucky Equestrian city and raises the sun right there in front of everypony.  This year, she's chosen to do her magical goddess stuff right here in Ponyville!  Pretty wicked, huh?”

        “I... uh... S-Sure!”  Scootaloo smiled crookedly.  “Pretty wicked...”

        “Yeesh.  Try not to get too excited, kid.  You might have to clean up after yourself.”

        “Er...”

        “Well, it's gonna be my job to clear away all the clouds for her arrival.  What's the point in having the Goddess of the Sun arrive if there's a whole bunch of overcast to put a damper on her job, right?”

        “I... guess...?”

        Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes.  She playfully nudged Scootaloo's soiled cheek with a hoof and stood up.  “You gotta work on your pony skills, pipsqueak.  I swear, it feels like I'm talking to a tiny, orange squirrel.”

        “I'm sorry.”  Scootaloo sighed.  “This... Uhm... This hasn't exactly been a nice week for me.”

        “Good thing I decided to show up, huh?”  Rainbow Dash smirked wide.  Twitching her wings, she juggled an apple and tossed it so that it landed next to the nibbled core in front of the foal.  “Knock yourself out, kid.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “Did I earn that too?”

        “Sure, whatever.  You listened to me gab on long enough, huh?  Anyways, I gotta make like an ogre's behind and split.  Like the Mayor of Ponyville keeps telling me, there's a crapload of cloud-clearing for me to plan between now and the Celebration.”

        “So you're off to work?”  Scootaloo asked, cradling the fresh new apple to herself.

        “Pfft!  Screw that!  I've got Wonderbolts to impress!  I'll get done what needs to get done.  There's nothing so important in life that it can't be finished at the last second.  That said, do you need somepony to hitch you a ride home?”

        “Ahem...”  Scootaloo stood up tall and strong.  “That won't be necessary.  My folks work all hours of the day and night. I can look after myself, y'know.”

        “Heh... I bet you can do just that.”  Rainbow Dash winked.  She hovered over and ruffled the twitching foal's pink mane.  “You're something else, ya lil’ squirt.  If only more pipsqueaks your age were as sassy as you, I might have hope for the future.”

        Scootaloo rediscovered her frown.  With a playful raspberry, she retorted, “You're still a barn-smashing psycho.”

        Rainbow smiled.  “And Celestia help Equestria when there're none like me left.”  She shot skyward with a multi-colored blur.

        Scootaloo was surprised to hear a young voice chirping skyward.  She was even more surprised to recognize the unfolding words as her own:  “Hey Rainbow Dash!  Are you gonna be at the Summer Sun Celebration?”

        “You can bet your stupid metal tray, pipsqueak!”  In a thunderous vapor of flight, the blue pegasus was gone.

        The orange foal's lungs deflated down a crest of excited breaths.  She hugged the red apple to her chest, feeling her heartbeat straight through the squeezable fruit.  Scootaloo suddenly couldn't remember the bruises, shivers, and tears of the past few days.  Taking advantage of her forgetfulness, she took a fierce bite of the apple, then another, and a dozen more.  She filled her enraptured stomach while the shadows filled the great Equestrian Valley, ushering in a new night... and a new life.

        There was suddenly no shame to it at all.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        That night, upstairs in the loft of the dilapidated barn, a halo of glittering starlight fell down over a young pegasus beneath a fresh hole formed in the ceiling of the rustic structure.  Scootaloo clutched the blanket to herself, her body still turned obstinately to the white box and the enticing cupcake hidden within.

        The filly was cold.  The filly was shivering.  For the first time in so many fitful nights, however, she was smiling.

        “Heh...”  She murmured to herself, navigated a wave of shivers, and managed a giggle.  “'Snakes on a Flank'... hehehehehehe... Hmmm...”  Snuggling into the depths of her hovel, sprinkled with fresh memories, Scootaloo closed her eyes and greeted slumber with a smile. 





        The sundered world rumbled around her.  Crackling explosions and bright flashes of light ruptured the air beyond the tiny cranny within which she hid.  Scootaloo trembled, assaulted with the cold and the noise all the same.  Her eyes squinted open, tearing up as she sniffled and choked back the hundredth frightened sob of the evening.

        Over the past few days, the last pony had gathered enough supplies to turn her claustrophobic little niche into a sturdy enough hideout to rival the torchlit place she had built on the Wasteland surface.  However, this cramped excuse for a cave wasn't nearly sufficient at sheltering her from the regularly scheduled nightmare that haunted the sky.

        The latest stormfront was billowing across the deathscape, and cyclonic swirls of thunder and lightning were scooping their violent way down into the abyss of Cloudsdale's inner ruins.  Weathering a Wasteland storm was traumatizing enough at ground level.  Here, in the gaping wound of the world, the echoing bedlam created by the electrical event was positively deafening.  Scootaloo heard the shattering of rock and debris as an errant lightning bolt or two struck the rubble not too far from the mouth of her niche.  At any second, she figured, the brilliant phenomenon would soon reach into the cavern and strike her, lighting her up like a winged torch.  She awaited death like she anticipated her next breath, full of cold and relentless terror.

        A few hours ago, she had thrown up, which was the best evidence the last pony could have that she had finally discovered a way to properly nourish herself by that point.  Several scavenging trips had at last unearthed a Cloudsdalian supply depot, within which the filly discovered several jars of oats.  Instead of scarfing down the precious edibles, she had wisely decided to ration what she discovered, though it didn't help much that what little she had allowed herself to devour that day had come right back out her esophagus halfway through the nightmarish stormfront rampaging above.

        The smell of her own bile filled Scootaloo's nostrils as she shivered inside the tiny chamber of rock.  She knew that she was lucky to have food.  She knew that she was lucky to have spears, a modicum of supplies, and a saddlebag that she had managed to alter so that it could fit her petite size.  More than anything, however, Scootaloo needed to build a fire.  It was either find some flint or tinder, or die of cold during one of these pathetically futile attempts at sleep.  The stormfront was horrible and frightening, but at least it forced the adrenaline in her sobbing shell of a body to bring warmth to her twitching extremities.  Fear was healthy, so long as it kept her blood pumping.  Scootaloo dreaded the day when relaxation would be the end of her.  As the thunder and lightning roared on, she stopped fighting the tears, for they warmed her just the same.





         A blue feather fluttered in the cold breeze that wafted across the inner ruins.  Scootaloo wore this piece of Rainbow Dash—while the other three were safely bagged away in the hollow of her cave—as she climbed over a tall mountain of debris the day after the stormfront.  She poked a Cloudsdalian spear at a chunk of moonrock.

        Scootaloo's violet eyes narrowed as she sifted through the white powdery stone that had been charred black by lightning strikes overnight.  Curiously, she brushed a few flecks of white moonrock aside and uncovered—for the first time before her vision—a few shards of brightly colored gemstones.  It impressed her that such prismatically distinct rocks could somehow be hidden away beneath the ivory surface of the lunar material.  She briefly pondered if the lightning had somehow alchemically produced the crystalline substances, or if perhaps it was something else.

        There was a distant echoing sound from across the subterranean expanse.

        Scootaloo gasped and spun about, the weight of the saddlebag shifting along her flank.  She gripped her spear tightly and peered across the shadowy domain.  Beyond several bands of twilight, flanked by a curtain of waterfalls, four or five small specks could be seen climbing alongside a steep cliff-face of sky marble.  Their movement was freakishly fast, and even from a far glance, Scootaloo guessed that the figures were bipeds.

        They disappeared as swiftly as the last pony had spotted them, vanishing beyond a mound of crumpled ivory that rose in the foreground of the young equine's view.  Predictably, every coat hair on the back of Scootaloo's shaved mane rose.  Aside from diamond dogs and dragon whelps, she only knew one type of creature that marched upright.  Her ears pricked, as if hearing the shrill, phantom sounds of whooping and hollering voices beyond the twilight.

        She needed to get out of there.  She needed to ditch the moonrocks, scamper back up the hill, find a huge boulder to roll in front of her cave, and hide in the back of her niche until the shuffling figures went away or starved or both.

        However, Scootaloo knew that she also needed warmth if she was to survive, and all of her ingredients for torch-lighting had been left abandoned up in her surface-level hovel.  The little pegasus remembered seeing trolls carrying torches across the wasteland.  If she could somehow discover what secret it was that those pale leathery creatures knew—about how to spark fires in a world of lifeless desolation and chaos—then she might not only learn how to prosper like they did, but she might even be able to surpass them, even inside this pit of all places.

        The same ear that pricked to hear those creatures' haunting noises just then felt the soft blue follicles of Rainbow Dash's feather tucked against it.  Scootaloo gripped her spear tighter in the crook of her hooves.  As her jaw clenched, she marched downhill towards the abyss, instead of fleeing uphill towards safety.





        Hours later, the orange pegasus shuffled forward—chest-deep in dust and snow—as she rounded the crest of a pile of rubble.  Pointing her spear forward, she came to a stop, held her breath, and nervously peered over the edge of the ruins beneath her.  She squinted and saw a plateau of flat granite, atop which several pegasus chariots had fallen in a splintery heap, out of which spilled innumerable clumps of wooden and metal debris.

        Scootaloo was dead quiet, gazing cautiously at the scene.  She was not alone; several creatures bounded across the site, pilfering what they could from the fallen, smashed chariots.  They moved with a calculated intelligence and even tossed hushed, grunting words at one another.  What was more, they did not possess an identical paleness of leathery skin.  Their flesh was a hodgepodge of numerous, muted colors—of grays and browns and dark greens.  Additionally, many of them were half-clothed, wearing vests and jackets and leather bandoleers equipped with a grand assortment of intricately crafted tools.

        The last pony raised a curious eyebrow, her breath haloing a confused expression.  She was a great deal more perplexed than frightened.  Regardless, ponies these creatures were not.  Stealing the makings of a campfire was suddenly the last thing on Scootaloo's fitful mind.  Her heart skipped a beat when she realized that she was seeing only four creatures rummaging through the Cloudsdalian wreckage beneath her, when she could have sworn she had spotted five figures from afar at first glance.  With a nervous shuffle of limbs, Scootaloo turned around and made to trot back down the hillside.

        Instead, she ran right into a frowning face equipped with copper goggles.  “Hraaaugh!”  A short creature devilishly shrieked and swung a heavy wrench across the length of Scootaloo's spear, snapping it in two.

        Scootaloo fell back on her useless wings before she even had the breath to gasp.  This impulse was also cut short when a four-fingered hand viciously gripped the nape of her neck, shoving her convulsing body to the mound of rubble beneath her.  The creature leered over the pony, holding the wrench high in a threatening grip.

        “Were you spying on us?!”  The bipedal thing spat, its long, bat-like ears twitching over a fountain of thick, black hair.  “Was the infernal Dimming not enough that you had to come and finish the job, glue stick?!”

        “You...”  Scootaloo shivered as she sputtered for breath.  In the midst of her fright, she judged that the creature wasn't any taller than an adult pony.  To a helpless foal such as herself, it could just as well have been a towering giant.  “You c-can talk?!  I d-didn't think trolls could sp-speak!”

        “Troll?!”  The figure's goggles twitched and swirled in a mechanic fashion, reflecting a frightened pegasus doubly.  “I am no troll!  I am an imp!”  He raised a clawed foot behind him, his muscles coiling.  “And you just snuck up on the wrong clan of goblins, you filthy manure bath!”

        Scootaloo gasped, eying the creature's leg.  “Wait!  Please!  Let's j-just talk about—”

        “Nnnngh!”  He kicked her hard in the chest.

        Scootaloo lost all the oxygen in her lungs.  By the second twitch of her pained eyes, she realized that the world was spinning.  She slammed hard on her spine against the plateau of rock below, being rained on by a shower of pebbles launched from her awkward fall downhill.  Several gasping voices surrounded her as she struggled to climb back onto her wobbly legs.

        “Hey!  Hey Matthais!”  The voice of her assailant barked from somewhere above the dizzy scene.  “I found one of them!  Alive!”

        “Where?!  Where is the pathetic, prancing murderer?!”  A pale figure clambered up from Scootaloo's peripheral vision.  “Lemme at her!”

        “Mmmf...”  Scootaloo winced, teared, and looked up.  “H-Huh?”

        She saw the pointed teeth of a snarling goblin, followed by a metal gauntlet flying straight into her vision.

        The world spun again, this time laced with a spray of red liquid as the gasping foal fell in a quivering heap against a shattered chariot.  Her mouth was filling with a hot, pool of blood, choking her every attempt to breathe.  No less than two seconds into this vomitous sensation, the metallic fist was being slammed into her again, this time impacting her unguarded ribcage.

        “Aaaugh!”  Scootaloo whimpered.  She tried to run away but only collapsed painfully onto her chest, shuffling like a severed earthworm towards a bright splotch of twilight.  The air filled with the angry barks and grunts of strange voices as she heard a pitter-patter of toes, followed by several more kicks to her flank, thigh, spine, and finally her skull.  The last blow produced a sickly pop in her ear, and she felt half of her skull heating up, as if something fragile was leaking deep inside.  She coughed and sputtered, her eyes barely opening in time to see a blue feather fluttering free, landing on the granite floor, and then being torn to shreds as a pale foot stomped over it.  Her gasping vision was suddenly hoisted to look into a frowning goblin's face.

        “Speak, you filthy animal!  I asked you a question!”


        Scootaloo's eyes were rolling back in her head.  Her nose twitched, faintly aware of blood trickling down from her shaved head.  “Nnngh-Snkkktk... What... Wh-What?” she mewled.



        “Hghh!”  The goblin answered with a savage metal fist slammed across the side of her splitting cheek.  He spat on her bruised, twitching body and hissed, “What did you do?!  What did you pathetic, magical pieces of crap do to the daylight?!”

        “The world's gone to crap and it's all your fault!” others shouted.

        “You and your Sun Goddess brought the Dimming upon us!”

        “Everything is dead now!”

        “We were close to manifesting Petra.  We were close to founding a home for impkind.  We built a frickin' city out of your garbage, because you refused us sky marble.  Now we've lost everything—everything, thanks to you!”  The pale one spat while his green, goggled companion slid down to his side, handing him the heavy wrench.  The frowning goblin palmed it in a threatening manner as he paced around the quivering, hiccuping equine.  “Now we're stuck down here trying to clean up the mess you've left behind!  Are you going to give us answers or do I have to beat it out of you?!”

        “Please... Pl-Please...”  Scootaloo sobbed, spat blood, and fought the bubbling bile rising up her throat as she pawed a desperate, orange hoof for the scattered blue threads of Rainbow Dash's crushed feather.  “I'll d-do anything...”  She caved, she begged.  She saw two comatose figures lying in a bed somewhere, covered in jaundice.  She wanted to join them so badly.  “J-Just stop hitting me...”  The filly pleaded.  “It h-hurts... It hurts s-so bad...”

        In answer to that, the goblin planted a heavy foot over her hoof before it could so much as touch the blue strands.  The filly let forth an agonized shriek as he leered over her, his companions crowding tightly around.

        “What caused this?!  Where did the Sun and Moon go?!  Was it enough that you played gods with the weather that you had to play gods with the earth as well?!”

        “You tell her, Matthais!”

        “Shut your dang trap, Braxx.  I've got this.”  The pale one gave her a swift kick in the chest, summoning another yelping cry as she trembled beneath him.  “Well, glue stick?!  We're waiting!”

        “I... I-I don't know...”  The last pony hyperventilated, curling into a fetal position as her tiny wing-stubs formed angelic silhouettes in a pool of her own blood.  “I-I'm all alone.  Everypony I've seen is d-dead.  Everypony is dead and I don't know... I j-just don't kn-know why...”  She spasmed uncontrollably as his shadow shifted above her.


        Matthais was raising the blunt wrench up high while his frowning companions apathetically looked on.  “Oh, you know, you worthless glue stick.  And you're going to tell us.  Then maybe—just maybe—we'll give you the quick and happy death you ponies have refused all of impkind with your black magic!”  With that, he sneered and brought the full weight of the wrench down over her blackening sight.






        “Is something wrong with your ears, glue stick?!”

        Scootaloo stared silently, her goggled eyes cold and deadpan.

        “Huh?!”  A goblin frowned up at her in the middle of one of the many lofty, metallic alleyways of Petra.  “I said, did you hear me, glue stick?!”  He hung off a flickering, copper lamppost and pointed a blunt dagger at her armored flank.  “You'd better watch your step!  I am Blink of Sea Blood!  I'm the  head of local security around this strut!  Either you pay the toll or all my Sea-Bleeder brothers will come and rip your eyeballs out!”

        The last pony slowly nodded.  With a brown hoof, she reached up and pulled her leather mask free.  “I wasn't aware that I had to pay a toll to walk these streets.  This is certainly news to me, Mister... what was your name again?”

        The bat-eared half-ling sneered, hopped down from the lamppost, and marched towards her while juggling the blade threateningly.  “You friggin' deaf or something, oats-for-breath?  I said my name is Blink of Sea Blood and—”  The goblin's eyes bulged as an armored forelimb yanked him down by the neck and slammed him cheek-first against the perforated metal platform beneath them both.  “Ooof!”

        “How nice.”  Scootaloo said and clopped a hoof down in front of his twitching nose.  “Now allow me to tell you my name.”  She rotated her horseshoe.  A shiny, copper blade flashed in front of his gasping face.  “I am Scootaloo, the last pony, and I'm going to rip your tongue out and eat it for dinner if you don't put it to better use than lying.”

        “L-L-Lying...?!”  The imp stammered, pinned down by her merciless weight.

        “Mmmmhmmm...”  She leaned forward and whispered towards his twitching ears  “You see, I've read up on your kind to know enough about impcity custom.  If you really did belong to a clan of 'Sea Bleeders' or whatcrap, then you'd be wearing a banner around your person to indicate that.  I see nothing on your chest, arms, or shoulders, which lends me to think that you're just a cowardly, homeless beggar who thinks he can intimidate visiting merchants into coughing up a few dozen strips as soon as you flash your pathetic little butter knife in their faces.”  Her goggles glinted in the lanternlight as she tilted her gaze up, spotting several distant pedestrians who were staring indifferently at the altercation.  “Judging by the absolute droves of thugs rushing up to assist their 'doomed brother' as we speak, I'm guessing I've made a proper assessment of your worthlessness.”

        “Please... Please...”  The imp suddenly whimpered, shivering under her grasp as the pony's sharp blade danced near his reddened cheek.  “I-I'm sorry!  Please don't—”

        “Don't what?  Skin you alive and feed you to the trolls of the Wasteland?”  Scootloo droned.  “Because that's what all 'glue sticks' do, right?  Isn't that what you've been taught?”

        “I...”  He gulped and trembled.  “I-I don't know...”

        “The first honest thing you've said in your life, I'm willing to bet.”  She effortlessly hoisted the goblin straight up to his feet.

        He gasped as he was flung up against the metal lamppost.  The goblin's petite body flinched under the flat of the horseshoe being pressed against his chest as Scootaloo leaned towards him with a frowning face.

        “How about this?  I'll give you an opportunity to be of use to me.”  Her nostrils flared as her goggles reflected twin, panicked expressions.  “I need to get into the ruins of Cloudsdale.”

        “Cl-Cloudsdale?”  He gulped, shivering all over at this point.  “Wh-What's Cloudsdale?”

        She briefly sighed, but maintained her firm voice. “The mining operation.  I need to get inside the giant quarry where all of the goblins are harvesting sky marble.  Specifically, I need to get to a spot that's two kilometers from the western cliff-face and half-a-kilometer from the southern slopes.”

        “The...”  He bit his lip and nervously smiled.  “The central p-pits are under control of the Hex-Bleeders.  If you want to get into their area of operations, you have to t-take it up with their clan leader.”

        “Hmm... I see...”  She nodded slowly, then pressed her weight firmer against him.  “Just where can I find this leader of the Hex Blood clan?”

        “Strut Eighteen!” he exclaimed.  “Level Alpha!  Look for the goblins with crimson bandannas on their heads.  That's the m-mark of the Hex Blood clan!”  the imp said, then winced dramatically, expecting a vicious pummeling to punctuate the exchange.

        Instead, Scootaloo hummed thoughtfully.  “Hmmm.  Strut Eighteen.  That's only about three platforms above, if I'm not mistaken.  Not too terribly far.”  She released her pressure.

        “Nngh!”  The goblin fell on his backside, shaking a few mental cobwebs loose.  He was surprised to find a pair of metal objects falling into his lap.  Blinking, he cradled a pair of silver strips and gazed at them, his jaw dropping open.  “T-Two strips...?”  He glanced up, dumbstruck.  “Th-That's more than I've had in a week...”

        “You assisted me, didn’t you?”  Scootaloo slipped her mask back on and gave him a lasting glance over her armored shoulder.  “Maybe, from now on, you will consider helping visitors instead of pointing sharp things at them.  Perhaps you'll even win the respect of a clan and not be homeless anymore.”

        “What...”  The goblin gulped and gazed in awe after her.  “Who are you?”

        She trotted away, down an alleyway full of goblins who stared suspiciously at the filly.

        “Somepony who earns,” she muttered.





        Walls of golden light flashed down Scootaloo's armored figure.  Quietly, she rode a swaying elevator car up a towering spindle of aluminum towards the eighteenth strut built from the base of Petra.  The rising metal platform rattled around her like a cage as she gazed straight up.  The giant, golden discs of the imp city’s districts loomed above, piercing the black smog with a vibrant, platinum glow.  Taking a deep breath, she glanced down.  Beyond her hooves, she could see through the metallic spiderweb platform that formed the “floor” of the elevator car.  She was able to spot the smog-laden surface of the Wasteland over a thousand meters below.  The entire bottom half of Petra loomed between her and ground level.  Scootaloo knew that her armor was restraining her wings.  She imagined that if the elevator's platform was to suddenly snap apart, she would fall for a good minute and a half before finally and fatally hitting the earth.

        There was a snickering sound.  Scootaloo glanced aside.

        She was sharing the elevator car with three goblin workers.  They each wore green collars around their necks, like long emerald scarves.  The fellow clan members murmured among each other, secretively, casting the pegasus several smirking glances.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She leaned back against the side of the car and watched as the hulking shape of Eighteen Strut loomed within view above them.  A heterogeneous sea of lanternlights, steam boilers, oil fires, and sparkling tesla coils came into focus.

        “Ahem...”

        The filly glanced lethargically at her fellow passengers.

        “A long way from your stables, hmm?”  The tallest of the goblins smirked up at her under a glinting pair of work goggles.  “Does the pony come here to die?”

        The last pony stared blankly back at him.  “What?  And steal your life’s ambition?”

        The other two goblins poked at their talkative companion and laughed.  He fidgeted where he stood before smirking awkwardly.  There was a loud hissing noise of compressed hydraulics as the rattling elevator came to a stop.  The door flew open with a clatter, and the three goblins scurried out, snickering and chattering in a noisy cloud.  A slumped Scootaloo marched after them, making her lonely way through the middle streets of Strut Eighteen, Level Beta.

Here, the streets were crowded, positively drenched in imp life.  Scootaloo imagined the Hex-Bleeders to be a very important clan, in that their districts were filled to the brim with merchants, craftsmakers, traders, and even peddlers of food.  If fate could somehow take the open market of pre-Cataclysm Ponyville, replace every pony with a goblin, and bathe it with soot and grime, such could have poetically described Strut Eighteen.

        This stretch of an analogy ended the very moment Scootaloo found herself having to step over a bloodstained patch of metal sidewalk.  Her brow furrowed as she glanced around the streetcorners of the rusted district, spotting random bulkheads stained with the tell-tale signs of ancient scuffles, all of them having achieved a juicy end.  The distant sounds of angry shouts and steam pistol shots added to the foreboding ambiance of the crowded latticework as Scootaloo shuffled along.

        Level Beta was a claustrophobic thing, a thin sandwich of a horizontal space squished between two separate and identical floors.  Everything about the place was a hollow web of porous metal.  Glancing down, Scootaloo saw straight through the bulkheads to witness the paths and buildings of the district directly beneath her.  Looking up, the last pony spotted the topmost level of Strut Eighteen and the many soles of pedestrian feet shuffling immediately above.  She figured that every circular platform of Petra was built in this same, highly revealing way.  The goblins had very little to hide in their city of industry.  The only opaque things in the neighborhood were the iron factories and aluminum houses that randomly dotted the platforms, but even those buildings spared enough windows for wandering eyes to peer through.

        Still, Petra was a machine first and a dwelling place second.  Every shop, every saloon, every blacksmith, every foundry, and every office was really just an offshoot to a giant contraption that never stopped expanding for a second.  As Scootaloo trotted along, she gazed about and spotted random clusters of goblins huddled around welding tools, applying the finishing touches to new metallic structures that would never truly be finished.  There was no end to construction, so long as the imps lived and breathed; there was no end to Petra.

        Through the translucent walls of metal webbing, endless clusters of rotating gears and pumping pistons filled the rattling metropolis with a constant, mechanical heartbeat.  Millions upon millions of kilometers of pipe snaked around every nook and cranny, pumping steam relentlessly through the circulatory system of the two-kilometer high structure.  If Petra was alive, Scootaloo was navigating its lungs, and those rusted tubes were filled with a smoggy breath that didn't know when to quit.  Occasional vents of steam billowed through the platforms and walls of the place to bathe the last pony in a warm mist, constantly reminding her that she was just a trotting infectant in the middle of an alien organism of rust.

        Scootaloo hardly needed the city's mechanisms to remind her of this.  Every set of goblin eyes followed her for the full length of time it took the last pony to wander down a metal-plated street, only to experience the same hard-edged scrutiny upon the next rusted block of suspended urbanscape.  She gazed back at every single one of them, meeting their goggled gazes with that of her own.  If what she had read about impkind was correct, her best chance at avoiding the harassment of goblins was to bestow upon them the same distaste that was being tossed her way.  She only wished she had known that when she was much younger.  Books eventually taught her how to avoid pain; experience showed her how to deal with it.  Some way or another, she would always have to deal with it.

        Goblins were short, razor-clawed, thick-skinned creatures.  However, they were hardly monstrosities.  For the first time, Scootaloo saw imp children.  They gazed down at her innocently from the upper stories of rusted shanty houses, their bright eyes reflecting the gold lanternlight of Strut Eighteen around them.  Young goblin teenagers huddled around street corners, staring at the last pony with as much curiosity as disgust, too shocked to toss anything insulting her way.  For a brief moment, the pegasus wondered if perhaps she had very little to worry about in Petra after all.

        Then she found clusters of miners.  These goblins loitered around smoldering forges, murmuring amidst each other before their shifts came.  Then they would descend to the lower struts to take a train ride to the Cloudsdalian ruins and face the labor ahead of them.  In the meantime, however, they stopped whatever it was they were chatting about to stare fixedly at the last pony, their razor-sharp jaws locked into jeering smirks as they murmured and spoke hushed, offensive things behind her flank.  One danced out into the open street and charaded a “prancing” motion, all the while braying forth a melodramatic whinnie.  His fellow cohorts laughed loudly, their voices ringing against the metal walls full of gears and steam vents.

        Scootaloo sighed hard through her nostrils.  She glanced aside, briefly spotting a full line of workers—all wearing matching purple eyepatches as a clan sign.  These scarred, one-eyed goblins gave the last pony a lasting glare that could set snow on fire.  For a moment, she imagined that if there were no other goblin clans present, these half-lings in particular would have no hesitation gutting her right there and then, out in the open.

        She turned to look ahead when something harshly bumped into her side.  She teetered briefly on her hooves, expertly absorbing the brunt of the blow through her thick leather armor.  Scootaloo glanced over her shoulder in time to see a line of goblin miners marching the opposite way down the street.  One imp towards the back of the procession chuckled, rubbing a jutting elbow.

        “Whoops!  By Dimming’s Blight, did I just run into a side of meat?” he uttered.

        “Before the next stormfront, I think it will be!”  a companion chirped.  “Roasted at that!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Heheheh... Who the heck would eat broiled glue?  Heheheh...”

        Scootaloo didn't have time to frown at them when a splash of horrible, smelly liquid drenched her left flank.  She glanced aside in time to see a mother goblin standing upon the threshold of a household with an empty lavatory tray in her grasp.

        “Watch where you trot, pony.  You might not like what you step in,” she muttered, her glare betraying the fact that the drenching was hardly an accident.  She shuffled back into the house, closing the rusted aluminum door and blocking out the curious gaze of two tiny children within.

        The last pony blinked.  She glanced down at her two left hooves, watching as the offensive yellow liquid oozed down her limbs and dripped grotesquely through the porous grate to the streets below her.  Flaing her nostrils through the offending stench, she marched forward, undaunted... at least until her front right hoof nearly tripped on something.

        With a metal clank, Scootaloo realized that her forward horseshoe had slid loose again.  Cursing briefly to herself, she picked the curved metal object up in her teeth and glanced about for an empty spot to sit.  She decided on a lonely street corner ahead of her and shuffled over towards it, squatting down low so as to have full access to her right forelimb.  Muttering to herself, she worked on the laborious task of attaching the infernal article to her hoof.  Secretly she wished she had visited Bruce for a little bit longer and bought some new shoe pieces.  In a world full of dead ponies, finding a good farrier was next to impossible.

        She was interrupted in the middle of this thought by a chunk of dull sky marble ricocheting severely off her leather cap.  The last pony barely moved, though the impact caught her attention nonetheless.  Gazing across the street, she saw a gaggle of young adult goblins frowning at her, their reddened ears wobbling as they hurled insults along with their rocks.

        “Glue stick!  Go back to the Wasteland where you belong!”

        “Yeah!  Roll into a ditch somewhere and choke on hay, you dang sky-stealer!”

        “Sky-stealing glue stick!”  One youth twirled his whole body in the effort of flinging an ivory pebble her way.  “This isn't your steam anymore!”

        Scootaloo effortlessly dodged the thrown rock.  Without looking, she pulled a yellow-painted runestone out of her pocket and slid it halfway across the street with an errant hoof.  “H'rhnum,” she mumbled.

        In a purple haze of light, the rune etched across the moonrock faded, and a batch of chemicals inside mixed together.  Soon, a series of bright, golden sparks exploded at the twitching feet of the startled youths.  The goblins shrieked and scampered nervously away from the brilliant, frightening, but altogether harmless flare.  Watching from the upper balcony of a rusted metal saloon, a half-dozen gray-haired imps chuckled and raised drinks in a mock toast.  They scoffed at Scootaloo between sips, murmuring illicitly to one another while casting sly glances the pegasus’ way.

        The last pony fiddled and fiddled with her horseshoe, suddenly overwhelmed by the noises and sounds of that rusted cage of a city district.  Before her, a ramp rose towards Alpha Level above, but she suddenly didn't have the strength to get up from her lonely spot.  As the clanking and rattling of gears filled her ears, she closed her eyes, sighing long and hard.  The last pony tried taking herself to a happy place, but—as always in her life—she only found herself returning to far darker, danker hovels.






        When Scootaloo's eyes finally opened, she was more disappointed than shocked to still be alive.  Every square centimeter of her bruised skin throbbed as she witnessed the pock-marked ceiling of wreckage shuffling above her.  She realized that she was being dragged limply across the inner ruins of Cloudsdale.  Wincing, she glanced down to see a hand with four pale fingers gripped around her left rear limb.  Before she could summon an inquisitive voice, the little filly was flung towards the foreboding edge of a jutting cliff-face.

        “Ungh!”  she grunted, her front limbs hanging over the precipice.  Scootaloo gritted her teeth, tasting dried blood on her chapped lips as she gazed sickly into a broad, black chasm.  Across the empty expanse, she could spot a thin, granite sliver of rocky promontories littered with metallic debris, what looked to be a pile of discarded machinery that was hardly the product of Equestrian tinkering.

        “Alright, glue stick,” the voice of her chief tormentor, Matthais, grunted into the snow-laden air of the subterranean pit.  The pale goblin paced around her on shuffling, clawed feet.  Scootaloo became faintly aware of his four companions squatting by the wayside, rummaging through what remained of her saddlebag.  They had torn it off her catatonic body after she fell unconscious from the beating.  “This is your last chance to be of use to us.”

        There was a threatening sound of ringing metal.  Scootaloo squinted to see a flicker of twilight glinting off a rusted dagger.  The pale goblin marched towards her, hoisted her with a vicious grip of one wing, and aimed the knife straight at her throat.  She struggled not to whimper, or else her throat might accidentally poke itself on the sharp shiv tightly held against her orange coat.

        “For whatever your pathetic life is worth, we've got stuff to help it last longer.  Unfortunately for the both of us, most of that stuff was lost when the wagon we were pulling fell down this gigantic sinkhole that your stupid cloud city made when it collided with the earth.  Now we're all stuck here, and we can't get to the tools that can help us climb out of this festering pit of refuse.”  He pointed a gnarled finger across the grand, gaping chasm.  “What's more, there are these nasty creatures lurking about—no doubt some failed experiments that your Goddess forgot to seal up when she let the world go 'kaboom.'  No matter, if you want to make up for all of your race's pitiful mistakes, taking flight across the way and fetching us our tools would be a nice start.  Do you hear me, glue stick?!  This is the last time any creature is ever gonna be merciful with you ever.  Do this for us, and we'll pretend that we shouldn't just kill you right here and now.  We'll not bother you again.  Got it?”

        “I... I...”

        “Well?!”  Matthais elbowed her hard in the shoulder and tightened his grip on her tiny wing.  “Are you going to be a smart little horsie and take advantage of this opportunity?!  Or is your head about as dense as your hooves?”

        “I...”  Scootaloo murmured, her feathered appendages twitching pitifully in the goblin's clawed grasp.  “I'm too young to fly...”

        “What was that?!”

        “I-I can't fly, alright?!”  Scootaloo spat, gulping a lump down her haggard throat.  “I... I can't get your stuff for you... I'm sorry...”

        Matthais dropped her in a grunting slump.  He stood up, fuming, and stifled a rising growl long enough to bark over his shoulder toward his companions.  “She says she can't fly!  Petra forbid, we come across the only pegasus after the Dimming who's not a smoldering pile of dust and bones and she can't even freakin' take wing!”

        “Hahaha!”  Braxx laughed as he rifled through one of the saddlebags' pockets, stowing several of Scootaloo's belongings in the many pouches of his bandoleer.  He adjusted his goggles and smirked Matthais' way.  “What did you expect?!  All that those glue sticks were good for was singing and dancing!”

        “Not to mention flinging cyclones our way!”  another goblin remarked.  She opened a can of oats, sniffed it, and poured a little bit down her throat.  Immediately, she spat the stuff out and made a retching face.  “Gyaaah!  How could they have eaten this crap?!  It's a good thing most of them died!  Anything that eats garbage should become one with the worms.”

        “This puts us back to square one!”  Matthais grunted, shrugging wildly.  “Most of our weapons are on the far end of the ravine!  It's not like we can scavenge anything from those worthless fliers' buildings!  The most they ever crafted to defend themselves with was spears!”

        “It's friggin' cold down here, and that glue stick's got something that none of those brittle fossils have got!”  Another goblin muttered, nodding Matthais' way.  “Skin her while the flesh is still warm and pliable.”

        “Works for me.”  The pale goblin turned and knelt before Scootaloo.  Wasting no time, he brought the knife to her trachea.  “First let's get all the air out of you...”

        The orange filly trembled.  She closed her eyes.  Somepony's devilish grin greeted her across a crimson sunset.  She reached blindly towards it, calling out her name.  Only a whimpering sound came out.








        “I-I'm sorry!  Please!  Please stop hurting me!”

        Against the green goblin's plea, a taller and far more muscular imp snarled, slid across the street, and slammed a heavy foot into the waif's exposed chest.  “Nnngh!”

        The green teenager rolled over, curling into a fetal position as a crowd of pointy-eared bullies clustered over him, taking turns kicking him violently in the spine, neck, hips, and thighs.  He coughed and sputtered under a sea of blossoming bruises, coughing up blood and fighting back a gargling sob as the smell of his own juices filled the chilly, open air of Alpha Level.

        “You worthless no-bleeder!”  the largest bully hissed through crooked teeth, kicking the youth so that the quivering teenager rolled like a ragdoll over the metal patio of a three-story saloon.  A pair of bright, glistening tesla coils sparkled overhead, flickering bright flashes of white light across the violent melee.  “You come to my father's shop, branded like that, and even think about asking for work?!  You are nothing—do you hear me?!  You are lost unto Petra!  You have two hands for crapping and none for working!  Go throw yourself off the Strut and rid the world of your filth!”

        “Pl-Please...”  The green goblin squinted up at him through squinting, aquamarine eyes.  “No imp will help me.  I just want to eat.  I-I will do anything if y-you just give me food.  I will even clean up after your elders—”

        “Do not speak of my elders!”  The tall half-ling kicked him again while his companions spat down at the battered beggar.  “They were manifesting Petra under the ponies' skies long before the Dimming!  Long before some no-bleeder filth spawned you into the Wasteland!  If this wasn't Hex Blood territory, I would slit your throat myself!”  The surly goblin made to kick the teenager once more when a door to the adjacent saloon suddenly burst open, knocking him off-balance.

        Panting, a frenzy-eyed, brown goblin stumbled out of the crooked structure.  He was sweating bullets as he glanced every which way and ultimately scampered straight down the central metal street of the district.  “Somebody!  Anybody!  H-Help me!  They're going to kill me!”

        The goblin bully with crooked teeth rubbed his shoulder, glancing curiously at the fleeing figure.  Suddenly, a dozen imps marched out of the saloon, all following the lead of a remarkably tall female goblin wearing a yellow armband over her left shoulder.  A long, green ponytail hung off her skull between two sharp ears pierced with golden ringlets.  Her green left eye twitched at a larger, paler shade than her right as she glanced out into the street and watched the distant figure running off in a panicked gait.

        “Nnngh!”  Obstinately, the crooked toothed bully barked up at her.  “What gives?!”  He stepped over the aching teenager as his companions watched on.  “Go do your Rust-Bleeder business somewhere else—”  His voice croaked on a high pitch, his eyes bulging painfully.

        The green-haired female was clutching his crotch in a vice-hard grip of gnarled claws.  Without looking, she yanked him viciously down by her grasp so that his legs crossed.  She then flung her hand to a side holster, twirled a pistol loose, and whipped him viciously across the face so hard that his right ear tore straight down the middle.  The bleeding goblin fell to the floor beside the teenager he had been pummeling, joining him in a chorus of agonized wails.  The bully’s companions stepped back, abandoning him before the sight of these yellow-banded imps.

        A gust of hot air burst out of a ventilation pipe and blew at the girl's green hair.  Sighing, the goblinette brought her pistol hand up to her tan face and gnawed anxiously on her knuckles.  “Nnnngh...”  She murmured through tiny breaths, as if weathering a perpetual migraine.  “I frickin' hate steam.”  Her left eye twitched as she brought her hand down, sighed long and hard, and pointed towards the runaway goblin.  “Darper, if you wouldn't mind.  There's a good boomer.”

        “Right away, Miss Ryst.”  A black-haired goblin wearing a matching yellow armband pulled out a long-ranged rifle reinforced with serpentine coils of steam pipes running all across its stock and barrel.  Smiling wickedly, he squinted down the sight.  Several gasping pedestrians jumped out of the middle of the road, giving a clear shot to the running goblin.  With a high-powered blast, Darper pulled the trigger, and a red-hot bolt of iron sailed down the district of Alpha Level until it expertly skewered the leg of the fleeing target.

        “Augh!”  The brown goblin fell like a sack of wet meat in the middle of the metal street.  His left ankle had burst open, and several toes spilled loosely over the metal webbing as his blood dripped towards Level Beta below.  “Nnnngh—Aaaaaaahhhh...” He wailed and clutched his quivering stub as Ryst shuffled up along with her posse of yellow-banded thugs.

        “Mmmmmm... Oh my dear sweet Salvin.  How far such a boomer has fallen, yes yes yessss...”  Ryst murmured above the rattling noise of nearby gears and pistons.  Darper's gun exhaled a white plume of mist as he cocked the weapon, reloading a fresh new steambolt.  Ryst, meanwhile, squatted down above the bleeding brown goblin, dangling her pistol loosely between her legs as she glanced down at him with her left eye quivering.  “Haman gives and he takes away.  You do not take away from Haman, no matter how much you have given to him.  How could you forget such simple spit?  Hmm?  Be a good boomer and explain that to me.”

        “Nnngh... Hauchkkt...” Salvin rolled over in the middle of the street, clutching the knee above his ragged muscle mass as he bled all over the bulkheads beneath them.  “I... I-I was g-gonna pay back the Rust-Bleeders!  I was!  I-I-I started a loan with the Bread Blood clan of Strut Nine to g-get Haman more supplies!  Yeah!  That's it!  You g-gotta believe me, Miss Ryst—”

        “Shhhh!  Shh-Shh-Shh...”  Ryst rubbed a shaking hand over his blonde bangs before picking at the wax in his pointed ears with a bothersome expression.  “You have been working the pits too long, boomer.  There is soot in your head, or else you would have heard Haman's lecture on making unauthorized deals with the lower bleeders.  Yes yes yessss?  You remember how he chastises boomers who think for themselves and not for him.”

        “I only wanted to increase our pr-profit!”  Salvin exclaimed.  The brown goblin hyperventilated, struggling to stare up at her.  “Ever since Haman pulled out of the weapons market, our income has been nil!  With every other clan t-taking up more shares of the sky marble, Rust Blood will get swallowed up!  We will!”

        “Hmmmm.  It's Haman's job to decide if we're the appropriate pill or not, do you think?”  Ryst's eyes darted about as she ran a twitching hand through her green locks.  “So many goblins nowadays give heavy spit about Petra's unification.  I think it's a dumb idea, but I'm not Haman.  If Haman will let it happen, it'll happen on his terms, not yours or mine.  But the difference between you and me, little boomer, is that I carry his guns for him.  And you... just what do you carry?”

        “I... I-I have my fortune!”  Salvin hissed through clenched teeth, sweating profusely.  “I took it all out of the clan's hold when I went to make the loan payment with Bread Blood!  Here!  It's in my pocket!  I offer it to Haman as compensation for m-my wrongdoing!”

She gnawed on her knuckles as she glanced at him.  After a few jittery seconds, she slurred through the back of her hand, “In which pocket?”

        Salvin shook the left side of his torso.  A heavy lump shifted in his vest.  Ryst snuck her hand into the pouch and produced forty strips of silver.

        “Hmmm...”  Her left eye twitched as she glanced over the tiny bars.  She brought them to her mouth and flicked a tongue against them before pursing her lips.  “Hmm-hmmm... Twelve years post-dimming.  That was a tasty year for minting.”  She stood up, juggled the strips, then tossed them apathetically over her shoulder into the paws of one of her cohorts.  “Bad boomer.  Darper?”

        The black-haired goblin nodded.  He aimed the rifle point-blank into Salvin's neck.

        The brown imp gasped.  “No!  Wait!  Please, Miss Ryst!  Don't—”

        Salvin's voice was cut off by an explosion of steam.  A bloody hole formed in the metal street, meanwhile a round object with flapping ears rolled off into a nearby aluminum gutter.  As whiffs of hot air billowed from Darper's gun, Ryst cracked the cricks out of her neck, shook the blood off her bare feet, and shuffled over to the goblin who caught the strips.

        “Seriously, though.  The Bread-Bleeders?  Who would want to give up the yellow armband for those polka-dotted aprons?”

        “Beats the heck out of me, Miss Ryst.”  A stout, bald goblin with brass knuckles waved the strips in his grasp.  “You want I should drop these in Haman's box?”

        “Mmmph... Not quite yet, Otto,” she said, murmuring through the back of her wrist as she took turns gnawing on her knuckles and scratching behind her ear with the barrel of her pistol.  “There are still lots of foolish boomers who have turned their backs on Rust-Blood.  Haman wants them found out before they embarrass him even more than they already have.  Impatience these days is a poor, poor bloated animal that needs to be put out of its misery.  Yes yes yesssss...”  She glanced off, and suddenly her left eye stopped twitching.  “Speaking of which...”  Curious, Darper and Otto turned to follow her gaze.

        A lone pegasus wearing thick leather armor strolled boldly past the bloody scene.  She marched over the discarded skull of Salvan with indifference.  The gaze she threw in the direction of the beaten green beggar and wounded bully was just as emotionless.  Unhindered by the violence, she made her way straight towards the largest building of Alpha Level.  It was a a five-story warehouse that stretched broadly over nearly half of the upper portion of the Strut.

        “What business does a pony have with the Hex-Bleeders?”  Darper remarked, his rifle cocked at the hip.

        “I have no clue,” Otto exclaimed with wide eyes.  “I didn't even know ponies were still alive.”

        “Hmmm... Alive?”  Ryst's face twitched at an angle as she murmured, “Nothing that comes from the Wasteland is ever alive, my little boomers; I think I may have found my sister.”

        Darper snickered and smiled at the tall, green-haired goblin.  “Miss Ryst, is this another one of your riddles?”

        She frowned briefly, waving the hot steam of his rifle out from her face.  “I do not spit in riddles.  Hmmm... Only in bullets.”  She cracked a joint in her neck and shuffled off.  “Come.  Cowardly boomers await.  And try to stop smelling bad for once, Darper.”  Her posse followed her, leaving the carnage in the metal street like so much refuse before them.





        Scootaloo came to a shuffling stop before the front of the warehouse.  She raised a hoof to her goggles and adjusted the lenses, focusing on the image of a group of imps monitoring an elaborate operation taking place.  High above the metallic heights of Strut Eighteen, a trio of steam-powered, gremlin hovercraft were lowering a gigantic ivory slab of Cloudsdalian sky marble through a large pair of iron doors opened like a reverse hangar bay in the roof of the five-story building.  As the remarkably pale chunk of solidified steam slowly descended, one goblin standing on the edge of the rooftop barked angrily at the clamoring workers.

        “Easy!  Easy!  Will you friggin' watch where you're dropping that?!  If you crush the clan-leader, it would really, really suck!”  The goblin was a young adult, her short brown hair hoisted over a red bandanna that danced with crimson tails in the high winds of Petra.  Her slender ears curled back in a visible sign of frustration as she waved her well-toned arms and squawked at the masked gremlins piloting the hovercrafts.  “We're paying you handsomely by the minute!  It's okay to take your friggin' time!”

        Scootaloo leaned her head to the side, observing the situation from street level.  Suddenly, she shouted, “If the gremlins rotated each of their crafts counter-clockwise all at once, they should be able to compensate for the sway of the wind against the slab!”

        The brown-haired goblinette jolted.  Glancing down with thin green eyes, she frowned.  “Who the heck are you to tell a Prime Hex-Bleeder what to do?!”

        “What the heck does it matter?!”  Scootaloo squawked back up at her.  “Do you want to drop the slab gently or not?  Have them rotate counterclockwise to match the wind!”

        The goblin raised an eyebrow.  Adjusting her red headband with four shifty fingers, she shouted up at the pilots in gremlin tongue.  A series of masked, metallic voices ran through the air, and soon the hovercrafting imps complied, twirling about in such a fashion that the slab of sky marble remained relatively still while the cables hoisting it twirled instead.  Swiftly, then, the gremlins were able to lower the slab into the body of the warehouse under the goblins' directions.  After a few minutes, the cables were detached, and the hovercrafts rocketed off towards the monorail depot located at lower Petra.

        As the iron doors to the warehouse's rooftop closed with a steady, mechanized whirr, the goblinette glanced curiously down at the helpful visitor.  In an effortless twirl, she clasped a drainage pipe, slid down the five-story length of it, and landed agilely in front of the last pony.  She marched up towards her, planting a pair of meaty fists against her hips.

        “I'm guessing you wish to be paid for that,” she grumbled, her blue face locked in a stone-hard glare.  “Nobody offers anything for free in Petra.  Not even the smelly likes of hobs.”

        “Actually, I was thinking of paying you,” Scootaloo said.

        “Oh really?”  She folded her arms as her red bandanna billowed in the air.  “I hope you know that Hex-Bleeders do not freelance for Wastelanders.  Especially when they're... they're...”  She suddenly made a crooked expression.  “Just what in the Dimming's blight are you, anyways?”

        “Yeesh...”  Scootaloo blinked behind her goggles.  “How friggin' young are you anyways, girl?”

        “First order of business,” the goblinette spat, “is measuring substance before age.  If you wanna deal with goblins, you should learn that imps and imps alone manifest Petra, and no creature else.  That is the way of life.  If you want to benefit from our industry, you gotta respect our customs first.  So I ask again—What the heck are you?”

        “I'm a pony,”  Scootaloo uttered with a grunt.  “And if you want me to eat apples or hop over a stack of barrels to prove it, I'm trotting off to the next clan and offering them my strips instead.”

        “A pony?”  The goblin girl leaned her head to the side, her lips pursing in sudden reflection.  “You mean there are those of you who are still alive?  Pfft!  How sad is that?”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “It's a regular Flankspearean Tragedy.  Now look, I don't want to complicate the matter by over-explaining things.  All I need is a trip to the inner pits of the mining operation that you Huxtable Bleeders are—”

        “Hex-Bleeders.”

        “Whatever—You goblins are overseeing the salvaging of sky marble from a particular part of the quarry that I seek access to.”  Scootaloo glanced briefly over her shoulder at several passing imps who were staring at her.  “I have no interest in the minerals there.  I don't seek any cut of the sky marble or the profit thereof.  I'm not after steam nor gemstones nor moonrocks.  I just want to find something special that was left there long ago, something that you goblins couldn't possibly find interest in.”

        “Hah—That's rich!”  The girl managed a scathing smirk.  “Why, was it you who left it there, pony?”

        Scootaloo turned and glanced back at her with dim goggles.  “Yes.  As a matter of fact, it was me.”

        The goblin appeared as though she was about to say something.  After several blinks of her green eyes, something in her expression melted.  Very slowly, she exhaled and murmured in a somber voice, “I think you should see our clan-leader now.”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow above her goggles.  She hadn't expected to be allowed a meeting with the top member of Hex Blood that quickly.  Nevertheless, she shuffled after the goblin girl, glancing as four guards with matching red bandannas parted ways to allow the two figures into the hollow of the warehouse.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        “No doubt you saw the Rust-Bleeders out and about,” the girl said with a grumbling voice.  She led Scootaloo down thin, metallic passageways brimming with steam pipes as they made their way into the heart of the warehouse.  “Personally, I think they should all be kicked out of Strut Eighteen for causing that much mayhem, but so long as they're only conducting business for Haman—however bloody that business may be—our clan leader lets them do what they want.  I swear though, it seems like every goblin these days is bending over backwards to let the Rust-Bleeders do whatever the heck they friggin' want.”

        “As far as I'm concerned, you're all bleeders,” Scootaloo muttered in mid-trot.  “Nothing but bleeders.”

        “'Nothing but bleeders...' Heh...”  She smirked bitterly over her shoulder at the last pony.  “Are you some sort of proponent of unification?”

        “I'd answer that if I understood the question.”

        “There's been a lot of talk over the last decade,” she said.  “Ever since the Mountain and Fire Ogres started their war over the Valley of Jewels to the east, many leaders in Petra think that all of the goblin clans should join as one, as a sign of strength and solidarity  For a while, our city benefited from an open weapons market with the ogres, selling pressurized steam to the armies in exchange for the resources to manifest more Petra, but just recently, everything changed.”

        “Yeah?  Like what?”

        “The chief trading clan—the wealthiest bunch of bleeders in this entire imp city—pulled out of the market.  Without their support, the rest of the clans had to back out.  This left both ogre factions high and dry, and the war has been swaying in favor of the Mountain Ogres ever since.”

        “Just who had the brass to do that?”

        The girl's nostrils flared.  “The Rust-Bleeders, who else?”

        “Ah, right.”  Scootaloo nodded, no less confused than when the conversation began.  “How does all of this crap end up with goblins being shot to death in the middle of your clan's streets and not the Rust-Bleeders'?”

        “So many clans have done business with Haman of Rust Blood.  We owe his wealthy family ten million times over.  If his little goon squad has to comb our streets to track down defecting Rust-Bleeders, the Hex-Bleeders will let them.  His bloodletting is honored by tradition, so long as it's only his own blood or former blood he sheds.”

        “Are you sure you goblins can easily tell the difference?”

        “Pffft...”  She glanced back at her with icy eyes.  “And ponies were nothing but bright manes and colorful tattoos.”

        “Works for me.”

        “Heheh... I imagine that a lot of things work for you.”

        “Keep imagining, lady.  Business is business; that’s all I’m here for.”  Scootaloo glanced up as the two of them suddenly marched out into the central warehouse interior.  A wide, five-story tall chamber opened up before the last pony.  Several clusters of sky marble were affixed to metal lattices as dozens of goblin workers in red bandannas crawled over them, using various power tools to break the solidified steam composites into smaller shards fit for trips to the foundries of Petra's inner stalk.  She murmured in a distant tone, “I'm curious.  If I was just any other goblin, and not a pony, would you have taken me on this grand tour?”

        “Probably not.”

        “Why, if I may ask?”

        “Tchh... You're asking me?”  She glared back at Scootaloo as she stood before the giant ivory slab that had just been lowered through the doors of the warehouse roof.  “Miss, I don't pretend to understand the world.  All I ever handle is steam.”  She shuffled up towards a trio of goblins standing next to the slab and examining its bright white surface.  “Hex-Bleeder Prime, I bring you a visitor.”

        “Hrmmm... So grimy.  So very grimy.” A male figure with wrinkled blue skin paced before the leaning slab.  His muscles were still well-toned for his age, but the goblin's legs were encased in shiny copper braces that spouted steam as the tiny servos and joints moved to match his shuffling gait.  “How many blasted times have I told Matthais to inspect the samples before they're committed to the Gremlins for extraction?”

        The brown-haired goblinette cleared her throat.  “Sir?”  She frowned, and her thin green eyes glared.  “Father... We have a visitor.”

        “Bah!  A visitor—A visitor!  We always have visitors!  If it's one of Haman's or Miss Ryst's murderous thugs, I haven't the time!  This month's quota has barely been met, and I'm this close to forcing Matthais into retirement from the mines!”

        “Father...”  The girl leaned in and whispered into his wilted ears.  “It's a pony.”

        The figure froze.  A cold ripple melted through his limbs, as if he had just been injected with pure ice.  Slowly, with a hissing of leg-brace hydraulics, he turned around.  He was a pale-blue goblin with white hair pulled back into ivory dreadlocks that fell from a spreading bald spot.  A pair of black goggles adorned his face just beneath a tattered, red bandanna.  Raising the goggles, he revealed a pair of copper brown eyes that inexplicably haunted the last pony upon sight.

        “So it is...”  He muttered, his voice a deep and contemplative calm amidst a world of noise, death, and industry.  “A pony, in this place of all places.”  He exhaled long and hard, as if expelling a ghostly spirit from his old, old lungs.  “After all of these years...”

        Scootaloo wasn't immediately sure why, but her heart was beating rapidly.

        “She seeks entry into the inner pits,” the goblinette explained, leaning into her father's ear while gazing cautiously the equine figure's way.  “She is willing to pay, she says...”

        “Into the pits...”  The figure slowly nodded.  “Yes, I would imagine she would want to go there.”  With a deep breath, he stepped forward.  “Greetings, Pony.  My name is—”

        “'Devo.'”  Scootaloo uttered.  She raised her goggles, revealing a pair of soft scarlets that took in his pale blue figure.  “You are Devo of Hex Blood.”

        His copper brown optics narrowed on her.  “Have...”  He cleared his throat.  “Have we met, child...?”

        The last pony felt the impulse to shiver.  Briefly, meditatively, she closed her eyes.
        




        Scootaloo's throat twitched against the biting edge of the dagger about to slice into her bruised flesh.  All of a sudden...
        
        “Matthais!”  A growling voice echoed from across the subterranean expanse of Cloudsdale's Inner Ruins.  “What in the name of Petra are you doing?!”

        “What does it look like?!  Braxx caught this useless glue stick sneaking up on us and I'm putting it out of its misery—”

        “Let that pony go this instant!”

        Scootaloo opened her eyes to find herself slumping to the granite edge of the cliff as Matthais paced angrily past her.  “Oh come off it, Devo!”  His voice grumbled.  “Don't be a bleeding heart now of all times!  You know what their kind did to the world—”

        “Which, may I remind you, remains to be proven!  Besides, even if they caused the Dimming, where's the intelligence in snuffing out the one living specimen we've found since we came down here?!”

        Scootaloo winced, whimpered, and fought the waves of pain to simply roll herself over.  When she did, she saw an older goblin marching down a steep incline of ivory rubble.  The blue figure had short white hair and carried a heavy canvas backpack over his muscular shoulders.  Seven more imps marched alongside him, and they were all casting the last pony a nervous glance, as if she was leaking pestilence simply by being there.

        “Devo, she's useless!”  Matthais pointed at her with his rusted dagger as he stood in Devo's way.  “She's a cowardly, crapping mess!  She's got wings and she can't even friggin' fly!”

        “She's also just a child!”  Devo frowned back at him.  “How many young and unlucky souls have been snuffed out and robbed of Petra since the Dimming began?!  Matthais, when I put you in charge of Beta Team, I was hoping you would have scavenged for pegasi supplies, not their blood.”

        “Well excuse me for showing a little backbone!  I swear, Devo, ever since we survived the cyclone that the ponies tossed at us, you've been humping their legs like there's no tomorrow.  A fat lot of good that’ll do us now that they're going extinct.  Where will your edge be then, huh?”

        The white-haired goblin suddenly whipped out a wrench that expanded mechanically into a clawed device.  This, he stretched threateningly around Matthais' gulping neck.  “My edge—you insufferable half-ling—is in the authority granted me by my forefathers.  I am chief Hex-Bleeder.  If it weren't for me, you'd be a pile of mush under a moonrock that my clan pulled you away from.  Do you respect my blood, or should I toss you into the chasm along with the rest of your dead, Teeth-Bleeder siblings?!”

        Matthais shuddered, then slowly bowed his head.  “No... D-Devo...”

        “Swear it.”

        Matthais cleared his throat.  He bowed his head even lower.  “I am Matthais of Teeth Blood, and I owe my life to you and all of your Hex-Bleeders.”

        “Very well.”  The elder goblin's nostrils flared as he retracted his wrench and holstered it into his backpack.  “Continue to pilfer what you can from the dead.  Now that Team Alpha and I are back from our expedition, I shall deal with the living.”  He shuffled slowly towards Scootaloo's side.

        The twitching orange filly slid away from him, rolling her bruised body over and covering a frightened face with her front hooves.

        “Do not be afraid, pony.”  His voice was deeper than Scootaloo's, remarkably deep for a creature of his small stature.  He knelt down beside her and laid a gentle hand across the one spot on her shoulder that wasn't bruised.  His face took on a pitiable shade as he summoned a deep breath from within, murmuring, “My name is Devo of Hex Blood, and I am deeply sorry for what has happened to you.  I cannot take back the wounds that my inferiors have dealt you.  In many ways, I cannot blame them for their anger.  The Sun and Moon were under your race's magical control when the Dimming happened...”

        “I... I-I don't know why everything is the w-way it is...”  Scootaloo shivered and trembled, her teeth chattering as she avoided his gaze.  Her violet eyes fell into the black abyss of the chasm, just a sneeze's length from where her body rested precariously along the cliff-face.  “Cloudsdale fell.  The world b-burned.  The sky and everything in it exploded and I-I don't know where everypony is.  I c-can't tell you anything.  I can't...”  She struggled and struggled not to sob.  “I just can't...”

        “And you don't have to,”  he breathed.  The elder goblin's lips lingered, as if he was desperate to say something else, but wasn't sure if this was the correct time or place.  His eyes curved, holding back deep copper pools of an emotion that was just as strange to him as this sudden equine figure was.  Clearing his throat, he ran a hand across the violet stubble of her shaved mane and muttered.  “'When Petra has blossomed under one blood, then you will know it's time to give a pony her colors....'”

        Scootaloo's face contorted in confusion as she shivered and shivered.

        Devo's eyes narrowed.  “Do these words make any sense to you?”

        “No,” she sputtered, wincing under another wave of pain.  “Do they make sense to you?  Please... Just tell me what you need f-from me.  I'll do anything if you j-just don't hurt me...”

        “Hmmm... Humility.  I'd be lying if I said that this was the first time I witnessed such a quality among your kind.”  He took a deep breath and leaned back on his haunches.  “I heard that you cannot fly.  Is that true?”

        Scootaloo gazed toward the hard granite floor of the plateau beneath them.  Her gaze was full of instant and undeniable shame.

        The aged imp immediately recognized it.  “A pity,” he said.  “My violent companion, Matthais, may be a goblin, but he thinks like a diamond dog.  He would rather spill blood and plunder than tinker.  The Dimming is already bound to be the most horrible event in history, but somehow I feel that his kind was born for it.”  Devo tilted his white head of hair towards the high ceiling of the Cloudsdalian ruins.  “Still, he was right about our tools.  We need them desperately if we're to climb out of this trap we've fallen into.  We were within sight of your... 'Cloud's Dale' when it fell, young pony.  We figured that now was our one opportunity to learn the secrets of pegasi sky marble.  A burning comet of moonrocks overtook us during our descent.  Many of my blood brothers and sisters died.  Even now, I can still hear their screams, days past their burial...”

        Scootaloo squinted at him, her shivers constant, but manageable.  She visually navigated the contours of this creature's face and was rather surprised to see sincere emotion for the first time since a prismatic savior smiled at her from across a forest of black, arcane bars.  Something suddenly glinted in the twilight.  Her violet eyes glanced up past his shoulder.  She spotted a small black box of tin with a white stripe painted across it.

        Devo saw her darting eyes.  He made a point of dragging the edge of his canvas backpack down, hiding the striped box from her sight.  After a meditative breath, the clan leader spoke, “Indeed, Petra has far from blossomed.  May the bleeder ancestors help us; I can't see for the life of me how we can manifest Petra in all of this mess.”  He ran four clawed fingers through his white hair and looked back at his many shuffling companions.  “You may see nothing but pony-hating, simple-minded monstrosities.  Equestrian subjects had the habit of employing a glorified tunnel vision as well.  I cannot fault you for the failings of your race, and I hope you cannot fault me for protecting these brothers and sisters of mine with every fiber of my being, even in spite of their own blemishes.  If the Dimming is to produce more than twilight, it will be up to imps to take up what the hoofed kind have failed to maintain.  Still...”  He turned and gave her a gentle look.  “It doesn't mean that we cannot help each other.  After all... it does appears as if you are trapped in this grave as helplessly as the rest of us.”

        “How... H-How...”  Scootaloo coughed up a spit of blood, winced, and barely managed to keep her eyes open.  “How can I p-possibly help you...?”

        “You are the only living pegasus we've seen in all the time our two teams have been stuck down here.  For better or for worse, that means that a piece of what kept this wondrous city afloat is still with us.  The longer you remain alive, the longer a shred of hope remains for us to find an answer to what's happened to this world.”

        “I... I d-don't know if th-there's any real hope in that...”

        “Hmm... Perhaps not.  But hope is still hope, so long as it isn't killed.”  Devo gulped.  “That has always been the first rule of manifesting Petra.”  He paused briefly.  “Are you cold?”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She merely shivered.

        “Here...”  Devo reached into a satchel hanging off his belt and produced a black stone and several scraps of metal.  “I can give you flint and tinder.  No goblin clan exists that doesn't possess loads of it.  With this, you can build yourself a fire and keep yourself alive, wherever you happen to be camped.”

        Scootaloo's violet eyes suddenly hardened.  The same fire that empowered a homeless foal to survive so many lonely nights in the forest outside of Ponyville burned brightly within her now.  Navigating a reborn well of anger, she hissed through bruised lips to say, “First you imps b-beat the snot out of me, call m-me names, and nearly kill me.  Now you want to g-give me a gift?”  She hissed.  “You... Y-You can—Snkkkt—Keep your friggin' pity!”

        He slowly, solemnly nodded.  “Yes, I imagine I should.”  He scratched his neck, glanced over his shoulder once more, and stared at several goblins fingering through Scootaloo's stuff.  He raised an eyebrow and looked back at Scootaloo.  “Perhaps some bartering is in order, then?”

        “Go jump of a cliff...”  Scootaloo bitterly grunted.  “They stole all of that from me.”

        “Indeed, but—you see—I am this clan's leader, the prime bleeder, and what I say is law, until we join up with another family at least.”  He gestured to himself.  “Allow me, if I can, to make the whole exchange fair.”

        “Fair...?”  Scootaloo gulped.  The frown left her as she breathed desperately, glancing over at the stuff.  “Okay... Okay th-then...”  She got up, shaking, and stood on four numb limbs.  Devo instinctively attempted to help her, but she merely shrugged him off with a deep-throated snarl.  “Have them give me my friggin' stuff back... and the flint and tinder.”

        “Very well,” Devo said firmly, forcing many incredulous goblins to stare at him with drooping ears.  “Is there anything else?”

        Scootaloo flashed him a surprised glance at that last question.  Blinking, she produced her first grin in days—albeit a blood-stained one.  “Yes.  I want one more thing...”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Matthais stood at the back of the caravan of goblins, folding his pale arms and frowning.  Several quiet and vexxed imps stood alongside him, hoisting large packs of scavenged items over their shoulders.  They all turned to look at their clan leader and the exchange that was coming to a conclusion.

        Scootaloo examined Matthais' rusty dagger up close.  With a nod of approval, she sheathed the blade and slid it into an easy-to-reach pocket of her saddlebag.  Breathing past her bruises, standing tall and proud in spite of her aching limbs, she turned to face Devo.  “So... What happens now?”

        “That is a question befitting all of us, pony,” the gray-haired leader of the impish expedition said.  He gripped the straps of his backpack as he shuffled over to his companions' side beyond a mound of rubble.  “We shall proceed to search for an exit from this place.  Our travels will likely take us to the far ends of this abyss.”

        Scootaloo nodded.  “I get it.  I stay on my side of the huge gaping hole, and you all stay on yours.  We don't have to meet with each other, talk to each other, or even know that each other exists.”

        Devo's eyes narrowed.  “Is that how you wish it to be?”

        “Is it really up to me?”  She frowned, casting a bitter glance at the many goblins shuffling beside their leader.

        Braxx smirked under glinting goggles.  Matthais merely huffed and rolled his eyes.

        “So be it.” Devo nodded.  “Though there may come a time when you'll want the assistance of our tinkering hands.  I'm sure it beats having hooves on any occasion.”

        “Yeah.  You keep thinking that.”

        Devo managed a slight smirk.  “You have a tenacious spirit, pony.  If your race lived a little while longer, I almost think you could have been capable of manifesting Petra yourselves.  For the time being, however...”  He nodded towards the junk-ridden layer of granite across the black chasm.  “So long as neither of our kinds can reach that promontory, it will be a difficult prospect at best to find a way out of here.  In the meantime, we could all perish from a falling moonrock, a cave-in, or something far more nefarious...”

        “Like what?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

        “Don't pretend that you haven't seen them, pony,” Devo murmured in an icy tone.  “Don't pretend that you haven't spotted them crawling out from the fissures in the earth, basking in the twilight, eating from the flesh and bones of your dead relatives—as they've raked the flesh from my brothers and sisters.”

        The last pony shuddered.  “I can't pretend anything anymore.  What's the point?”

        “Pretending is a lot like manifesting Petra, young one,” Devo said.  “It keeps us alive.”  He turned about and shouted towards his clan members.  “We move north!  Even pacing!  Stay clear of the edges or else you might fall into shadow!  Let us scour the walls for an exit from this infernal place!”  That uttered, the grand cluster of half-lings marched away, leaving the pegasus blissfully alone once more.

        She exhaled slowly, reveling in the weight of her belongings.  Still, she felt empty, for what was once tucked away behind her ear had been dissolved into a thousand blue strands blown away by the Wasteland winds.  The last pony turned around and marched directly home to her tiny niche, knowing that there were still three more feathers just like it.

        “Don't you tell me what friggin' keeps me alive...”





        The rusted door to a cramped office opened with a creaking noise.  Four walls of spiderwebbed metal fixtures surrounded a flat slab of iron that served as a foundation for a desk, two workbenches, and several aluminum lockers.  A red lantern flickered above, casting a dim, crimson glow over the claustrophobic space.  Almost all corners of the Hex-Bleeders' warehouse could be seen from the porous walls of the lofty place.  Scootaloo, however, couldn't keep her eyes off the elder goblin with white dreadlocks as he limped into the room on whirring leg-braces, balancing a thick notebook of mining schedules in his four-fingered grasp.

        “You never did answer my question, child,” Devo muttered hoarsely to the vaporous air of the place.  Wafts of steam and hydraulic exhaust billowed through the vents in the wall as he waved off a pair of armed guards.  They gave Scootaloo a shifty glance before reluctantly shuffling out of the room to wait beside the brown-haired daughter of the clan leader just beyond the closed door.  “Could it be possible that our paths have crossed before?”

        Scootaloo breathed uneasily.  She had seen bloody horrors and cruel atrocities throughout her entire visit thus far, and only now—before the grace of this soft-spoken elder—was she suddenly overwhelmed with an vague sense of trepidation.

        “Many things are possible in the Wasteland,” she said.  “And most of them are best forgotten.”

        He stood briefly behind his desk and stared at her with thin, copper eyes.  “I never forget, child, not even for a second.  One cannot live for as long as I have and afford to lose track of his mind and still expect to be anywhere but in the grave.  That is the least I can say about the many younger clan-leaders committing murders in the streets outside like a harlequin would perform juggling acts.  A poor memory is a crutch that so many lower bleeders of Petra lean on as they pave for us all a future of bedlam and chaos.  There was once a day and age when my own streets were clean of spilled blood.  Alas, I no longer have the same authority and control that afforded me this lofty strut of the imp city to begin with.”  Devo sighed, fumbling through the many throngs of scribbled notebook pages before him.  “You're right, though.  Many things are possible in the Wasteland.  Here, though, the balance of life is squeezed through a pathetic meat grinder of politics, and all of it paved in silver.”

        “I come bearing brass-cased strips to pay for safe passage,” Scootaloo bluntly said.  “I do not wish to add to the mayhem that is rampaging across your streets.”

        “One cannot add to that which is limitless, child.”  Devo slapped the book shut and glanced up.  “Still, I am intrigued by your approach.  Being here—being surrounded by these foreboding walls and bodies of half-ling strangers—you are undoubtedly a helpless witness to a newfound barbarism.  Wastelander or not, the fact that you come here with the intent to negotiate instead of shedding blood is remarkable.”  He kept an eye trained on her as he dialed a combination on one of his lockers, opened it, and slid the notebook inside.  “Are you certain that we haven't met before?”

        Scootaloo sighed heavily.  “Look, does it friggin' matter?  I just want to pay you to get safe passage to the pits—”

        “I believe it does matter, child.  It matters to me.” Devo leaned briefly against the open locker.  “Unlike many of my associates, I have come to know a thing or two about ponies.  Your kind embodied an honor and decency unbecoming of the grossly inaccurate tales told about them that have been handed down through time.”

        “Sir, I respect your years and your honorable opinion of my species,” Scootaloo spoke gently.  “Both are hard to come by in this world, more than you could ever imagine.  But you must understand who I am and what I do.  I'm the last of my kind, and I have a very important task to complete.  I cannot afford to conduct anything more than business in this world.  May we please keep the conversation centered upon the transaction at hoof?”

        His eyes narrowed coldly on her, though they were still laced with a thoughtful curiosity.  “So it is true, then?  You are the last of your kind?”

        Scootaloo closed her eyes, slowly inhaled through flaring nostrils, and uttered, “Yes.  Yes I am, sir.”

        “You are the last of your kind... and all you wish to do is conduct business?  For strips?”

        She stifled a snarl and reopened her eyes in a piercing frown.  “Do you interrogate everybody you meet before coming to an arrangement?  Where's the profit in that?”

        His face tightened in sudden consternation.  Something above him glinted within the locker.  Scootaloo glanced to the side.  She briefly made out what looked to be a rusted, tin box with a faded, white stripe.  This was swiftly hidden from view as he shut the locker with a metallic clang.

        “Profit...”  Deveo grunted, as if the very word was spiced with poison.  “It figures that you would presume all goblinkind to be fetishists of monetary gain and nothing else.”  He shuffled over towards the side of the desk facing her and leaned against it, folding his arms.  “As it is the inbred instinct of ponies to pick flowers and sing songs from their lofty cities in the clouds, I imagine.”

        “I beg your pardon?”

        “Grating isn't it?”  The prime Hex-Bleeder raised an eyebrow beneath his red bandanna.  “Prejudices and stigmas separate souls of this Wasteland far wider than ash and lifeless rock.  If the Fire and Mountain Ogres simply forgave each other for their undesirable qualities, the war over the Valley of Jewels would have ended over a decade ago.  Unfortunately, nobody expects that war to end without the utter desolation of one ogre clan or the other.  In that same vein, nobody could have expected an equine soul like yourself trotting up to my warehouse and asking for help in reaching a place that is off limits.  To have lived so many years in the Wasteland, child, you undoubtedly had to rely on amazing resourcefulness.  What stopped you from using your various tools and talents to simply infiltrate the mining pits on your lonesome and stealing whatever it is you seek out from underneath our noses?”

        Scootaloo shifted nervously, glancing aside at the walls.  There was no opaqueness to the barriers to give her solace.  “I'm starting to wonder that myself.”

        Devo chuckled suddenly, his sharp teeth showing.  “Indeed.  And yet you are here, offering me strips.”

        “I... I guess...”  She fidgeted, then met his expression again with soft, foalish eyes.  “I've come to know a thing or two about goblins, as you did about ponies, and it left me with room for... hope.”

        “Hope...” He nodded slowly, gazing thoughtfully at her.  “Tell me, is that any more important than business?”

        “Excuse me?”

        He murmured, “'When Petra has blossomed under one blood, then you will know it's time to give a pony her colors.'”

        Scootaloo made a face.  “The heck are you going on about?”

        “What indeed.”  His blue nostrils flared as he stood up straight and paced towards a goblin map of the local Wasteland along the rusted wall.  “As much as I would love to let you into the pits, child, I'm afraid that will be impossible.”

        “How so?”  Scootaloo's brow furrowed as she turned to follow his movements.  “They're your part of the mining operations, aren't they?”

        “The clans of Petra may not all be unified, but we are all sure of one thing.  We are all imps.”  He circled a clawed finger around a highlighted portion of the map alongside a junction of monorail lines.  “As we speak, all goblins working in the mines have been given a grand issue to shoot any non-imps on sight.  This is something I cannot currently remedy, even with all the power that is invested in my blood.”

        “But I thought you were a clan-leader...”

        “There is far more at stake than I can properly explain, pony.”  He turned and gazed at her.  “Ever since Haman of Rust Blood and his entire faction pulled out of the weapons market, the ogres have been choked of goblin steam exports.  This has led to many mercenaries infiltrating our borders to rob from our resources.  Whether or not the Mountain or Fire factions are paying these ruffians, the goblins of this impcity can only speculate.  Over the last ten stormfronts alone, we've had over a hundred incursions of harpy pirates, dirigible dogs, and other sniveling creatures attempting to siphon off of our supply line.  Gremlins patrolling the mines' airspace have been paid to shoot trespassers on sight.”

        “Of that, I'm quite familiar,” Scootaloo said with a grumbling voice.  “My airship took an electrical discharge to its hull as soon as I arrived here.  After I find a way to visit the inner pits, I'm going to have to scrounge around for repairs.”

        “You will find few goblins wishing to do deals with outsiders, presently,” Devo exclaimed.  “The clans are having a hard enough time as it is trusting each other.  As soon as legitimate trade ended with the ogres, a series of heated disputes began between the many prime bleeders of Petra.  Half of the clans feel that unification is necessary.  The other half want to resume trade with the ogres at all costs.  Sitting in the middle of this fiery debate is the Rust Blood clan, the wealthiest organization in this whole imp city, and Haman's subordirnates are too busy bloodily cleansing his own ranks of turncoat separatists to bother with making any steps to improve the situation.”

        “Why did Haman and his clan back out of the weapons trade to begin with?”

        “No goblin knows, but it hardly matters.  The longer this situation persists, the greater the need for unification.  If Petra can't combine in body like it has been manifested in spirit, then all impkind will be too divided and defenseless to fend off the ogres if or when they finally decide to raid the city and take the highly desirable steam for themselves.”

        Scootaloo sighed, running a hoof over her brown features.  “Boy, do I know when to pick a bad time for visiting a goblin neighborhood.”

        “Petra is a majestic and awe-inspiring manifestation,” Devo said.  His lips lingered, but he finally murmured, “But has it blossomed?  No.  Not even remotely.”  With a deep breath, he glanced fixedly at the pony.

        The pegasus sighed, her eyes shut as she drifted alone with her thoughts, and all of them were bathed with the colors of the spectrum.  Every hue died twice over, and she couldn't begin to contemplate a way to unbury them anymore.

        Devo cleared his throat.  “No, pony, you cannot gain access to the inner ruins, at least not with your life intact during these trying times within Petra.  Now, most goblins would be right to question exactly why you would wish to do so to begin with.”  He strolled over and squinted up towards her eyes.  “But as for myself... I learned a long time ago to not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

        Scootaloo grumbled, “Sometimes I think that once I'm dead and gone, the only thing that will survive from my culture is that damnable expression.”

        “Ah, but it is a good expression,” he said, pointing with a smirk.  “For you could very well be of use to me.”

        “I'm sorry, sir, but if I can't get to where I need to go, I don't see what use I am for—”

        “You said yourself that goblins once left you with a shred of 'hope,’ am I right? I implore you not to despair, pony.  There may still be a way to get to your destination, but you will have to do something for me first.”  He paused, then stared at her with a subtle, knowing glance.  “You would like to earn your opportunity in this regard, would you not?”

        She stared at him with full attention at this point.  Thoughtfully, she asked, “How much?”

        “This is not something that can paid for in strips, child,” he said while waving a finger and pacing across the office atop whirring leg-braces.  “However, actions are a far better payment in their own respect.  I need you to do something for me—something that is a balance of trust, both yours and mine.  In this time of goblin adversity, you may be the best chance I have to figure out what the other clans are up to.  There is something amiss in this city, and it'll take something beyond impkind to uproot it.”

        “I... I don't get it...”  Scootaloo shook her head with a sigh.  “You want me to be a spy?”

        “Not a spy.  More like a messenger.  It would take a great deal of words to explain, but I am currently needed to oversee my clan's latest sky marble extractions over the next several hours.  I suggest you come back and see me tomorrow.  In the meantime...”  He folded his hands together and gazed pleasantly at her.  “What do you need for repairing your ship?”

        She gave him a sideways glance.  “I need at least eight planks of iron, ten sheets of copper alloy, and at least a hundred brass bolts.”

        Devo nodded.  “Sounds like a fairly sturdy zeppelin that you've built for yourself.”  He scratched his chin and muttered, “Five thousand strips, and the materials are yours.”

        “Five thousand?!”  Scootaloo was more shocked at her impulsive, vocal repetition of that figure than she was at the price itself.  “Why, sir, any self-respecting business goblin would charge twice that much!”

        “Then why complain?  What did we just speak about gift horses?”

        She frowned.  “Gifts are one thing; mockeries are another.  Do not coddle me, Devo of Hex Blood, if that's your way of buying my respect.”

        “Respect is a matter of sincerity that no amount of strips can buy—big or small.  And as for coddling...”  He stared at her rigidly with his copper optics.  “Once you learn of what tasks I have for you to perform for me tomorrow, you'll see that more than enough labor is required for whatever assistance I can lend.  I assure you, though, that it shall be a worthy endeavor, for if you help me learn more about the doings of my fellow clans, it may very well lead to the inner ruins becoming accessible once more.”

        Scootaloo gave him a sideways glance.  “You are obviously a goblin of great intelligence and sincerity.  Still, why do I get the feeling that I'm about to be used?”

        “A heart tempered darkly by the Wasteland has no choice but to feel that way.”  He waved a clawed finger.  “The key is to hang onto hope, as one hangs onto self-respect.  That is something that was taught to me long ago, and ever since then I've waited for a time to teach it to someone else.”  He leaned his arm back and knocked his fist against a metal bulkhead.

        In answer, the door to his office squeaked open and his daughter poked her head in.  “Yes, father?”

        “This pony will need eight iron planks, ten copper alloy sheets, and two buckets of rivets.  We've agreed on five thousand strips.  I'm certain she will pay you upon delivery where her airship is moored.”

        The brown-haired goblinette's eyes widened.  “Five thousand?  But father—!”

        He snapped his fingers at her.  “And... you shall perform this shipment promptly.  The pony will wish to repair her vessel swiftly if she is to return here tomorrow to offer her assistance.”

        “Her... assisstance...?”  The female gave Scootaloo a frowning look.

        “I trust our days of living in the dark of the Upper and Lower Struts shall come to a close.”  Devo uttered, then pivoted to face Scootaloo once more.  “My daughter, Raimony, will escort you from the premises.  I suggest you tell her where your vessel is so that she can appropriately instruct the gremlin delivery craft.  Now, if you would excuse me...”

        He shuffled away, along with his two bandanna-wearing guards.  Scootaloo could barely register his last few words, though, for she was suddenly stuck on a glaring, colorful name.  Slowly, she blinked over and squinted at the goblin girl.  “I'm sorry.  But... what did your father say your name was...?”

        “'Raimony,'” the green-eyed goblin said, still fuming from Devo's crazy instructions.  As she found Scootaloo blankly staring at her, Raimony frowned and spat in the pegasus' direction.  “Why, do you have a problem with that, pony?!”

        “N-No...”  The scavenger dryly gulped, shaking her head in a numb breath.  “No problem at all.”

        “Good.”  Raimony huffed, then marched out of the room on stomping, blue feet.  “Then let's give you all of that crap for a measely five thousand strips.  Ughh!  By the Dimming's Blight, I swear my father's losing his mind!”

        “I don't know...”  The pegasus shuffled slowly after her, still digesting the name like a freshly preserved chunk of fruit.  “He seems rather... inspired to me.”




        Scootaloo was still distracted.  She stood in the streets outside the warehouse several minutes later, staring off into the distant spaces between the metal slits of Strut Eighteen.  Just then, Raimony shuffled up to her from having chatted with a hovercraft full of gremlins.

        “You can expect your supplies within the next two hours,” the goblinette murmured.  The hovercraft behind her lifted up with a thunderous thrust of steam vents.  The girl glanced, blinking, at Scootaloo's expressionless face.  “Hey!” she snarled.  “Earth to pony!  Are you there or do I have to shove spurs into you and see if you're still breathing?”

        “Sorry, I...”  Scootaloo glanced up.  “Uhh... The gremlins are making the delivery?”

        “Yes.  They'll ask for a fifteen percent interest as a commission for the shipment.”  Raimony kicked at a few rusted flakes on the street's bulkheads and muttered against her better nature, “But that's a load of bunk.  The agreement with Hex-Bleeders is that our gremlin partners accept no more than ten percent.  If you pay them any more than five hundred strips, it'll be highway robbery.”

        “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

        “I figured it's something my father would want to tell someone like you.”

        “Your father... has a unique respect for ponies.”

        “Pfft—You think?  I have no friggin' clue why,” Raimony said, then briefly winced.  “Erm... No offense and whatcrap.”

        Scootaloo blinked, and in that blink she saw the waterfalls of Cloudsdalian ruins, as well as a white-haired goblin carrying a thick backpack over his blue shoulders.  “He's lived a long time, I imagine.  Creatures as old as he is... as old as we are remember a world before the Cataclysm.”  She produced a long sigh.  “Perhaps that makes us strangely similar.”

        “What the heck is the 'Cataclysm?'”

        Scootaloo smirked bitterly at her.  “Look up the 'Dimming', kid.”

        “Don't call me 'kid!’”  Raimony frowned.  “I'm over twelve hundred stormfronts in age!”  She folded her arms as her rigid expression melted into an exhausted slump.  “All my life, my dad told me things that no other goblin father in his right mind would say to his kids.  He taught me that there was more to this world than imps, that there was once a culture that took care of things and would never have let something as awful as the Dimming happen.  I can't imagine that he'd be talking about ponies.  Every goblin knows that they controlled the seasons and weather once.  When they died out, the world changed into something darker, and so we took our rightful place upon the threshold of manifesting Petra.”

        “Well, I'm still around,” Scootaloo muttered, staring off into the far corners of the street as several goblins stole her glances from afar.  “The world can only get darker.”

        “You're nothing like the pretty picture my dad painted of ponies,” Raimony said, squinting her already thin green eyes.  “You're rough, gruff, and you obviously take crap from no one.”  Her sharp teeth showed briefly as she smirked.  “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just a goblin in disguise.”

        “Years of living in the Wasteland will make goblins out of all of us.”

        “Heh.  I'll try and take that as a compliment.”

        “Whatever.”  Scootaloo waved a hoof and lowered her copper goggles.  “I need to get back to my ship and make sure it's in one piece.  Apparently, I'm coming back tomorrow to perform some mysterious errands for your father.”

        “Yeah, I know.  What's up with that?”

        “You tell me.  Does your dad often make bizarre requests of strangers?”

        “Only when they're four-legged, red-eyed, and armored to the teeth with reinforced leather.”

        “Well, I'll try not to be a one-time-wonder,”  Scootaloo muttered as she shuffled off. “But as soon as I find out he's simply using me for some political agenda against his neighboring clans, I'm so out of here.  You can tell him that yourself.  I don't care how much of a bargain he's given me on airship parts.”

        “There are many things that goblins have said about my father!”  Raimony barked after her, frowning.  “Know this, pony!  He may be crazy at times, but he never indulges in charity cases!  And if so, then not without a good reason!”

        Scootaloo briefly paused in her stride, gnawing at her bottom lip.  She heard the pained, whimpering breaths of a tiny orange foal in the back of her mind.  Shaking the haunting sounds loose, she strolled off past a metal street corner, flanked by curious onlookers.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        The last pony attempted to digest the nature of her situation.  She was stranded in the heart of a giant city populated by goblins bound in blood to support each other, or else slay each other in open public.  She had just been given the opportunity to fix the Harmony and—if need be—make a swift and speedy exit.  However, the benefactor of such resources had given her an insanely generous discount.  At the same time, he was about to request her services in a vague and shadowy manner, so that she would ultimately be delving into politics that she had no true place dipping her hooves in.  Still, humoring his wishes was the closest and perhaps only chance she had at getting the goblins to open up the part of the Cloudsdalian ruins where Rainbow Dash's remains were lying.

        “If they're still there,” she muttered, feeling a cold shudder rise up her spine as she shuffled slowly towards the descending ramp that led towards Level Beta and the elevator beyond.  Gossiping goblins and like-colored clan members strolled past her, giving her looks of mixed suspicion and curiosity.

        So much had happened over the last twenty-five years in that place.  Barely a quarter of a century ago, there was no gigantic, two-kilometer tall spike of glowing metal in the middle of the Equestrian Wasteland.  In such a freshly wounded time, the ruins of Cloudsdale were pockmarked with moonrocks and not monorail tracks.  The deep abyss was filled with waterfalls instead of mineshafts.  There were no clans, no squabbling groups of multiplicitous imps attempting to shovel sky marble and silver strips around, no ogre war looming over the horizon and threatening to crush everything into a mindless oblivion.  The odds of Rainbow Dash's grave surviving the onslaught of all these innumerable factors were impossible, to say the least.

        “Why am I still frickin' here?”  Scootaloo grumbled.  “I'll be doing all of Devo's dirty work for nothing.”

        Just as she heartlessly uttered those last few words, she felt her heart skip a beat.  For the life of her, she could barely comprehend the insane coincidence of having met the leader of the Hex-Bleeders, only to discover it was none other than a bizarrely placed goblin who had shown the last pony mercy in a merciless situation.  She had no doubt that he knew exactly who she was—or else had a strong inkling.  Scootaloo wasn't sure why she wished to hang a veil of uncertainty before Devo's eyes, in hope that the weight of time would obscure his pristine memory of her.  Decades of wandering the Wasteland had given her a strange solace, as if her lonely anonymity was a safety blanket she could hide in and escape all of the dark shades of yesteryear.  Only with Spike did she finally ever open up, and that was because the dragon's heart covered her with far greater warmth than even green flame could conjure up.

        Devo, however, was something different.  He was salt in the wound of her heart, and yet his very voice produced a spark in her inner being that made her look forward to repairing the Harmony instead of immediately fleeing from that infernally bright city.  There was something in his mannerisms, something in his eyes, something in his speech that gave her a strange vigor.  Still, it felt like something far warmer and richer than confidence, and as Scootaloo rolled the name of his daughter over and over again in her mouth, it tasted like something she had never thought non-equine creatures of the Wasteland were capable of bestowing.

        “Raimony... Raimony... Raimony...”

        It tasted like hope.

        Just then, Scootaloo heard a panting, shivering breath.  She sniffed the air, as if suddenly expecting to smell the damp wood of an abandoned barn.  Instead, she glanced over to see an emerald shape curled up into a little ball in the dankest shadow of a cold, metal alleyway to her left.  The chaos of the imp city's streets blossomed across the fields of her cluttered memories, and she instantly recognized the young, green goblin as the pleading soul who had been violently beaten to a bruised pile of meat just an hour before.

        Scootaloo paused in her gait, staring fixedly at the homeless little teenager, for there was something far more striking about him, something haunting.  As the green goblin curled into himself, struggling for warmth, a thin stream of tears rolled down his welted cheek.  His black vest was frayed in the corners; several tassels hung loose along the back.  His ribcage was bruised severely, and his upper thighs bore several savage scrapes and cuts.  However, above all of these grim details, it was something located on his left hip—his flank—that caught her attention.

        It was a burn mark, a branding, in the unmistakable shape of a horseshoe.

        Scootaloo's eyes twitched beneath her copper goggles.  Her vision poured all over the searing tattoo.  She looked.  She saw...




        Several months ago, in front of the M.O.D.D., a little goblin struggled under the arms of several sneering monkeys holding him down.  “No!  No!  Pl-Please!  Don't do this to me!  I'll never last a night in the wastelands if anyone sees me with—”

        “Shut up and take what's coming to ya, cheapskate!”  One of Pitt's brothers brought the horseshoe-shaped branding iron down so that it kissed the goblin's thigh and filled the mountain air with the steam of burning flesh.

        Under the hooting laughter of sadistic primates, the imp's tortured screams rang endlessly into the Wasteland snow.





        Scootaloo winced, her ears humming with the memory of the sound.  Blinking, she refocused her gaze once more upon the homeless, branded goblin as he fell into a fitful, shivering slumber.

        The last pony was unnerved to be bearing witness to two cosmic coincidences in one soot-stained night.  It was enough that she ran into Devo here after so many years.  Did she truly cross paths with another soul for a second time as well?  The Wasteland wasn't something that could afford miracles.  Pre-Cataclysm Equestria was a time when one could make the impossible happen.  That was the day and age when Rainbow Dash lived.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath and slid the goggles back down.  She was there for Rainbow Dash.  She had to remember that.  Anything and everything else was merely business.

        The last pony walked away from the pitiful sight of the freezing goblin.  It wasn't her fault that he was in such a dire strait.  It wasn't her fault that creatures of the Wasteland hated ponies so much that they used a symbolic image of their legacy to designate who was lesser-than-dirt in their goddess-forsaken culture.  It wasn't her fault that the little imp was shivering, forsaken, hungry, and likely to freeze to death by the next stormfront.  It just... wasn't her concern.  She marched on, frowning, not looking back, not looking...





        The goblin's lips murmured under flickering lanternlight.  His ears twitched, then twitched again.  There was a strange melody wafting into his little, pointed lobes.  It was the sound of melancholic strings dancing around a series of bass chords.  Confused, he stirred, until his body rose a groaning breath up to the level of flinching consciousness.

        “Hrmm... Wh... What...?”

        The teenager’s eyelids fluttered open.  A pair of aquamarine optics glistened in the shadow of his mysterious surroundings.  He glanced at his fingers as he found himself lying in a dangling hammock.  He saw several bandages plastered soothingly across his upper arms, legs, and thighs.  Every major bruise was covered, and he could smell the combined scent of medicinal herbs and ointments.  With another twitching of his ears, he tilted his head up towards the cello music.  He saw a black disc rotating on an antique record player.  Blinking, he followed the whalebone shape of iron bulkheads forming together to produce a tight gondola, inside of which were a glistening boiler, several metal lockers with glowing purple locks, a workbench full of miscellaneous tools and colorful souvenirs, and finally an equine face with a pair of copper goggles shoving a jar of soup towards his mouth.

        “Mushroom stew?”

        “Gaaaah!”  The young goblin leaped up out of the hammock and clung sideways to the bulkheads with surprising athleticism.  His clawed fingers scraped into the metal surface of the gondola walls.  “Aaaah!  Filthy glue stick!  Don't eat me, pony!”

        Scootaloo sighed, “Yes, yes.  I'm a walking repository of liquid adhesive.  Story of my friggin' life.”  She waved the jar of steaming broth up towards him again.  “Shut up and shove something in your belly already!”

        “Nnngh!—No!  I want none of your stuffing, glue stick!”  He panted and scrambled over to the top of one of the metal lockers like a green feline.  “I won't let you eat me!”

        “Oh, for the love of oats—I'm not going to eat you!” Scootaloo exclaimed.  “Look, you were cold, you were hurt, and you were hungry.”  She trotted sideways, following him as he scampered from locker to workbench to locker, his limbs clambering loosely and knocking things over.  “I've already taken care of the first two of those things but right now you're making it really hard to do the third—Yeesh!”  She winced.  “Will you friggin' watch where you're climbing?!  If I wanted to capture a monkey, I'd—”

        “Monkeys!”  The little goblin shrieked, his bright eyes turning a frightened, turquoise

        “This has nothing to do with monkeys or Petra or—Hey!  Watch it!”

        “Lemme out!  Lemme out!”  He gasped and clawed his way over the communication system.  His leg tripped on a lever, sparking the tesla coils to life and magnifying his voice with monstrous feedback as he spat and stammered before the microphone.  “I'd rather burn in a billion steam pits than become a lifeless turd in your guts!  Why not skewer and nibble on a gremlin or hob?!  I've got no meat on me!”

        “Dang it, kid—”

        “I've got no meat on me!  Look at me!  I’m a bag of straws!  Please, lemme out of here!”

        “Alright... Alright!”  Scootaloo planted the broth down onto the workbench and waved her hooves.  “Fine.  You want to get out of here?”  She pointed at the revolving staircase.  “The exit's down there.  Be my guest.”

        “Nngh!”  The goblin breathlessly leaped onto the brass railings of the descending platform and all but tripped his tumbling way down into the hangar level of the airship.  A bandage or two flutterred loose as he limped, hyperventilating, towards the catseye aperture and banged against it with desperate fists.  “Come on... Come onnnnn!  By Dimming's Blight, I don't want to become pony food!”

        “Here, allow me,” Scootaloo calmly said, eliciting a shock from the youngster, for she was suddenly standing behind him and speaking towards the runes in the aperture:  “H'jem!”

        The iris-shaped panel slid open in a flash.  Without a second thought, the goblin scrambled out—only to come to a shrieking stop, his limbs flailing as he stood precariously on the edge of the airship's bow.  Looming nightmarishly far beneath him was the grand, gray expanse of the Wasteland.  The gaping chasms of the steam pits glittered with swarming goblin mining operations.  Monorail cars darted to and fro, trailing white puffs of smoke.  Finally, the grand golden stalk of Petra loomed in open view below a perpetual ceiling of horrific black fog.

        “Uhh—Uhh—Aaaugh!”  The goblin teetered, flailed, and fell—

        “Y'know...”  A brown hoof was suddenly gripping his waist from behind.  Scootaloo droned behind his pointed ears.  “Eating mushroom brew is at least three times a more pleasant experience than falling to a wet, nasty, pulverising death from fifteen hundred meters above sea level.”  She shrugged.  “Of course, that isn't exactly speaking from experience, but one can make an educated guess.”

        Hissing, the goblin wrenched himself from her grasp and clutched a side of the precarious platform, his claws gripping tight to the bulkhead as he cast frightful glances back and forth from between the horrifying drop and the horrifying equine.  He bit his lip and fidgeted visibly.

        “If it's really that hard of a decision to make, it doesn't matter.  I'll have this thing landed eventually.”  She gestured towards the body of her airborne craft as her pink mane hair billowed in the wind.  “The last twelve hours you spent sleeping like a bruised doll, I was fixing up the damage that a bunch of gremlins did to this thing.  I still have some finishing touches to do, and then I've got an appointment with some dude named Devo of Hex-Blood tomorrow.”  She glanced back at the goblin and leaned casually against the bulkhead opposite of him as her wings tightened against her flanks.  “I didn't want to stay in the hangar of Fifteen Strut all this time because—well, quite frankly—there aren’t a lot of creatures there who can stand the sight of me.  The sky's a lot safer where I'm concerned.  But don't worry.  Fed or not, I'll get you back on solid footing within a dozen hours or less.  Hopefully by then, most of the enchanted rune powder will have done its job and sealed your wounds.”

        He shivered, glancing at his many bandaged limbs, then at the distant specks of goblin miners far below.

        Scootaloo grunted, “Now you say 'Thank you, glue stick.'”

        “Mmmm...”  He shook, nearly threw up from the sheer height of their location, and ran frightfully back into the interior of the Harmony.

        The last pony rolled her scarlet eyes.  She slowly trotted after him, leaving the whipping winds of the outside air with a swish of her pink tail.  “H'jem.”

        Marching slowly back up the spiral staircase and entering the main cabin, Scootaloo paused.  She glanced around, blinking, finding no sign of the little biped creature.  On a whim, she clopped her two front hooves against the bulkheads, ricocheting a dull echo across the place.  A distant whimper sounded from the port side, halfway down the gondola.  Scootaloo shuffled over to the workbench and raised the coattails of the Royal Grand Biv outfit with a brown hoof.  Underneath, the goblin teenager was hiding, hugging his knees to his chest.  At the first sight of her peering face, he jolted, his aquamarine eyes pulsing.

        “You know, I haven't dusted down there in ages.  I sure hope you're not allergic to pony hair.”  She suppressed a chuckle, smiling slyly.  “Boy, wouldn't that be a friggin' burn.”

        He said nothing.  His eyes fell to the floor.

        Scootaloo glanced up, seeing where she had placed the metal cup.  She clasped the steaming broth and held it out one more time before the imp.  “Don't pretend you're not hungry.  I know a thing or two about starving.  There's nothing poetic about it.  Do yourself a favor and ditch the ego for a sip or two.  A healthy body leads to a healthy mind, even if you are a bipedal little shrimp with bat-ears.”

        He nervously shook.  Slowly, like a butterfly sprouting its first wings, the goblin stretched a nervous hand towards the container.  As soon as his clawed fingers made contact, he yanked the thing from her gasp and cradled it to his sternum, simply reveling in the heat wafting up to his chin.  He stared into the thing after a few seconds, still navigating a minefield of suspicion in his head.

        “It... uhm...” Scootaloo ran a hoof through her pink mane and sat down on her haunches in the middle of the floor, so that she was at an even gaze with the “guest” hiding under her workbench.  “It isn't all mushrooms.  I put in a few morsels of cougar meat.  I kind of figured that goblins are carnivorous by nature.  I seriously doubt you have such razor sharp chompers for opening bottlecaps.”

        He took a tiny, meager sip of the broth—as if testing it.  He didn't keel over dead from the first swallow, so his next few gulps were infinitely more liberal.  Within the span of a minute, he had emptied the entire thing down his throat.


        Scootaloo slowly watched him, rubbing her chin in thought.  “What... Uhm...”  She sighed, shrugged, and settled for a relatively unmelodic voice.  “What's your name, kid?”

        He fidgeted, turning the metal case around in his clawed fingers.  “Mmm... W... Warden.  Warden of Stock Blood.”  He gulped hard.  “B-But all of my friends call me 'Wart.'”  He bit his green lips and gazed towards the bulkheads with a wilted expression, his pointed ears deflating.  “Well... they used to.”

        “‘Used to?’”  Scootaloo rather stupidly muttered out loud, “What happened to your friends?”

        The goblin's nostrils flared.  He brought a four-fingered hand aside and attempted pulling the edge of his black vest down over his seared left thigh.  It was a fruitless endeavor.

        “Oh... Uhm...”  The last pony glanced at the horseshoe brand and gulped hard.  “Yeah, well...”  She fidgeted with the goggles strapped to her head while fumbling for words.  “What... uh... what were you doing in Petra, Warden... er... Wart?”

        “I was... I-I was looking for a job,” Warden said, shuddering with each sentence that bled from his lips.  “My uncle works in Strut Seven of this imp city.  Months ago, I heard that he was looking to expand his soot-sweeping business.  That's always a good job for young, small goblins who can fit in tight spaces.  So... uhm—I left my parents’ place in a township far west of the Briar.  I hitched a ride with some Dirigible Dogs.  They... uh... They screwed me over big time: took my strips and slipped something into one of my drinks.  The next thing I know...”  He weathered a sharp, painful breath.  “... I'm branded.  Somehow, I made it onto an ogre supply ship, but they weren't running cargo to Petra anymore.  I had to piggyback onto two more zeppelins until I landed about twenty kilometers south of here.  Then... uhm... I walked.”

        “You walked?”  Scootaloo's eyes narrowed on the kid with disbelief.  “Kid, you've been starving for days at least.  You shouldn't be so full of crap.”

        He merely whimpered and looked aside.

        Scootaloo winced at her own words.  Rolling her eyes, she cleared her throat and tried speaking again.  “Anyways, that's a heck of a lot of... uh... heck for someone your age to have gone through.”  She blinked.  “Just how old are you anyways, kid?”

        “I...”  Warden's expression was painfully embarassed.  “I have no clue.  Who the heck remembers their birthday anyways?”

        Scootaloo leaned her head aside as a wilted part of her comprehended that.  After a breath, she uttered, “Well, you look about no more than eleven hundred stormfronts to me.  Though, I'm not much of a judge of goblin aging or whatnot.”  She glanced at the empty can in his grasp and reached towards it—

        He instantly flinched from her brown hoof.

        She paused.  Slowly, she summoned the most genuine smile she could muster.  It came across like a deflating tire.  “I'm just gonna give you seconds.  Doesn't that sound good?”

        Warden calmed down.  He gently handed the container back to her.  Scootaloo swifly refilled it from a large pot of the bubbling broth.  The goblin crawled out from under the bench and stood up by the time she handed him his refill.

        “There you go.  At least half a dozen majestic cougars gave their lives so that this touching, magical moment could be made possible,” she droned, smirking at her own sarcasm.  She was ever so briefly let down that he didn't let loose a single snicker.

        The goblin merely sipped from the broth, glancing curiously about the lengths of the hovering aircraft's gondola as his pointed ears slowly raised back up above his skull, relaxing.

        “I uh...”  Scootaloo backtrotted and leaned against the rear of her cockpit seat, standing across from the little imp.  “I didn't say anything at the time, but I saw those other goblins beating the snot out of you.  The only thing worse than having no money or food is having no money or food and being the punching bag for a bunch of bullies.  You might not think that I can relate to that... but believe me, I can.”

        To that, Warden merely gulped down his last drink, swallowed, and glanced at her with suddenly round eyes.  “Whoah... Are you a girl?”

        Scootaloo's scarlets flared.  “Yes.  I am female.”  She flung a lock of pink hair over her shoulder.  “What, did you think this mane was just a friggin' accessory?”

        “Are all ponies as bright as you?”

        “Define 'bright.’  Are you talking about my hair color or the brain matter that it's all stemmed in?”

        “Saaaaay...”  Warden blinked wide, bearing a sudden smile as he shuffled over towards the glowing locks across the panels of a metal locker.  “Are these moonstones?”

        “Yes.  Yes, as a matter of fact, they are.”

        “Why are they all purple and glowy and stuff?”

        “Uhhh... It's all on account of magical runic commands that are channeled along the leylines of fossilized alicornia.”

        “Frostbeams...” the teenage goblin cooed, his eyes lighting up as some innate engineering gene inside his nervous system clicked into high gear.  He ran a clawed finger across a magazine of dim runestones lying on the edge of the workbench.  He then examined several tiny metal nick-nacks, tools, tinkering equipment, and other miscellaneous objects of Scootaloo's quarter-century of invention.  “I've never seen such fancy schmancy engineering.  Tell me, what goblin merchant did you buy it off of?”

        “I didn't buy it off of anybody,” Scootaloo said.  “I built it.”

        Warden spun around so fast, it looked like his ears would fly off.  “You built this?”  He gestured towards the whole of the gondola.  “This whole ship as well?!”

        “Uhhh... Yeah?”

        “But... But...”  He fidgeted and glanced awkwardly down at her four limbs.  “You've only got hooves!”

        “And somewhere on that green body of yours, you've got a rectum.  What's your point?”

        “It's just... yeesh.”  He made a face.  “Wouldn't that have been—y'know—really hard to do and stuff?”

        “The hard things in life are what teach us the most about... stuff.”  Scootaloo blinked, her head turning as she followed the little imp.  The goblin was shuffling back towards the work bench, fumbling over the many rattling things.  “Just what are you looking at now?”

        “Everything...”  Warden murmured, grasping a hoof's pen brace and slipping his tiny wrist through the cylindrical hollow of it.  “The last time I got a chance to look at some real decent tools was on an ogre zeppelin.”  He picked up a pair of wide-lensed goggles and squinted at the space inside them for holding enchanted moon dust.  “Ever since, I've been either stumbling across the Wasteland or sleeping in gutters.  It's like I'm going through mechanical withdrawal...”  He tilted up half of a lantern yoke, gazing intently at the lever-operated flints inside the glass jars of the device.  “Every goblin has to kindle the fire of Petra in his heart...”  He briefly fingered the worn edges of a paperback pulp fiction novel.  “...or else he'll go mad like a hob with rabies.”

        Scootaloo made a face.  “I thought Petra was just a city.”

        “You would think that, wouldn't you, glue stick?” he chuckled, mesmerized with a series of lightning gun blueprints.  “Ooooh... Frostbeams!  A focused electrical blaster...”

        “Yeah, uh huh...”  Scootaloo glanced at the goblin, at the hammock, then at the goblin again.  She pointed at the netting while smirking plastically.  “Wow, I bet you're spent after all of that mushroom soup.  Wouldn't you like to... er... get some sleep and mend those bruises of yours... or something?”

        “Yeah, yeah—Whoah... You built a light rig out of multicolored gemstones?”

        “Hey kid—er, Wart, I need to work on finishing the last of my repairs and I really can't afford to just leave you with—”

        “Yeesh—Do you ever actually build all of these things or do you just randomly sketch the crap?”  Warden picked up a journal full of scribbled notes in his green hands.  He squinted at it, making a face.  “Just what the heck is a 'nyx eclipse?'”  After a blink, he slid his left fingers to the side.  “Oh!  Heheheh...”  He chuckled.  “I read that wrong.”

        Scootaloo sighed, hanging her head and running a hoof through her pink mane.  “Okay, I'm glad you're getting your machine fix or what-not, but do you have to do that with your bare hands?  Just use your eyes if you don't mind—”

        “Hah!”  Warden's voice chirped merrily from above the workbench.  “Did you draw this too?!  You must have been drunk that day!”

        Scootaloo glanced up.  Suddenly, her eyes flared like scarlet lightning bolts as she howled, “Do not touch that!”

        The goblin instantly rediscovered his shivers.  Gazing frightfully at her, he slid down from where he had stood atop the workbench to clutch a white sheet with foalish yellow drawings on it.  Scootaloo swiftly shuffled over in his place and smoothed Suntrot's illustration out, sighing long and hard upon making contact.  After a calming breath, she murmured with closed eyes.

        “Okay.  I was wrong when I inferred that I built everything that you see here.  The truth is: some of the stuff in here is salvaged from the Wasteland.  And though I can't expect you to understand it one bit, the scavenged things mean a heck of a lot more to me than all the crap I've built with my hooves over the years.  So I would really, really appreciate it if you didn't touch things unless you were given permission.  You got that?”

        Warden said nothing.  He shuffled away from her in a newfound uneasiness.

        She cleared her throat, turned away from the drawing, and trotted towards him with a soft attempt at smiling.  “Please forgive me for shouting.  I've lived a great deal of my life in the Wasteland, and I'm not used to exercising anger without performing a total, violent freak-out.  Does that make any sense?”

        “I guess...”  He fidgeted, pressing his eight fingers together at various angles, avoiding her gaze.  He navigated the rough edge of a frown before finally murmuring, “Though, what did you expect?”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “I beg your pardon?”

        “If you knew that the Wasteland was gonna make you into such an angry pony, then why'd you go about Dimming the world in the first place?”

        The last pony's lips pursed.  She was briefly more confused than insulted.  “You mean the Cataclysm?”

        “Whatever you glue sticks call it!”  Warden frowned, his eyes taking on a hard-edged sea color.  “Was it because you knew that we were about to manifest Petra?  Did you freakin'' Dim the planet to blind us before we could get that far?!”

        “Kid... I...”  Scootaloo rolled her eyes and groaned into a facehoof.  “I have no clue what caused the Cataclysm—”

        “Then if ponies didn't do it, who did?!”

        “Has it occurred to you that some souls are trying to figure it all out?!”  She snapped at him, her scarlet eyes burning once more.  “Some of us are putting our time to better use than wasting it all on beating sky marble to a pulp or murdering our own flesh and blood in the middle of the friggin' street!”

        Warden flinched.

        The lantern-lit air of the cabin dwindled mutely between them.  The boiler projected a deep, low hum against the opposite walls of the gondola.  Both souls stood equally apart from each other, once more separated by invisible yet impermeable barriers as old as the Wasteland was young.

        “What...”  Warden shifted uncomfortably where he stood.  “What happens next?  What are you planning on doing with me?”

        “I'm not tossing you out the nearest porthole, if that's what you're asking, Wart,” Scootaloo muttered.  “It's not that I have anything to prove; I just don't think that way.  Quite frankly, I don't care how you feel about me or ponies in general.  If you wanna hate me, that's fine.  I won't blame you; I rightfully couldn't.  I just need to get a few things done, and then when it's time for my appointment with the prime Hex-Bleeder, I'll drop you off... somewhere.  We'll be out of each other's hair, so to speak.  Sound good?”

        “Sure, whatever.”

        “Hopefully your bruises will have mostly healed by then—”

        “Why the heck do you care?”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “Pardon?”

        “If you're so indifferent about me and the way I feel about you sky-stealing glue sticks...”  He frowned suspiciously at her with his arms folded.  “...then why did you do this?  Why did you patch me up and feed me?  What's in it for you?”

        “Kid, do you really have to press the issue?”

        “I gotta know,” he said, his aquamarine eyes narrow.  “I could have died last night.  From cold and starvation and blood loss, I could have died, and then all of my troubles would have been over.  Then you had to prance in and try to make things all flowers and giggles or whatever it is ponies do.”

        “Cute.”

        “Why?”  His green brow furrowed under dark emerald tufts of hair.  “Why didn't you just—?”

        “What?  Let you roll over and croak?  Isn't that what your own flesh and blood would have done to you?”

        He merely bit his lip at that.

        Scootaloo sighed long and hard.  “Once upon a time, when I could very easily have had all my troubles stripped away by the cold touch of death, I was instead dealt a hand of mercy.  At my lowest of lows, I was given a new lease on life, along with all of the many, painful, and horrible realities of that life.  In spite of all my fears, regrets, and wounds... I am a much better soul for it today than I ever was, for I have earned everything that defines my existence today.”  Her lips hung open as she hesitated briefly, then added, “I have a goblin to thank for that.  And... uhm... tomorrow, I... I think I’ll have that same goblin to thank for it all over again.”  She gulped, then avoided the teenager's gaze as she shuffled a hoof across a stretch of lonely bulkhead.  “I guess a part of me felt... inspired by him, and I wanted... needed to grant the same gift to you.  After all... whether I claim responsibility for it or not...”  She finally gazed up, glancing forlornly at the horseshoe blemish on his left thigh.  “I've only ever dealt a curse to you...”

        He leaned his head to the side, as if surveying new and unseen angles of her figure.  “I always thought ponies only ever wanted to fill their mouths with the bones of goblin children.  Instead, you've got your mouth full of words.”

        “You think that's bad?  Read my friggin' journal.”

        “You can write too?”

        Scootaloo pointed a hoof towards the bench.  “Who the heck did you think scribbled down the 'Onyx Eclipse?!'”

        “I dunno—one of your hob slaves?”

        “Nnnngh...”  Scootaloo face-hoofed.

        “Doesn't every single pony at least own five imp slaves to do their bidding?”

        “You wanna do my bidding, kid?  Lie down in the hammock and try to get some sleep.”

        “Will you eat me if I don't?”

        “Don't friggin' tempt me,” Scootaloo muttered, marching past him and towards the stairs leading down into the hangar bay.  “By the way, don't try touching any of the instrument panels of the airship.  I've got a high-voltage charge running through it that can only be diffused by vocally activating a runic circuit breaker.”

        “What are you, a dictionary?”

        Scootaloo froze, blinking awkwardly at that.  She glanced up at him.  “In simpler words, ya little Wart, as soon as you so much as touch a finger to the dashboard, you'll be too burned for me to bother with eating.”

        He slumped down in the hammock, hugging his knees to his chest and frowning.  “I think I was better off in the gutter.”

        “You're welcome.”  Scootaloo shuffled down the steps.  Once alone in the hangar bay, she sighed heavily to herself and paused beside a table of chemical rune-making tools.  She glanced down to witness a shiny metal scooter.  Gently, she planted a hoof down onto the edge of it and absent-mindedly slid the thing back and forth a few centimeters.






        Hopping over a bump in the sidewalk, Scootaloo planted all four hooves on the metal tray, glided for half-a-minute, and resumed kicking at the ground with a rear hoof, accelerating herself towards the center of the warm, bustling town.

        It was the eve of the Summer Sun Celebration.  Ponyville glistened in the waning afternoon.  Banners and Celestial crests were being hung off of every downtown buildingfront.  Ponies filled the streets with reflective decorations meant to capture the glory of Princess Celestia's sun-rising that very next morning.  Through this festive, busy atmosphere, Scootaloo glided atop her metal tray, lost in the grand scuffle of excited equine souls.

        The orange filly was hungry; she was always hungry.  However, after a solid week of struggle and lonely persistence, her hunger had become a manageable pain.  Scootaloo had established a pattern, had found a random assortment of pony shopkeepers willing to give a “treat” or two for a volunteer job done well.  Unlike her first experience, the orphan pegasus didn't refuse these hoof-outs with the same vehemence that she denied herself the cupcake.  Perhaps it was because she expected the treats as payment this time.  Perhaps it was because her need to satiate her appetite was more important than her desire for golden bits.

        In the end, Scootaloo decided that her refusal of the cupcake during her first day in Ponyville was a noble, albeit stupid act.  The special thing about doing something stupid was her ability to learn from it, she concluded.  Every time she thought about it, she didn't hear her voice; she instead heard the raspy, snickering voice of an older pony.  Scootaloo saw colors, and felt the ridiculous impulse to smile.

        Scootaloo hardly understood it, but whatever this persistent well of energy was, it had helped her survive over the course of the last harrowing week.  It had given her reasons to look towards the sky in search of something that would dart across her eyesight and give her a whimsical reason to gasp.  It still wasn't enough enthusiasm to make her eat that infernal cupcake, though.  She was saving that for a special occasion.  What that occasion was, Scootaloo barely had an idea, but she had faith that she would understand it when the time came.

        Now she was here—riding up to the threshold of Ponyville's Town Hall—as night began to fall, ushering the many chatting, excited ponies into the same domain where Princess Celestia would magically raise the sun the following morning.  Most of the citizens of the town were there—but not all of them.  Scootaloo was briefly aware of a wild party taking place inside Ponyville's library across the central courtyard.  She cast the giant, hollow tree a bizarre look and wheeled her way inside the Town Hall.  She didn’t care about partying.  She didn’t care about the Celestial banners and the decorations and the singing songbirds filling the magically-lit hovel.  She didn’t even care about the elaborate buffet table of apple treats stretched before her growling stomach.

        Gazing towards the upper rafters of the tall, cylindrical town hall, Scootaloo gazed from loitering pegasus to pegasus, and in spite of all of their bright and varied coats, she didn't see the colors that had secretly, delicately ushered her there.  So, she grabbed an apple fritter from the table and sat atop her metal tray in a far corner of the crowded place, refilling her dry mouth with the delicious memories from seven days ago, her heart skipping several beats as she quietly searched for a rainbow that had promised to be there.








        “This is where I gotta let you go, kid.”

        In the hangar of Strut Fifteen, Scootaloo stood before a little green goblin alongside the moored and magically sealed body of the Harmony.  Several non-imps lingered around them, tending to their various aircraft and dirigibles.  A few of them gave the horse and half-ling several shifty glances, intrigued by the bizarre pairing.  It wasn't a scene that would last for long.

        Scootaloo was in the process of dumping a stack of silver bars into the flinching goblin's paws.

        “Here.  One hundred strips.  Merry Hearth's Warming and all that jazz.”

        “What...”  To the last pony's muted surprise, she was given a frown instead of a smile.  The goblin looked at the clattering bits of metal as if they were hideously radioactive.  “What is this supposed to be?”

        “Uhm... Jee, I dunno.  A warm meal?  A place to stay?  A big bright machete that will let you murder those bullies from yesterday in their sleep?”

        “How in Dimming's Blight do you expect me to buy anything in this city?!”  Warden balked at her generous donation.  He wriggled his left thigh so that the crimson hangar light caught the charred edges of his horseshoe mark.  “I've been branded with the image of sky-stealers!  Anywhere I go to ask for a job, I'll only be mocked for the no-bleeder that I am!  This money will be yanked out of my fingers!”

        “Then use them to hop aboard the next freight dirigible out of here,” Scootaloo said, adjusting the leather armor clinging to her frame.  A lone blue feather fluttered in a gust of steam, strung to her ear  “Fly somewhere far away from goblins carrying steam rifles and crap.  You want my advice?  Find an aircraft that'll take you through the Central Heights.  Look for a flying squirrel merchant named Bruce.  He should be flying a giant green cigar of a zeppelin suspended on six bulbous balloons.  Tell him ‘Harmony sent you.’  He may know of a squirrel who knows a squirrel who knows of another squirrel who might be able to smuggle you safely to a far less dismal place, like St. Petersbrittle.  It's been my experience that the Wasteland's a little less nasty the more talking rodents you have around, but Celestia help your lungs be any healthier from it.”

        “But who help my lungs?”

        “So long, Wart.”  Scootaloo waved a hoof, spun about, and trotted towards the upper levels of Strut Fifteen.  “I've got an appointment to meet.”

        “What makes you so dang sure that I'll be any better off than you would be in any part of the Wasteland?!”  He barked at her from the widening gap between them.  “Don't you realize that you just nursed me back to health so that this crazy world can beat the crap out of me all over again?!  I'm just as bad off as you, glue stick—”

        “Kid, when I was your age and all on my lonesome, I would have tortured puppies to be holding as many silver strips as you've got in your claws right now.”  She briefly glanced over her armored mane and squinted at him through copper goggles.  “You think you're as screwed as any other 'glue stick?'  Then suck it up and make like a 'glue stick!’  Gallop off to greener pastures!  I don't care—Just do something useful with your life!”

        “Y'know, one of these days, somebody's gonna gut you for that mouth of yours, sky-stealer.”

        “Get in line,” she grunted and marched out of the hangar.

        Warden stood alone beside the Harmony, frowning.  His expression wilted as a deep shiver returned to his figure.  He clutched the silver strips to his chest, gazed at them, then at all of the foreboding shadows of the place.






        The last pony trotted quietly towards the distant elevator shaft.  On either side of her, crowds of suspicious goblins stared and gawked, murmuring innumerable words of distaste that formed a grand, somber hum around the filly's shuffling gait.  The lurching, icy crowd was occasionally pierced by a random laugh or scoffing snort as numerous imps made mumbled jokes at her expense.

        The pegasus sighed, shuffling to feel the weight of the copper rifle in her saddlebag.  Somehow, the solid body of the weapon did very little to comfort her in the midst of this sea of malice.  At any second, at any drop of the mining hat, these soot-stained goblins could very easily pounce on her and rip her to shreds in hysterical numbers.  The last pony briefly imagined that the only thing separating these creatures from trolls was a modicum of decency and the ability to pronounce curse words.

        It was with a paranoid jolt, then, that she realized one shadowy half-ling was suddenly walking at an even pace with her.  She shifted her body in such a way as to slide the rifle half out, but when she glanced aside she realized who it was.

        “Wart?!”  She blinked, cockeyed.  “What the heck gives?”

        “You the heck gives, apparently,” he said with a snarling frown.  His vest pockets bulged with the strips she had freshly donated to him.  “Did you really think I was going to let you get away?”

        “What do you think you're doing?”

        “I'm helping you.”

        “If you want more strips or something, kid, you can give up right now—”

        “I may have slept in streets and alleyways like a filthy beggar, but that doesn't mean I am one!”  He showed his razor sharp teeth as he glanced at her, exclaiming, “I've only ever offered my hands in labor, to help other goblins manifest Petra.  It was their hatred for glue sticks like you that refused me.”

        “And 'glue sticks' don't own imps as slaves,” Scootaloo muttered, trying to out-trot the teenager.  “We've covered this—”

        “Don't insult me!”  The green goblin suddenly ran in her path, forcing her to a stop.  “I have no intention to become anybody's slave!  You've healed my wounds, fed me, and given me strips.  Now it's time that I paid my dues.”

        “Kid, I don't need you—”

        “I don't care what you need, sky-stealer!”  He hissed venomously.  “I'm a goblin.  Stock-Bleeder or no-bleeder, I am bound to earn that which has been paid to me!  I can't expect a pink-haired horse like you to understand it, but perhaps there's something inside all of that leather armor that can respect it.”

        Scootaloo opened her mouth to protest, when she suddenly saw herself reflected in those aquamarine eyes, and perhaps even absorbed within.  She closed her mouth with a sour taste, like a dry tongue that ached for a sinful cupcake with blue frosting.  She dreamed of apples, waterfalls, and tears all in one moment, until she realized that she had never been so wrong about something before in her life.

        So, she amended her mistake right there and then.  “Alright, ya little Wart.  You wanna help me?”  She glanced at the thick line of goblins surrounding the conversation that the two of them were having in the middle of the rusted street.  “You can start by helping me find a quick and safe way to Eighteen Strut.  Currently I'm walking the path I took yesterday, but I don't like how long it takes.”

        “Well...”  Warden smirked, his arms folded.  “First off, you're headed towards an old, worn-down elevator shaft.  I swear, whoever built that thing was eating the wrong kind of mushrooms.  It's bound to collapse at any time, which is why so few goblins take it to the upper struts.”

        “You know of a faster elevator, kid?”  Scootaloo asked, glancing nervously over her shoulder.  “I don't care much if something kills me, so long as it's a quicker alternative to being constantly stared at by Petra's patron saints of gloom and doom.”

        “I think I just might know a route,” he said rather brightly, his ears twitching upwards like an adrenalized cat.  “Follow me!”  He scampered away with a flicker of his black vest and matching horseshoe mark.

        Scootaloo smirked tiredly to herself and trotted briskly after him.  “Now if only I can get him to fetch me drinkable water in this friggin' dump, then I'm sold.”





        A half-hour later, the two had made very good time.  They exited out of an elevator onto Ceti Level of Strut Eighteen.  The large, rusted warehouse of the Hex-Bleeders lingered two translucent floors of metal grating directly above.  Side by side, the brown pegasus and green goblin marched down the aluminum streets under golden lanternlight.  They made straightaway for a ramp that ascended towards the large, jutting platform's Beta Level.

        “There are sometimes two to three clans living on each platform,” Warden explained to the last pony, hurrying his little feet so that he could keep up with the steady trot of her four hooves.  “They struggle for control of the streets and—more importantly—the population of mining families who live there.  In the end, though, it usually comes down to just one clan getting the upper hand, so to speak.  For example, my uncle may be a Stock-Bleeder, but he answers to the Horn Blood clan of Strut Seven, cuz they run the seventh platform of Petra from the Wasteland floor.  Then, of course, you've got a lot of other famous clans who each own a strut, like Wood Blood of Twelve Strut, Lake Blood of Twenty Strut, and of course Rust Blood of Twenty-One Strut.”

        “Lemme guess...”  Scootaloo gazed up at the multiple metal lattices looming above them both.  “This platform, Eighteen Strut, belongs to Hex Blood.”

        “Yup.”

        “I don't suppose... erm... that you would happen to know anything about their clan leader, Devo?”

        “Ooooh... Devo...”  Warden paced quickly alongside her as they came upon a shuffling line of taller goblins wearing yellow armbands.  “Yeah, the prime Hex-Bleeder is the talk of the town around here.  Even a no-bleeder like me has heard gossip about him.  Goblins, gremlins, and hobs alike say he's really freakin' old, almost as old as Haman of Rust Blood.  He’s certainly better-looking than that liver-spotted silver-grabber.  Heeheehee.  Ahem...  there aren't many imps who have seen the world before the Dimming.  Devo and Haman are among them.”

        “Do goblins... respect Devo in his own part of town?”

        “Pretty well, I guess,” Warden said with a shrug.  “Lately, though, it's been tough for Devo to keep the confidence of all his lower Hex-Bleeders.  But he's not alone.  Recently, the clans have started bumping elbows with each other, and in a bad way.”

“Is there a good way?” Scootaloo flippantly asked.

The green teenager went on, “Haman of Rust Blood suddenly pulled out of some really rich trade agreement with a bunch of battling ogres somewhere in the Wasteland, and ever since then Petra has had the thugs of wealthy clans wandering all over platforms that don't belong to them, hunting down former brothers and sisters who've abandoned the business.”

        One of the imps wearing a yellow armband bumped rudely into Warden as they walked past the chatting pair of outcasts.

        The green-skinned goblin stumbled, almost falling flat on his face.  Regaining his balance, he frowned and pointed over his shoulder.  “Like those punks right there!  Why, if I wasn't a no-bleeder, I'd show them a thing or two.  But, you see, that would just get me in trouble with the likes of the Hex Blood clan, ‘cuz it's on account of their agreement with Rust Blood that those creeps are allowed to—” 

        Without warning, Scootaloo spun about with a scraping of horseshoes.  “Hey!” she frowned at the line of yellow-banded goblins.  “Hey you, shrimp!”

        A dark-haired goblin chuckled in mid-conversation with another Rust-Bleeder.  He only briefly gave Scootaloo a passing glance.

        “Yeah, that's right, you.” The last pony glared through her glinting goggles.  “Give them back.”

        “Snkkt—Hahaha—Ahem.  Excuse me, Otto, Miss Ryst,” Darper saluted his superiors and shuffled towards the pegasus while palming the metal stock of his steam-powered rifle.  “Give what back, you oats-crapping pile of filth?”

        “Wax poeticson your own friggin' time,” she sneered right back at him as his companions turned to stare at the conversation.  Several impish bystanders craned their necks to look from nearby foundries and shop fronts.  “You're not half as smooth as you think you are, punk.  Give the bars back now.  I won't ask you again.”

        Warden gasped.  Eyes flashing a bright turquoise, he patted his black vest with shivering palms.  All of the silver strips were gone.

        Darper squinted at the lone pegasus, his gaze full of more amusement than malice.  He licked a row of sharp teeth and snickered.  “What died and made you police pony over goblin matters?”  He pointed a sharp claw towards the goblin teenager.  “Unless you're gonna auction off that side of meat you've so capably branded, I’d skip town in a heartbeat.  Heheheheh...”

        A few voices chuckled along the sidelines.  Warden hugged himself, blushing shamefully.

        Scootaloo stood directly between the wilting goblin and the sneering rifler across the way.  “Those strips are payment for a guiding tour of this City.  I've recently been employed by none other than Devo of Hex Blood.  Until my task for the local clan leader is complete, I'll need the boy's assistance, and his strips still belong to me.”

        Otto shuffled up, brandishing brass knuckles and a snarl.  He was held back by a twitching hand as a tall goblinette with long green hair stepped before him.  “Hmmm... Dear boomer Darper, Darper Boomer...”  The leader's left eye quivered as she hissed into his ear, “Do we have a problem with four legs here?  I do not think she is on the menu for Haman today—”

        “Don't worry, Miss Ryst,” he gently pushed her aside.  “I'll take care of this.”  He pumped a lever on his steam rifle.  An intimidating cloud of mist wafted up from the heated weapon, summoning an uncomfortable murmur from the many goblins in the background.  “You're long overdue for a tranquilizer shot, glue stick—Straight through your flippin' brain stem!”  He held the rifle high in the glistening lanternlight.  “Stay out of goblin business or else—”

        “I don't care about goblins,” Scootaloo said, icily.  “I don't care about hobs.  I don't care about gremlins, and I don't care about you.  I only want that which was taken from me to be returned, and I want it returned now.”

        Warden bit his lip.  His eyes quivered fearfully as he backed away from the sight of the gun and the angry imp wielding it.

        Darper's frown had become a searing thing at that point.  “Pony, you picked the wrong day to flash your flank around.”  He wrapped a clawed finger around the trigger, and aimed it at the pegasus' snout...

        Warden flinched, covering his head.  He took a peek, and was surprised to see that Scootaloo hadn't moved a single centimeter...






        Hours passed, hours that Scootaloo could have spent finding slumber in her barn loft—no matter how difficult.  No matter the number of apple treats that she stole from the town hall's buffet table—enough morsels to fill her lonely stomach for days—she couldn't fill this sudden pit inside herself.  Hunger, for all of its horrible vices, was something that could feasibly be measured.  Presently, the orphan was at a loss to explain to herself this inexplicable appetite burning away within.  She sauntered around the many excited, murmuring ponies.  They were all waiting for Princess Celestia to appear at the crack of dawn.  Scootaloo was waiting for something just as bright, but a million times more colorful.

        Exhaling her umpteenth sigh of the evening, the wilting young foal gave into a new desperation that hearkened back to her first day of rambling around Ponyville.  She wandered up to the nearest pony that she could find, tugged on her violet-streaked mane, and murmured once she had acquired her attention, “I-I'm sorry to bother you, Miss.  But... uhm... Has a pegasus named Rainbow shown up?”

        “Rainbow... Dash?”  The lavender unicorn blinked, her mind obviously distracted.  Navigating a thick cloud of thought, she glanced numbly down at the orange foal.  “You mean Ponyville's chief weather flier?”

        “Uhhh... Yeah, sure...”  Scootaloo smiled nervously.

        “She was in the library earlier, but then she must have left for some place.  I'm not exactly sure where.  Please forgive me.  I... uh... I'm not from around here.”  The unicorn shifted nervously, her purple eyes darting left and right across the lengths of the crowded Town Hall, as if a cluster of firecrackers was about to go off at any second.  “You might have better luck asking somepony else.”

        Scootaloo let loose a defeated sigh.  “Well, uhm, did she at least say if she'd be here—?”  She froze in mid-speech, jumping back with a girlish gasp upon seeing what was seated atop the unicorn's spine.


        “What?”  A stubby excuse for a whelp blinked a pair of eyeslits back at the orange pegasus.  He ran a young, clawed hand over his green headcrests.  “Is there something wrong with my spines?”



        “You... You...”  Scootaloo squinted her violets.  “What the heck are you—?!”  She was suddenly knocked aside by a bright pink mare bumping into her.  “Yaaah!”

        “Isn't this exciting?!”  the fluffy-maned earth pony chirped in the unicorn's face.  “Are you excited?  Cuz I'm excited!  I've never been so excited—well—except for that time I saw you walking into town and I went—Wuhhhh—but I mean really, who can top that?”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared with an indignant snort.  “Pffft... Friggin' earth ponies: they think they own the planet.”  She picked herself up, collected her metal tray, and glided off through the crowd.  The Mayor of Ponyville proceeded to orate a boring speech over the heads of everypony as the orphan  plotted a dismal course towards the far edge of the interior, flanked in purple curtains.  “No wonder she's not here,” she grumbled.  “This place is snoozefest.  I swear, being a wallflower here would be a crime.” Nevertheless, she gave the upper rafters another glance, spotting the moon through the tall, stretching windows.  “Oh well, maybe seeing the Princess will be... awesome...”  Her words trailed off as her eyes narrowed on the oddity that the lunar sight had suddenly become.  “Wait... where'd the Mare in the Moon go?”

        The fabric of this very thought was split in half when a sudden cloud of gasps and shrieks filled the air of the room.  Scootaloo glanced at everypony and saw their many heads collectively tilted upwards.  Following the path of their petrified gazes, the little foal suddenly shared their fitful fright.  A froth of sparkling blue effluence had collected atop a grand balcony overlooking the interior of the grand hall.  A bone-chilling air of cold filled the place as the dark magic solidified in the form of a black equine figure.  Every vessel inside Scootaloo's being pulsed upon witnessing this obsidian alicorn, as if the core of her very soul had been naturally sculpted to shiver upon the sight of her majestic wings.  All the ponies around her buckled and quivered under a weighted paranoia that was older than time itself.

        Every ounce of courage that had ushered Scootaloo all the way from Manehattan to Ponyville dissipated in a single breath.  Whimpering in childish fright, she abandoned her metal tray and unashamedly scampered towards the sheltering folds of the purple, hanging curtains.  Her sundered, mortal mind begged for a veil, an obstruction, any opaque structure that could block the nightmarish sight of that alicorn and her glinting helm of lunar blight from sight.  Scootaloo was only vaguely aware of a pair of foalish bodies joining her beneath the curtain's velvety folds.  Collectively, the three figures huddled under an unrelenting cascade of shivers, barely glancing up to witness the last flickering ounce of light from the town hall being absorbed magically into the onyx equine's blacker-than-black coat.  The entire place rattled from the echoes of her unearthly voice:

        “Oh, my beloved subjects, it's been so long since I've seen your precious little sun-loving faces.”

        Something from deep within Scootaloo squeaked, as if a part of her soul was about to bleed out through her tearing eyes.  As the two foals sniffled on either side of her, she scrunched down to the floor, hiding her face in a pair of shivering forelimbs.  She whimpered a strange name, a name she hardly knew, a name that was more like an idea than a pony to her...

        And just like that—from across the icy air of the hall—she heard her rasping voice breaking through, the only brave breath in the entire universe, and it resonated like a colorful knife cutting across the black nightmare.

        “What did you do with our princess?!”

        Scootaloo gasped.  Scootaloo glanced up.  Scootaloo saw...








        “Pony, you picked the wrong day to flash your flank around.” 

        Warden stared with disbelief as Scootaloo fearlessly stood her ground, staring down the barrel of the steam rifle being aimed towards her snout.  As Darper's finger lingered on the trigger, there was only the slighest hint of movement under the pegasus' armored flank.  The goblin teenager squinted, realizing that this entire time Scootaloo had coiled her limbs to unspring at a moment's notice.  His engineering mind went into overdrive, and he suddenly saw the trajectory that Scootaloo's rifle would fly upon a single thrust of her shoulders.  No other soul but he and the pony knew it, but Darper's days were numbered.

        Then a twitching hand suddenly clamped onto the rifler's shoulder.  “My little boomer, give four legs back her money.”

        The dark-haired thug blinked wide.  He glanced over a yellow-banded shoulder to gawk at his leader.  “M-Miss Ryst?”

        “Doesn't Haman pay us enough?  Hmmm?”  Ryst jerked her head in the direction of her quivering eye and compensated by straightening a pair of thin arms down past her dual pistol holsters.  “Yes yes yessss... Finding dissidents should come first.  Robbing from idiots always comes second.  Sometimes they come together, but hey—it's a small Wasteland.  Better to let no-bleeders no-bleed-out on their lonesome.  Hmmm... A pity to be such lowly boomers; an even bigger pity to pickpocket from them, don't you think?”

        “But... But this filthy glue stick thinks she can throw her weight around and—!”

        “Darper Darper Darper...”  Ryst shut her green eyes and gnawed with frustration on the back of her knuckles.  She hissed, and bestowed him one glaring pupil, steady as a gun barrel.  “Don't make me sick Otto up your butt.  I highly doubt that he could very easily come back out.”

        Darper frowned, fumed, but ultimately thrust a hand into his pocket with a grumble.  He viciously flung the silver strips onto the aluminum floor of the street with a shower of metallic ringing noises.  “There!  I just made Haman bend over for a show horse and her bum jockey!  Are you happy, Miss Ryst?”

        “Hmmmm—Ecstatic, boomer.  Ecstatic.”  She gnawed one last time on a knuckle or two before murmuring, “I only hope you keep better track of the dissidents' money than the bars you just tossed around like yesterday's eggshells.”

        Warden was already picking up the numerous strips of silver.  “The least you guys could have done was freakin' put it in our hands...”

        “Shut up, you worthless ooze of sky-stealers!”  Darper spat at the kneeling teenager, forcing Warden to fall back on his hindquarters with a gasp.  “Devo of Hex Blood should do you a favor and paint a bullseye on your other buttcheek, cuz that's what I'm aiming for next time, ya little turd!”

        “I highly doubt that,” Scootaloo spoke, once again summoning the dark-haired goblin's frown.  “So long as he is in my employ, he will be in Devo's.  It's one thing to bring upon you the wrath of one measly 'glue stick.' It's another to piss off all of Eighteen Strut.  I'd watch that trigger finger if I were you.”  She calmly turned her flank to him and murmured towards her sudden companion.  “As soon as you've got it all picked up, Wart, let's get the heck out of here.”

        “Let it go, boomer—”  Ryst said, planting her hand atop Darper's shoulder.

        However, the imp was already snarling.  In one motion, he shrugged his leader's claws off of him and aimed the long barrel of the steam rifle straight at Scootaloo's leather-clad spine.  “I'll teach you to be a smart aleck, you oats-huffing piece of filth—!”

        Warden gasped.  His pointed ears twirled in the lanternlight.  “Look out, pony—!”

        Scootaloo's joints jolted.  Without a second thought, the pegasus dashed to her right.

        Darper fired.  A gust of steam flew towards the metal ceiling above as a red hot bolt soared out from the long barrel of his gun.

        The searing projectile missed Scootaloo by a virtual kilometer.  In the molasses motion of a single lurching second, she had bucked her body sideways and flung her copper rifle free.  A dumbstruck Warden watched as the metal device spun like a top in the air, only to be clutched in the hooking fibres of an expert, pink tail sliding out from underneath the pony's armor.  At the end of that breathless second, time resumed in a maddening gust of hot air.  Scootaloo's tail twirled the rifle in a blur, extending it.  With a magazine full of glowing runestones, the last pony flung the stretched weapon into her front hooves as she spun about in a sideways lurch, shouting:  “H'rhnum!”

        The manabullet from her rifle flew true.  It burned a clean path through the street.  Every goblin watched with muted awe as the magical projectile soared violently down the barrel of Darper's very own rifle, exploding from inside the metal stock with a burst of purple fury.

        The resulting pop knocked Darper back, so that he rocked briefly on his own heels.  Blinking, the dazed goblin glanced down to see his weapon scattered about his toes in a sea of smoldering shrapnel.  Also, his hands were gone.

        “Ah... Ahhhh!”  He shrieked, his eyes as wide as saucers.  He fell to his knees and stared in horror at the two bloody stubs his arms had become.  “Aaaaah-Aughhhhh!”

        Scootaloo watched with a deadpan expression.  She calmly cocked her rifle, spitting the worn, smoking rune out from her magazine.  The murmuring goblins alongside the street struggled to hold their lunch as Darper's wails filled the rusted lengths of the platform,

        Warden gazed at the last pony.  He almost dropped the silver strips from his trembling fingers as his teenage mouth hung in a perpetual gape.

        “Nnngh—Haughh!”  Darper shuffled pathetically on his knees, shoving a wincing Otto aside to plead up at the green-haired goblinette.  He sobbed and waved his bloody stumps in front of her.  “Miss Ryst!  Miss Ryst!  Nnnngh—In the name of Petra, call one of Haman's medics!  Help me, pl-please!”

        Ryst rolled her eyes.  With a groaning sigh, she unholstered a pistol, twirled it to a stop against Darper's forehead, and pulled the trigger.

        Warden winced, gritting his razor sharp teeth.

        At the end of the resulting thunder, Darper's wails were no more.  Ryst stood above him, wiping a splatter of red off her knee.  “Well, at least he doesn't smell so bad anymore.”  She glanced over at Scootaloo through a twitching eye and pointed with her pistol.  “I like you, four legs.  Well, that is, I like you more than the the pathetic, spitting boomer whose brains I just spilled all over my toes.  Is it true that you're doing dirty work for Devo of Hex Blood these days?”

        “That depends.”  Scootaloo leaned on her rifle and gazed calmly at the tall goblinette with green hair.  “Dirty work appears to be a relative concept around Petra.”

        “Hmmm... Yes yes yessss.  Just try not to weigh yourself down with the sack of hormones you've got to assist you, Wastelander.”  Ryst licked her chapped lips.  “He would make good bait for harpy pirates, but a poor tourist guide.”  She bent over and salvaged what remained of the steam rifle's metal stock from a fresh pool of blood before tossing it into a dazed Otto's arms.  “Come along, Otto.  You're the new Darper now.  Try not to smell as bad as the poor boomer did, yes yesss?”  With a nervous gaggle of yellow-banded Rust-Bleeders in tow, Miss Ryst marched off towards the next order of business.

        The goblin crowd nervously dissipated, their eyes lingering on the last pony as she quietly retracted the copper rifle and slid it back into its leathery holster across her spine.  A numb Warden slowly shuffled up to her.

        “You... You... You totally wasted him!”

        “Hmm?”  Scootaloo glanced over.  “Oh, right.  I forgot.  You're a young little thing, aren't you?  Sorry you had to see that...”

        “I... I have seen death...”  Warden gulped.  “Every imp does by his three hundredth stormfront.  But never before have I seen so many frostbeams...”

        “There's nothing cool about killing, kid,” Scootaloo said with a sigh.  “Still...”

        “Still what?”

        “He did try to shoot me in the back,” the last pony grumbled in an off-key voice before resuming her steady trot towards the ramp beyond.

        Warden stood behind her, watching, gazing.  His face was suddenly in competition with itself, with a grin attempting to outrace the rosiness to his cheeks.







        “What did you do with our princess?!”

        Young Scootaloo watched, mesmerized, all of the fear draining from her foalish face.

        Rainbow Dash frowned.  Rainbow Dash snarled.  Rainbow Dash flew.  She would have soared her fearless body like a missile through the demonic Alicorn of Night, if not for a quick-moving farm filly snatching the enraged pegasus by her prismatic tail at the last second.

        “Whoah there, nelly!”

        Scootaloo's breath left her.  She had stopped trembling.  She had stopped whimpering.  Her beating heart melted into a tranquil, serene hum as she stared into a breathtaking scene, a living canvas of courage and...

        “Awesomeness...”  the orphan murmured.  The orphan smiled.  The orphan understood.  The unholy Alicorn of Nightmares was cackling from atop the Town Hall balcony, bathing the petrified crowd of Ponyvillean souls with a booming speech befitting a demon goddess, but the little foal could hardly care less.  All Scootaloo could see was a rainbow.

        Just then, one of the two foals shivering next to her sputtered, “What the hay is that pegasus doing?!  She's crazy!”


        Scootaloo grunted without even looking at the snow-white unicorn.  “Shut up ya friggin' marshmallow.”

> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Stewards of the Earth




“Hmmm... Hmm-Hmm-Hmm... Gonna... Gonna race ya to the clubhouse...”  She stirred, twitched, and murmured in her sleep.  Her shaved pink mane glistened with condensation.  Her bruised and mildew-stained limbs shuffled in a slow-motion gallop.  “Mmmm... You're so slow, Sweetie Belle.  I don't even... n-need the scooter...”  Her lips curved into a soft, warm smile.  “We've got this Apple Bloom.  We've got...”

With a squeaking breath, Scootaloo opened her eyes, grinning warmly.  She blinked once, twice, then took in the claustrophobic contours of her niche inside the crumbled mound of sky marble.  Her smile left her, and in its wake there came a pitiable moisture to her eyes.

Stifling a whimper, Scootaloo covered her face before the tears could break free.  She curled into the deepest corner of the hovel and rediscovered the need to shiver.





Scootaloo sat at the mouth oher tiny cave, overlooking the grand vista of Cloudsdale's inner ruins.  A series of sharp pikes fashioned from the discarded spears of dead Cloudsdalian guardponies formed a jagged fence pointing outward in a half-circle from the entrance to her hiding place.  Several meters down the sloping hill of ivory rubble, a series of metal cans hung off of loose strings suspended  along numerous wooden stakes.

From the top of this improvised fortress, Scootaloo rested on her haunches and looked out onto the subterranean expanse in which she was still trapped.  Her vantage point gave her an unobstructed view of the surrounding ruins and any possible figure that might venture to charge up towards her elevated place of refuge.

Hanging above the thin hole to her niche was the most complicated feat of engineering Scootaloo had produced yet.  It was a heavy concrete slab, at least three times her height, suspended by an elaborate pulley system just above her hovel's entrance.  It had been an exhausting, five-day exercise to drag the slab via ropes to the top of that pile of rubble, and another three days worth of work to fashion the mechanism.  Scootaloo had designed it so that with a swift swing of her dagger, she could sever the one cord holding the slab up so that the granite obelisk would fall down over the hole of her hiding place and act as a final, defensive barrier to the rest of the ruins.

Scootaloo was using the same rusty dagger to carve a thick wedge into a cedar branch she had scavenged just days before.  Once a wide-enough gap had been chiseled open in the body of the stick, she hoisted up a short length of elastic twine pulled from a chariot and proceeded to attach it to the separate ends of the split piece of wood, creating a simple weapon: a slingshot.

In the middle of her work she glanced up with bored, bloodshot eyes.  The twilight from the Wasteland had solidified into a cold, perpetually gray thing.  The moon meteors had almost completely stopped falling, and the spots of sky visible from the Cloudsdalian pits were no longer spiced with a crimson glow.  Scootaloo couldn't see it for sure, but she imagined that Equestria had finally, finally stopped burning.

After all, it had been months.  At least, Scootaloo assumed that it had been months.  Honestly, it felt like it had been years, but she didn't keep track.  She couldn't keep track.  All she could do was count the loud and lightning-flashing stormfronts that roared overhead ever so regularly.  She gave up measuring them at around sixty.  The thunderous events had become a ritualistic thing, just like her bouts with hunger, and she had long learned to not be afraid of either.

Scootaloo discovered that if she paced herself with her rations, and if she patiently rummaged the landscape to find more, she might be able to last far longer than her hopeless mind had anticipated when she first fell into this ivory crevice.  So long as she was awake, aware, and armored, she could withstand the lengthy days of eking an existence from the sunken Wasteland.

What she truly had to be concerned about was the very reason for which she was making herself a slingshot to begin with.  She was not alone in the ruins.  Even then, staring out across the expanse, past the trickling waterfalls that had all but dried up over the past months, she could see the goblins' base of operations.  With or without a salvaged spyglass, Scootaloo could tell that their line of defense was ever so slightly more elaborate than hers, incorporating spring-activated bear traps fashioned out of rusted Cloudsdalian metalworks.  The difference between their ingenuity and hers was that they had over two dozen living sets of hands to put it together.  Her miniature fortress was a labor of one, with only four hooves at her disposal.  Scootaloo knew this, and she dwelled upon it.  In a world devoid of a reason to live, a reason to be proud was a firm enough substitute for her spirit to lean on.

She rarely talked to the goblins; they paid her just as little mind.  Occasionally they would brush paths, be it in the rubble of fallen Cloudsdalian buildings or along the impossibly steep slopes of the pit, trying to find a way to climb out.  Every meeting was an awkwardly short thing, mostly consisting of the goblins hissing at her and threatening various hyperbolic acts of bodily harm until she surrendered to their numbers and left their sight.  On occasion, she would run into the imps when Devo—the white-haired goblin—was among them.  At such times, the lowlier goblins said nothing, for fear of rebuke from their wise and steadfast clan leader.  Scootaloo could see in Devo's copper brown eyes that he had every intent to lend her a hand, but he wouldn't.  He knew just as much as she did that Scootaloo wouldn't accept any such assistance.  This abyss was the rotting tomb of pegasi legacy, and she would be damned to embrace the help of a band of grave robbers.

So, it became a competition: the goblins would pilfer whatever they could from the sky marble ruins with bigger numbers, more dexterous hands, and improvised digging tools.  Scootaloo would scavenge all alone, and through the sheer power of knowledge and familiarity with the architecture, it was Scootaloo—not the goblins—who ultimately came out on top.  She found morsels of food when they struggled to grab a bite to eat.  She found mechanical bits from collapsed engineering shops when they were forced to fashion their own weaponized contrivances.  She carried home twice as many containers and three times as many tools to seal them as the imps did.

Overall, Scootaloo perceived the goblins' luck to be a rather pathetic thing, but not once did she pity them.  In a way, she secretly reveled in their misfortune.  The last pony was only residually shocked to be fully embracing such a malicious emotion towards another being.  However, something deep inside of her—something instinctual and twitching, something that had empowered hungry creatures of the dark to twitch and leap upon helpless and unsuspecting shadows since the dawn of time—was currently sparking a deep-seated heat in her bloodstream, so much so that it warmed her at night when previously she would simply tremble from the sounds of mystery beyond her granite walls.

Scootaloo had every reason to be afraid of these goblins.  They outnumbered her greatly.  Most of them—if not all of them—hated and despised her.  It would only be a matter of time before they decided that she was better off dead and infiltrated her flimsy fortress with just the right force to overwhelm and bludgeon her to death.

The one thing that kept them from doing so was not Devo, Scootaloo reasoned, but rather it was a far more important campaign that occupied the entirety of their efforts.  More than wanting to scavenge, more than wanting to pilfer, more than wanting to learn the secrets of sky marble, these goblins wanted to escape.  They had the tools to do it across a ravine not far from where Rainbow Dash was buried.  Every day that Scootaloo so much as approached that side of the sunken ruins, she spotted the goblins there—in droves—working on one failed attempt or another to bridge the gap between themselves and their tools.  Scootaloo often watched their efforts from afar, studying the imps' body language, measuring their chances of success.

Deep down, she almost wanted them to succeed.  She almost wanted them to somehow leap across the cavern, grab their own devices, and swiftly climb out of the ruins.  Even if the goblins won, even if the goblins beat her to the punch and found a way out of the Cloudsdalian abyss, it would at least mean that they'd be gone.  Scootaloo would be abandoned, helpless, and alone, but at least she would be in charge of all of those factors.  It was a strange thing, to not only have become the last pony, but to have found the epitome of being such the prime element in her survival.

Scootaloo wasn't entirely aware of when it started to happen.  She didn't measure the change in her heartbeat's tone or her breath's even pacing.  She didn't feel when her smile flew away to join the ash of the Wasteland air.  At some point, in the middle of a new and desolate life, the gears inside the growing foal were switching.  The shadows of the Cataclysm had engulfed her, and nearly a year after all of ponydom had been burned to a crisp, the pony inside of Scootaloo was starting to melt away as well.





It was one quiet day while scaling the shattered lengths of a fallen marketplace that Scootaloo first saw them.  She was poking a metal pole fastened to a flimsy hoof-brace through a powdery pile of soot when she uncovered a glass jar, and across the shiny metal lid of it she saw the scarlets.  She blinked and the scarlets blinked as well, and that was when she realized that they belonged to her.

Breathless, the last pony sat down on her haunches, clasping the jar with two canvas-armored limbs, gazing intently at her eyes.  The bright violet hues were still there, but they were flimsy and threadbare shades, unfolding like dissipating clouds upon the crimson crest of a cold, rumbling stormfront.  She was hardly surprised that the colors were changing.  She had remembered Twilight Sparkle lecturing her once on how young colts and fillies—upon reaching adolescence—experienced bodily changes, some drastic and others subtle, not the least of which was a loss of the pastel brightness that accentuated a young pony's foalhood.

Scootaloo had never dreamed, not in even in her coldest and most hungry nights of fitful sleep, that her colors would be leaving her this soon.  She tilted the lid of the jar so that she was staring at her orange coat.  She had long thought that the severe bruises dealt her from the goblins several months ago had remained permanent.  Now, however, she saw something else.  She saw her entire body darkening into a dull, brown tone.  It was as if the shadows of the Wasteland had sucked all residual brightness from her body.  Scootaloo briefly worried what would happen if she grew her mane out once again; would it appear gray?

The filly gulped.  On a pathetic whim, Scootaloo tilted the lid even further.  She leaned her shaved head aside, and caught a reflection of her flank.  She was hardly surprised to see nothing.  The world had exploded.  The Sun and Moon were gone.  All that was glorious and magical about Equestria had vanished.  It briefly mesmerized her that for so many days, weeks, and months she had completely and utterly forgotten about something that was once—for a blissful year or two of her life—the utter obsession of her being.  Now, she  even care about lacking a cutie mark.  It was infinitely more important to find food or a sharp object to plant along the mouth of her hovel.

Scootaloo shuddered and placed the jar down as she briefly hung in deep thought.  She was the last crusader, the only crusader.  With all of her talents, with all of her special skills and inner strength, the only thing she could ever earn was a serene and gentle death.

There was a sharp rustle behind her.  In a breathless twirl, Scootaloo yanked the freshly-crafted slingshot out from her saddlebag, fitted it with a razor-sharp chunk of sky marble, and took aim, squinting one half-scarlet eye.

A white shape scurried through the ruins in front of  her.  Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat; she instantly thought “troll.”  With the next few pulsing seconds, she rode her way down an icy crest of shock.  The thing was too tiny to be a troll, or anything else nearly as malevolent.

To her shock, Scootaloo watched as a little bunny rabbit hopped through the ruins of Cloudsdale, its soot-stained coat shimmering in the bands of twilight like a living, ivory torch.  One of its ears had been lopped off, and the surviving rodent had a limp to its left rear leg.  Nevertheless, the tiny shivering thing sped away from Scootaloo's figure with alarming vigor, hiding itself away in the powdery ruins of the crumbled landscape.  The rate at which it disappeared was like a dream, as if the little furry thing had never even shown itself to begin with.

Scootaloo panted, her eyes twitching upon comprehending the miraculous sight she had just witnessed.  For the first time in months, Scootaloo felt sad... simply for the fact that she had just felt happy, if even briefly.  A piece of her danced inside, unhindered by the gray expanse of the tomb surrounding her, for she was reminded ever so bitterly that a part of her was still a pony, and her breath wanted desperately to sing in rapture at the precious fragility of life.  Closing her eyes, she could almost even hear music...






A white rabbit scurried across the sidewalk, forcing Scootaloo to swivel her gliding metal tray to the side in a gasp.  She ultimately braked by clasping onto a mailbox with her front hooves at the last second.  She watched as the little rodent bounced through the crowd and found its way to the protective wings of a yellow pegasus beyond the thick of the gathering ceremony.

Scootaloo gawked breathlessly at the gigantic celebration in the heart of Ponyville.  After forty-eight solid hours of pure, uninterrupted night, the sun had risen, and with it there came a fantastic, epic parade that dwarfed any and all expectations for the Summer Sun Celebration.  A grand golden chariot had landed from its sweeping flight through the blue sky, and ponies of all sizes and colors were coalescing into a living, cheering halo around the center of downtown.

Kicking her way around the wide circumference of flicking tails, Scootaloo bounced from atop her tray and craned her neck in desperation to see over the many equine bodies.  She was faintly aware of two sparkling figures in the center of the jubilant event, of mane hair that glittered with cosmic brilliance.  She heard a majestic voice aimed at a lavender filly, but could barely make out through the limbs of so many gazing figures who was speaking to whom.  All she knew was that something important was happening there in Ponyville, something big.  Where there was excitement in Ponyville, there had to be...

“Come on... Come on...” the little orange foal hissed to herself, glancing all around for something to climb above the manes of the encircling crowd.  She finally spotted a wooden wagon parked off to the side of the bustling town square.  Kicking against the ground, she sped her metal tray towards the vehicle and jumped, immediately clasping the large wheels.  With her wings fluttering from the strenuous effort, she climbed up the spokes and pulled herself onto the top of the wooden structure.  A rich, ageless voice was ringing through the air just beyond the many heads of ponies.

“Spike, take a note, please.  I, Princess Celestia, hereby decree that the unicorn, Twilight Sparkle, shall take on a new mission for Equestria.”

Panting, Scootaloo brushed her pink mane aside and caught her breath, gazing with wide eyes towards the gentle scene unfolding before her.  A white alicorn was orating to a whelpish figure holding a quill pen and parchment.  A few paces away, a violet-maned unicorn stood, gazing at her mentor with bright eyes.  The sight was mesmerizing, and the Princess' image alone was something unearthly, awe-inspiring, and breathtaking.

Scootaloo couldn’t care less.  She was looking for colors, many colors.  She wrenched her eyes off the goddess and scanned the lengths of Town Square.

The regal voice carried on, “She must continue to study the magic of friendship; she must report to me her findings from her new home in Ponyville.”

The air was filled with cheers and giggles.  Several bright bodies rushed to the unicorn's side, hugging and nuzzling her, forming a tight circle of ecstatic life.  Moved to tears, the young lavender pony murmured joyfully from the center of their embrace, “Oh thank you, Princess Celestia.  I'll study harder than before.”

Scootaloo heard the unicorn's words, but didn't register them, for she had finally found the colors, the shades that had kept the orange foal fearless in so many hours of frightening night while all the other Ponyvilleans huddled in their homes, moved to shivers in a perpetual horror.  Rainbow Dash was laughing up a storm, nudging the lavender unicorn while smirking devilishly the alicorn's way.  She was brash, she was uncouth, she was alive.  More than all of that, she was...

“Awesome,” Scootaloo cooed.  She folded her forelimbs atop the edge of the wagon in front of her and grinned, exhaling a warmth that had been preserved in her being ever since she saw that same prismatic soul fearlessly charging the obsidian silhouette of Nightmare Moon.  Even if the sun hadn't returned to the earth, even if night had lasted forever across the land of Equestria, even if Scootaloo was doomed to remain hungry and homeless forever, there was no reason to fret so long as one soul in all the world was fearless enough to take it all on, even if it wasn't herself—at least not yet.  Some things were too impossible to be that awesome, and yet they were.

They were...





“Hey!  Hey Rainbow Dash!  Down here!”

The blue-coated pegasus finished exchanging words with a wall-eyed mailmare.  Blinking, she glanced down towards the dirty sidewalk of Ponyville beneath her.

Scootaloo bounced energetically upon making eye contact.  She beamed, leaning against a lamppost while clutching the metal tray in the crook of two jittery hooves.  “Uh... Hey!”  She bit her lip as several ponies trotted behind her, still engaged in the ongoing celebration of the greatest Summer Sun Celebration ever.  “You kicked that scary alicorn's flank, didn't you?”

“Who... Nightmare Moon?”  Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes blinked from where she hovered high above the little foal.  “Oh... Uh... Y-Yeah!  Heheh—Totally!  Well... uhm... it was really a bunch of us who did it, kind of.  When I say 'us', I mean myself and this new girl, Twilight Sparkle, along with Fluttershy, Mr. and Mrs. Cake's niece, that vampire-sounding chick from the boutique, and even Strawhead—”

“All six of you took down Nightmare Moon?”  Scootaloo exclaimed, her violet eyes wide.  “Overnight?!”

“Heck yeah, we did!”  A hovering Rainbow Dash folded her arms with a sudden, smug smirk.  “We—like—totally launched a huge freakin' rainbow at the ugly horse demon and brought back Princess Luna!  So, y'know...”  She brushed a blue hoof against her chest and examined it casually up close to her face.  “...I totally take credit for it, since it was my trademark colors and all.”

“Cooooool...”  Scootaloo leaned forward so hard she nearly fell on her face.  “Think you can do it again so I could see sometime?”

“Uhhh... Eheh...”  Rainbow Dash scratched the back of her mane, her cheeks slightly rosy.  “I kind of sort of need the other five ponies I was with at the time, not to mention a bunch of really snazzy golden bling...”

“But you could do it?!  Huh?  You could show me how you took down Nightmare Moon?”

“Heh!  Why the heck not?!  Anything for you... you... uhhhh—”

“Scootaloo.”  The little filly blinked.  “We met last week, remember?”

“Oh!  Right!  Uhm...”  Rainbow Dash fidgeted, bit her lip, then ultimately brightened.  “The barn and the... uh...”  She stared down at the object in the foal's grasp.  “...the silly little metal tray!”

“It's not silly!”  Scootaloo raspberried and hung between a smirk and a frown.  “It's how I get around!  I'm faster than any other pony on the ground in this town!  No matter how old they are!”

“Heh—I bet you are, ya little squirt.  I bet you are...”

“Hey RD!”  A voice rolled from half a block away, waving an orange hoof.  “What are ya loiterin' around for?!  We all promised we'd take Twilight to Sugarcube Corner to celebrate!”

“Uhh—Yeah!  I'm comin', AJ!”  Rainbow Dash waved back, then gazed down at the tiny pegasus.  “Look, kid.  I've gotta skate.  You see, I... uh... I have these new friends—well, not all of them are new, I guess.  Anywho, long story short, if it weren't for their help, we'd still be in the dark as we speak.  The sun would never have come up.”

“Really?”  Scootaloo leaned her head to the side.  “We could still have been experiencing endless night?”

“But we aren't!  All thanks to the Elements of Harmony!”

“Elements of what now?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

“Hey, so maybe I work best in a crowd!”  Rainbow Dash winked brashly.  “Somepony's gotta be around to keep record of my awesomeness!”

“Oooh!  Oooh!  Can that pony be me?”

Rainbow Dash navigated an awkward grin.  She raised an eyebrow while smirking Scootaloo's way.  “I... don't suppose you've got some magical horn that can produce a fateful spark at the drop of a hoof, huh?”

“For the love of oats, Rainbow.  What's keepin' you so long?”

“I'm coming!”  Rainbow Dash shouted over her beating wings.  “Keep your apples on your butt!”  She glanced down at the kid.  “I'll... uhm... talk to you later, kid.  That's a promise.”  With a flick of her multicolored tail, she spun and darted over the celebrating crowds towards the pink shape of Sugarcube Corner beyond.

“Hey!  Dashie!”  Scootaloo hopped after her.

The sapphire pegasus paused in mid-flight to glance back at the filly.  “Pfft!  What'd you just call me?”

“Were you...”  Scootaloo gulped and fiddled with the edges of her metal tray.  “Uhh... were you scared at all... when you faced Nightmare Moon?”

Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes blinked.  She smirked wide, slicing a blissful dagger across the veil of Scootaloo's lingering doubts.  “Heck no.  I would have tied Nightmare Moon's mane into ribbons and flung her off a cliff if Twilight Sparkle wasn't there to make things go quickly.”

Scootaloo exhaled warmly, hugging her metal tray to her chest.  “You're so cool, Rainbow Dash.”

“Heh!  What, were you foaled yesterday kid?”  The prismatic pony winked, and was gone in a spectral blur.





Warden watched her, his eyes aglow in the red haze of the cramped, metal office.  As soon as an elder goblin shuffled across his view aided by mechanically whirring leg braces, the green teenager stumbled back with a stifled gasp and listened quietly to the ensuing conversation.

“I can't tell you how pleased I am that you came back,” Devo of Hex Blood uttered.  His white dreadlocks dangled behind him as he placed an inventory report onto his rusted desk, turned around, and leaned against the beaten furniture with his muscular arms folded.  “Any other visitor would have taken my generous offer of repair materials and taken off for the snowy horizon.”  He smirked the last pony's way.  “It looks like you're here for as grand a purpose as I need you to be.”

“It's all simply business, prime Hex-Bleeder,” Scootaloo muttered as vents of steam billowed along the corners of the warehouse office behind her.  “An agreement with you is a means to an end that has brought me clear across the Wasteland to uncover.  If I can be a means to your own ends as well, then so be it.”

Without looking, the copper-eyed elder pointed at Warden.  “And what of this young helper?  Is having him here simply a business decision as well?”

Warden bit his lip nervously under Devo's scrutiny.

Scootaloo cleared her throat.  “He has knowledge of the streets around here.  He's already been very helpful in showing me how to get to places reasonably quickly.  I'm paying him to be an assistant, nothing more.”

Devo glanced aside, spotting Warden's obvious horsehoe branding in the penumbra of the office's glowing red light.  “Yes, so I see.”  With a deep breath, Devo leaned off of the desk and paced across the room.  “If I may ask, pony, do you know enough about imp culture to have familiarized yourself with Outbleeder Intercession?”

The pegasus shook her leather-capped head.  “I'm afraid I'm in the dark about that custom.”

“That's a shame.”  Devo shuffled about and squinted Warden's way with a grandfatherly smirk.  “Perhaps your little assistant could fill you in?”

Scootaloo glanced blankly at Warden.  The green teenager fidgeted slightly, cleared his throat, and stood courageously tall.  “The... uh... The rite of Outbleeder Intercession has been a tradition among goblins that's almost as old as the manisfestation of Petra!  When different clans living in the same area bump heads so much that negotiation is impossible, it is custom for individual clan leaders to hire a single individual who is not of like-blood to conduct intermediary meetings and act as a bridge between rival parties!”

“Hmmmph... And you once called me a 'dictionary,'” Scootaloo grunted.

Warden frowned at her.  “Hey!  The Stock-Bleeders happen to be the latest in a long line of impish clerks, ya glue stick!”  He blinked, caught a sideways glance from Devo, and wincingly added:  “...Just thought I m-might inform you, glue stick... ma'am.”

“Carry on, my wayward tongue.”

“Er... Absolutetly, prime Hex-Bleeder.”  Warden dutifully resumed, “Once a clan leader has chosen someone outside of the clan—hence the 'Outbleeder'—it becomes that imp's job to represent that clan's interests, but not its essence.  Since the Outbleeder is nothing more than a messenger, it's deemed dishonorable for the clans he or she visits to harm him or her.  The Outbleeder is essentially the sole member of a neutral party, and he or she isn't even... erm... paid for the messenging services until the act of mediation is seen through.”

“I was asleep through that entire explanation until the little Wart got to the 'payment' part,” Scootaloo murmured.

“As I told you before, pony,” Devo said, pointing.  “I do not have it within my power to grant you access to the central area of the mining pits.  However, if someone can help me get to the bottom of why Haman backed out of the weapons trade with the ogres and why none of the other clans are doing anything about it, then I might just acquire the information I need to present to the next few family meetings.  The impact of such information could be pivotal to ending decades' worth of strife between the clans.  Whether this imp city unifies or whether Haman straightens all of his Rust-Bleeders out, I'm more than certain that either outcome will make business run smoothly around here once again.  We won't have to fear incursions from the Wasteland, and we can open the mines once more to outsiders.”

“Meaning no more being given the zap by gremlins,” Scootaloo remarked.

“The Outer Aerial Gremlin Defense Iniative was commissioned by the family meetings as a means to protect imp city interests during this time of desperate paranoia.  There are many goblins who believe that multiple outside races have grown jealous of the glorious manisfestation here in the Central Plains.  Most families along these struts expect an attack from the outside.  I beg to differ.  I've lived among my own flesh and blood long enough to know better.  I'm certain that there is something very threatening and very corrupt from within, and it threatens to tear this impcity apart.”

“And you haven't done anything about it so far because...?”  Scootaloo leaned forward emphatically.

Devo took a long, deep breath.  “Any accusations made on my behalf against the other families who run this city would be seen as outright malevolent and invasive.  However, if I enact the Rite of Outbleeder Intercession...”

“You can investigate without losing a few fingers.  Got it.”  Scootaloo nodded.  “I'm just surprised that you've never had an opportunity to perform this tradition before.”

“I've had plenty of opportunities, pony,”  Devo said, then smiled as a bizarrely tranquil breath came out of his lungs, as if he had been waiting an entire lifetime for this moment.  “It was my choice to wait until now.”

“Why?”  Scootaloo leaned her head to the side.  “What's so special about now?”

“Hmm.  What indeed?” Devo droned.  Just then, the metal door to the office creaked open, filling the room with the mechanical sounds of the factory floors below.  Raimony stumbled in, carrying a long, green wooden case clasped shut in her palms.

“Sorry it took so long, father.  This was hidden in the very back of our locker of heirlooms.  I don't think you've ever told me when this was last worn!”

“That's because it was long before the Dimming, child,” Devo uttered, taking the long container and resting it gently on the metal desktop.  “It was back when I was a little imp, come to think of it, and no taller than the assistant in our equine guest's employ, here.”

Raimony cast Warden a fairly unenthusiastic look, most of which was aimed at his branding.  “Charmed, I'm sure.”

The little teenager rolled his eyes.

“So, allow me to guess.”  Scootaloo shuffled from where she stood.  “You want me to act as a bodyguard for the Outbleeder, once you've sent him or her to speak to the other clans for you?”

“No, as a matter of fact...”  Devo opened the container.  In wrinkled blue hands, he pulled loose an antique, silken bandanna laced with metal ringlets and adorned with impish designs all across its crimson length.  “I nominate you as Hex Blood's Outbleeder mediator, pony.”

Warden did a double-take.  Scootaloo was relatively unfazed.  Raimony, however, was beside herself, almost pratfalling from the sheer shock of her progenitor's declaration.  “Are you joking, father?”  The brown-haired goblinette pointed a jittery claw Scootaloo's way.  “She's a friggin' pony.”

“I do believe I have taken note of that, child.”

“This is a joke!”  Raimony cackled.  “We'll be the laughing stock of the whole imp city!  As soon as she goes galloping up and down the lengths of Petra with our family's sacred heirloom on her head, they'll think that the Hex-Bleeders have lost all their marbles!  Heck—I'm already thinking that you've lost all your marbles, father!”

“My beloved daughter, I have lived a multitude of years—far more than you can count.  I know what is at stake for our kindred's future, and I know what efforts I must take to find out what is tearing our fellow clans apart.”

“With a pony, father?!  While you're at it, why don't you hire a bunch of harpies to fly our next shipment!” she scoffed.  “Oh!  And I bet Matthais would just love to hand over his mining license to a bunch of Dirigible Dogs!  I swear, you must have been breathing in a lifetime's worth of steam to have ever concocted this cockamamie plan to put the fate of our clan in the hooves of a prancing sky stealer—!”

“I will not have ignorant words of hatred be flung across my office like the iron darts of Haman's lackeys!”  Devo suddenly snapped at her.

“Ignorant words?!  But father, did they or didn't they dim the world in your time—?!”

“I will have none of it!”  He frowned her way.  “I raised you to be a shrewd business imp, to be an honest worker of Petra, but above all to be respectful of why we're here and why this family name was not wiped out by the harsh elements of nature!  Will you or will you not keep an open mind about this?”

Raimony took a deep breath, folding her arms and glaring Scootaloo's way.  “I only wish an open mind didn't mean an open wallet, father.  This decision of yours could very well be the end of us.”

“Or, with faith, the beginning of us.”  Devo nodded his head towards her.  “If you still feel like a squeamish child, I will not blame you for leaving us to attend to your daily duties.”

“With pleasure, father,” she spat, spun about, and stormed out of the room.  The metal door to the office clanged offensively within its frame.  Warden looked on, sweating nervously at the tense exchange.

“She's right, you know,” Scootaloo uttered in a neutral tone, glancing back at the still-rattling doorframe.  “You're taking a big risk here, Devo.”  The last pony glanced at the elder with an arching eyebrow.  “I'm flattered, of course, to be chosen to do such an important thing, but if your own daughter reacts like that... just what the heck can I expect from the whole city's worth of goblin clan leaders?”

“I am bound to my daughter by blood.  She can afford to berate me all she likes because such a substance flows everlasting in my heart,” Devo said with a gentle smile.  “The clans, however, I merely deal with through silver, and that is a far less generous commodity on this earth.”  He took a deep breath and unfolded the lengths of the red bandanna in his grasp.  “The clans will undoubtedly hate you because you are a pony; that much is certain.  At the same time, they will have to respect you by custom.  In the end, they'll likely be caught in the middle of comprehension and confusion.  I've long since known that catching imps off guard is the best way to get the truth out of them.  Flattering them or threatening them are two different things that achieve the same, useless result, for it forces a rosiness to their cheeks and a stammer to their tongue that is far from trustworthy.  You're the greatest Outbleeder that there could ever be, pony, for what words of honesty could be told to you that couldn't be told to the winds and ash of the Wasteland?  Does that make any sense at all?”

“Deathly sense, prime Hex-Bleeder,” Scootaloo said with a nod.  “So... Where do I start?”

“It is not up to your spirit to proceed,” Devo said.  A metallic ring filled the air as he suddenly unsheathed a dagger from a scabbard hidden in his leg braces.  “However, your vessels are the ones to provide the introductory signature.”

Warden fidgeted guiltily.  “Oh, yeah.  Eheheh—I forgot to mention that part.”

Scootaloo glanced lethargically at him.  “Just what the heck am I paying you for?”

“Erhm... c-comic relief?”

The last pony rolled her eyes, then motioned her hoof towards Devo's blade.  “If you would allow me?”

“By all means, pony,” the goblin clan leader handed her the dagger.

Warden nervously scratched behind a twitching ear.  “Uhm.  Don't you wanna meditate or maybe take a few calm breaths before you—Mmmm...”  He winced, barely watching through a squinting, aquamarine eye.

Scootaloo raised a layer of leather armor before quite swiftly and painlessly slicing a cut across her left shoulder.  Once a thin dribble of crimson leaked out through her brown coat, she layered it over the dagger and handed it calmly to Devo.  Devo chanted something in a hushed tongue before swiftly sliding the warm, wet blade over the fabric of the metal-laced bandanna.  Once the iron-etched script of the headpiece was glistening thoroughly, he sheathed the dagger and approached the pony with the bandanna held up.  He motioned quietly towards her skull.

Flaring of her nostrils, Scootaloo dutifully peeled her leather cap off.  A bright pink mane drooped over her neck as Devo gently wrapped the slightly damp bananna over her brow.

“As prime Hex-Bleeder, leader of my people, purveyor of Petra's manisfestation among my brothers and sisters, I appoint this Outbleeder as Intercessory Mediator of my fellow kindred, that she may root out the blemishes in their hearts and minds, for the sake of Petra's limitless growth.”  Once the ring-laced headband was tightly fitted atop Scootaloo's head, Devo stepped back with a whirring of his leg motors.  “Does the Outbleeder accept such an honor as I have given it unto her?”

“Sure thing, dreadlocks,” Scootaloo uttered with a dry smirk.

“Uhm...”  Warden smiled nervously.  “I think the traditional dialogue here is 'I, Outbleeder, hereby bleed where I walk for the sake of Petra—'”

“Yeah.  Uh huh.  That's cute.”  Scootaloo turned and stared squarely at Devo.  “Where do you want me to go first?”

“That's up to the Outbleeder.”  Devo stepped back, smiling gently with folded arms.  “You have the full pardon of the Hex Blood clan and its respectful neighbors to visit who you want, when you want.  I, of course, desire to know what the reason is for Haman's cold feet as of late.  But going to the source in this matter may not necessarily mean going to him.  This is a big city, pony.  There are plenty of clans to ask around.”

“Well, who the heck do I go to first?”

“Don't pretend like you've been paying me for advice.”  Devo managed a slight chuckle and pointed down at the branded teenager.  “I'm pretty certain that this is where your assistant comes in!”





“I have no freaking clue,” Warden uttered.

“Nnnngh...”  Scootaloo ran a hoof over her face.

The two stood on the outer edges of Strut Eighteen's Level Alpha.  Above them, the top half of Petra shimmered in golden brilliance.  Towards the west end of the Central Plains, dozens upon dozens of freight zeppelins roared slowly through the black, smog-filled air above elevated monorail tracks steaming with trains that were constantly making deliveries to and from the mining pits.  Several impish passersby slowed their gait long enough to give the crimson-banded pony a long, disbelieving look before rejoining the hustle and bustle of the rusted platform as if they had never stopped to begin with.

“Why couldn't I have fed and nursed a homeless flying squirrel back to health instead?”  Scootaloo groaned.

“Look, I'm only here because I still need to earn back all the strips that you decided to slap into my hands!”  Warden exclaimed with an accusatory claw.

Scootaloo smirked slyly at him.  “Don't pretend that you haven't landed yourself in the luckiest situation of your life, ya little Wart.”

Warden blushed slightly, running a hand through his short emerald hair.  “Yeah, well, it certainly is the goofiest situation in my life.”

“I know, right?”  The last pony shuffled lethargically across the platform's edge, gazing out at the distant ruins of Cloudsdale, now a hodgepodge of deep pits brimming with lanternlight, metal lattices, and dredging machines.  “I kind of feel for Devo's daughter.  It's more than obvious that the Hex Bleeders' clan leader is—well—friggin' old.  Working for him is shaping out to be a big break for me in my own search, but I'm almost scared that I'm taking advantage of some impish form of late-age dementia or whanot.”

“Just what's so important to you that you gotta go diving into the depths of the mines for it anyway?”  Warden leaned towards her, cocking his ears curiously to the side.  “Did the ponies leave some sort of secret weapon of mass destruction that could cause a Second Dimming?”

“Will you lay off with blaming my species for the Cataclysm already?!”  Scootaloo frowned over her shoulder.  “I'm paying you to be an assistant, not to flay me in public.  I get enough of that from the eyes of impish strangers.”

“Well, if I'm gonna help you stick your neck into a bunch of neighboring clans' business, I think I deserve to know what the reward is for all of this.”

“No, you don't deserve to know anything.”  Scootaloo frowned at him.  “I gave you strips to buzz off!  I don't know why I bother to still have you hanging by my side!  I don't know why I'm doing all this crap for Devo!  I don't know why...”  She cringed in mid-speech, sighed, and hung her face towards the rusted metal bulkheads beneath them both.  “Somepony very special to me is down there, somewhere, in the middle of all that mess.  At least... I hope she's down there somewhere still.  I need to get to her, someway... somehow.  It's the most important thing in my life right now that I... that I get to her...”

“And all this time she hasn't tried to get back to you?”  Warden made a face.  “Pfft—What makes you think she's worth it?”

“She's dead, ya little Wart,” Scootaloo grunted.  “I buried her there, and suddenly a gigantic, steel, goblin mushroom has sprouted up overnight and I can only pray to Epona that her remains are still there...”

“Oh... uh...”  Warden winced visibly, something that he was getting more and more used to in this strange equine's presence.  “I'm sorry.”  He scratched behind his ear.  “Was she someone important to you?”

“She was everything...”

He blinked curiously at her, then squinted.  As if for the first time ever, he observed something hanging about her ear.  It was a feather dangling off of a blue string, just like one of the pegasus' many brown feathers... only it was of an insanely bright, sapphire hue.

Scootaloo felt the touch of the gentle fibres brushing up against her cheek as the feather danced in the Wasteland winds of Strut Eighteen's immense height.  Closing her eyes, the mare sat on her haunches and tried to breathe calmly, imagining that she was in the clouds instead, and sitting next to her—warm as a Sunrise—was...

“Lazarus of Core Blood.”

The last pony reopened her eyes.  She spun around and squinted the teenager's way.  “Huh?”

Warden rubbed his green arms in the chilling winds.  “His family's located on Strut Twenty-Two.  They're one of the wealthiest groups of bleeders in the city.  If any imp knows what Haman has been up to, it's him.”

“You sure of that, Wart?”

“Not... exactly...”  Warden smiled nervously.  “But it's a start, right?  Devo kind of implied that we shouldn't go directly to the Rust-Bleeders’ doorstep, so I'm thinking the Core-Bleeders are a good clan to start with.”

“Whatever,” Scootaloo stood back up and flexed her four limbs.  “As long as we start somewhere.  When I sit around, I get bored.  When I get bored, I get sleepy.  When I get sleepy, I get depressed.”

“What, is that a mantra of ponies or something?”

“Heck no.  If it was, then we might really have caused the Dimming.  Ahem—So where to, kiddo?”

“Up along the central elevator shafts!”  Warden exclaimed, pointing along the thick of the great black stalk of Petra looming above.  “There're a couple of freight cars that will take us up in a jiffy!  I'll show you!”

“Think you know of any good market bazaars along the way that sell bullseyes?”  Scootaloo muttered.  “We might need to toss some around as distractions for where we're headed.”

“Come on!  Cheer up, glue sti—er, I mean Outbleeder!”  Warden grinned crookedly as he led the way on scurrying feet.  “We're doing this as official business on behalf of the Hex-Bleeders!  What's the worst that Lazarus and his buddies could say to us?!”





“This is an outrage!  An insult!  A defamation of all that manifests Petra!”  A partially balding elder goblin with a scar on his cheek slapped a wooden desktop and nearly tripped over his own chair as he stood up and spat, “You cannot deceive me, you walking pile of manure!  A clan leader would have to be insane to have appointed you as Outbleeder Intecessor!”

“Take it or leave it, handsome,” Scootaloo uttered, summoning many a gasp from the flocking cluster of surly, steam-rifle armed guard imps surrounding the lengths of the prime Core-Bleeder's lantern-lit office.  “I didn't trot all this way to have an open dictation to the run-down bulkheads of this rancid place you call a factory.  Devo of Hex Blood thinks that something is rotten in the State of Petra.  This 'walking pile of manure' is here to sniff it out, and already it stinks a heck of a lot worse than the predictable metaphor you just slapped on me.”

“Ehhhh... heheheheh...”  Warden stuck his face in between the pony and the elder goblin.  “What my employer means to say is—Ooof!”

Scootaloo had just bumped him aside with a swish of her armored flank.  “I said what I said.  Now are you gonna show some stones and give me some answers or what?”

“You are a detestable, vile, sky-stealing waste of horse filth!”  Lazarus of Core Blood growled.

“And you're a coward,” the last pony replied.  “Summoning over a dozen guards to stand around me, as if that's supposed to intimidate me?  Even if I wasn't Hex Blood's Outbleeder intermediary and your goons here had full right to point their guns at mane, they wouldn't stand a chance.  My mind, my soul, and my body have been tempered by years upon years spent in the Wasteland.  If I wanted to, I could make new curtains for your office out of these goblins' skins.  But I'm not going to do that and they're not going to try anything that will make me do that.”  She leaned forward with her scarlet eyes matching the blood-soaked bandanna hanging across her brow.  “The reason is that you know deep inside your harsh exterior the same thing that is gnawing away at Devo of Hex Blood.  You know that something strange is cooking underneath every goblin's nose, and it all smells of this Haman loser that every clan around town has been giving full license to send his punks everywhere and spill blood in the name of financial cleansing.  The only reason for a bloody purge is to contain a very dangerous truth, prime Core-Bleeder.  I don't know about you, but I find the prospect of that to be frightening... and this is coming from a soul of the Wasteland.”

Silence permeated the room, during which the shifting guards said nothing.  Warden stared long and hard at Scootaloo, then snapped out of a numb spell as if he had just been dipped in ice water.  “Yeah!”  He balked towards the clan leader's desk.  “So what about it, scrub?  Mmmmff!”  His eyes bulged as Scootaloo planted a hoof in his mouth while rolling her eyes.

Lazarus of Core Blood took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Haman of Rust Blood may or may not be up to something, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't as perturbed as the rest of the clans are as of late.  He has so many investments in me and my two neighboring Struts alone.  If I refuse him the right to send his Rust-Bleeding riflers into my districts to track down Haman's dissidents, I not only risk open conflict with Haman's clan, but with the other clans who are even more reticent to provide resistance to his city-wide campaign.”

“So what's stopping you?”  Scootaloo shrugged her armored shoulders.  “You don't like the Rust-Bleeders marching about.  The other clans don't like the Rust-Bleeders marching about.  Why can't you guys just—I dunno—get together and agree to give Haman the third degree?”

Lazarus frowned.  “You see—This is why appointing a creature such as you to be Outbleeder is so damnably absurd!  Never mind the fact that you're a descendant of sky-stealers, but you have no concept of imp city custom!  Don't you at least have a basic, fundamental understanding of the Goblin Rule of Financial Precedent?”

Scootaloo blinked.  Scootaloo blinked again.  She blindly kicked Warden in the rear.

“Augh!”  The green teenager jumped, rubbed his hindquarters, and swiftly stammered, “Uh... Uh... Oh!  The Goblin Rule of Financial Precedent binds neighboring clans to the one goblin family they initially made a bartering agreement with!  Even if that family is to make trade agreements with other clans in the future, the Financial Precedent maintains that their first contract holds sway over all other decisions absolutely!”

“A blood oath is never something to be taken lightly.”  Lazarus added with a frown.  “No matter how many years have passed.”

“Is that what Haman of Rust Blood did?”  Scootaloo squinted quizzically.  “When this place was being built, he jumped in and swept every clan up into a series of introductory trade agreements that bound them all to him and him alone?”

“And we wouldn't be where we all are today if it wasn't for the Rust-Bleeders,” Lazarus said, standing up and pacing across his own line of guards.  “From the very beginning, Haman had charisma, enthusiasm, and—most importantly—he had a gift for making profit.  Unlike other entrepreneurial goblins immediately following the Dimming, he had the bright idea to bridge goblin commerce with the rest of the Wasteland by trading with other species, such as Dirigible Dogs and rogue Harpy states—” 

“—and Ogres, I presume,”  Scootaloo added.

Lazarus walked up to a stop in front of her and nodded solemnly.  “Yes.  Even before the Civil War broke out that split Mount Ogreton, Haman had this imp city doing a great deal of trade with both the Fire and Mountain Ogres.  Weapons trade is hardly a pretty business, but so long as goblins weren't being slain by the steam powered products we produced, none of the families protested.  Haman stood at the helm, guiding our entire financial infrastructure as we rode our success from both groups of ogres for over a decade.  At least two-thirds of the families that individually own Struts of Petra today managed to do so as a direct result of partnering with Haman.”

“But now he's backed out of the weapons trade altogether, right?”  Scootaloo asked.  “That seems kind of cold, considering how much he must realize that the other clans depend on him.”

“Most clans, yes.  There are a few—like Hex Blood—that support themselves through other endeavors.”  Lazarus took a deep breath.  “My family, of course, has its hands tied.  We depended so much on the Rust-Bleeders over the years that we're struggling as of this moment to make use of our many steam exports.  Once Haman cut himself off from the ogres, a good deal of us had to follow suit, and it's absolutely killing our profit.”

“Then why not try and talk Haman back into resuming the weapons trade?”

“I doubt our insistence would hold much sway over what Haman does now.  But, like I said, there are other families—a few, at least—who haven't depended on Haman as much as we have, like Sky Blood and Moth Blood.  If any families might have a plan in action, not to mention a unique perspective on the Rust-Bleeders, you'd have better luck asking one of them, Outbleeder.”

Scootaloo briefly glared down at Warden.  Warden smiled back with crooked teeth.  “Ahem...”  Scootaloo glanced back up at Lazarus.  “And on what Strut might I find... eh...”  The last pony mentally flipped a coin.  “...the Moth-Bleeders?”





“Pfft!  Why should we care if Haman wants to resume the weapons trade or not?”  A fat goblin with long red hair grunted and sweated from working underneath the bottom chassis of a half-dismantled hovercraft.  “I've got a huge profit from making deals directly with the Gremlin Initiative!  You think the Rust Bleeders are running the show in the Upper Struts?!  Ha!  Moth Blood's industry is the backbone of Petra's security defense grid!  You can bet your hooves, ya zebra!”

“Pony,”  Scootaloo corrected.  “Still, prime Moth-Bleeder, you can't deny the fact that what you're doing here is invariably tied to Rust Blood's presence in Petra.”  She and Warden stood across from the grime-covered clan leader in the center of an even grimier factory filled with soot, metallic ringing noises, and hovercraft parts.  A pair of armed guards stood on either side of the red-banded pony as she paced and talked with the laboring imp leader.  “Haman, it appears, is the centerpiece upon which the whole financial cogwheel of this imp city revolves.  Ever since he cut himself off from the ogres—and the rest of Petra as well—he's apparently been hoarding all of his financial gains instead of investing them.  If he doesn't make profit, two-thirds of Petra doesn't either.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it those same two-thirds of this city that make up the majority of the clients that the gremlin security teams you supply for depend on?”

“Yeesh, get off your high horse... horse!”  The clan leader slid out from underneath the hovercraft, wiped a white rag across his brow, and obesely smirked up at her.  “Show me a goblin who doesn't have an inkling of knowledge of how imp city trade works and I'll show you a zebra who eats meat!”

“Pony.  And your analogy is worthless to me,” Scootaloo droned.

“It is?”  Warden remarked.  Scootaloo silenced him with a light side-buck.  The teenager merely rubbed his right knee and frowned at her.

“I've suspected that Haman would back out of the weapons trade with the ogres for years!”  the fat goblin exclaimed.  He pulled a wrench out from a toolbelt and adjusted the nuts and bolts fastening an engine turbine to the hovercraft in front of him.  The sounds of loud machinery and shouting goblin workers echoed from the distante edge of the factory.  “That's why I've begun negotiating plans to sell a lot of this stuff to Dirigible Dogs!  I've heard that they need some new form of transportation ever since some big-wig canine overlord and his battleship got blown out of the sky months ago.”

Scootaloo shifted nervously where she stood.  “Yeah... well...”  She squinted curiously down at him.  “What was your first clue that made you suspect Haman would back out of his agreement with the ogres?”

“Didn't Devo of Hex Blood ever tell you about Haman and the Valley of Jewels incident?”

Scootaloo's Outbleeder bandanna dangled as she leaned an ear towards him.  “Exactly what happened to Haman over the skies of Trottingham?”





“His airship was caught in a crossfire!”  an elder goblin with jagged black tattoos across his bald skull exclaimed.  He stood along with two sons armed with pistols as they rode an elevator up a copper shaft along with Scootaloo and Warden.  “Haman of Rust Blood was making a long trip across the Wasteland to speak with some distant cousins situated in an imp city along the eastern shores of the continent.  Apparently the pilot of his freight zeppelin was a real moron, because he dipped the dirigible into a low enough altitude to take the brunt of Fire Ogre and Mountain Ogre artillery.  The ship went down fast and ground to a stop outside the trenches of the Valley of Jewels.  It's a miracle that the prime Rust-Bleeder didn't die then and there.”

“If he landed in the middle of the ogres' battle,” Scootaloo murmured, “how in all that's holy did he manage to get out?  Ogres are swift to make any sentient creatures smaller than them into war slaves.  Or so I've been told.”

“Beats me how he got out!”  The tattooed ogre shrugged.  “Haman of Rust Blood is older than the Dimming.  He's frail too; he can barely stand up straight without crapping all over the lower Struts.  Heheh.”  He gave a silver-toothed smirk.  “Speaking of incontinence, it's always been my theory that as soon as he escaped the clutches of the ogres—no matter how he did it—he could no longer hold in his courage.  After all, the Valley of Jewels incident happened no less than two years ago!  If you'd ask me, I'd say that Haman's become a changed goblin!  Wouldn't you know it?  He's the chief financier of this impcity's steam production, and suddenly he's got cold claws overnight!  By Dimming's Blight, myself and many other clan-leaders would be in no way dismayed if by the next family meeting we discovered that Haman passed away from parasprite poisoning overnight!  Heheheh... I swear, Haman of Rust Blood has been dying from the same heart attack for the last twenty years.”

Scootaloo leaned her head to the side.  “Well, if you and the other clans obviously care so little for Haman as of late, why hasn't some goblin stepped up to make him 'pass away' faster?”

Warden glanced curiously up at Scootaloo upon hearing that.

The tatooed goblin scratched his chin.  “Hmmm... How like a sky-stealer to gallop straight into a generality.  Quite certainly, pony, we goblins may have our many vices and temptations.  We may also be driven to anger and brutality from time to time.  You have to understand, though, that business is more important than our passion, and the only thing more important than business is our blood.  Long ago, when it was convenient, we made several blood pacts with Haman, as I'm sure the other clan leaders have told you.  Regardless of how times have changed, our pact with Haman must remain absolute.”

“Even if it threatens the very manisfestation of Petra—as I understand it?”  Scootaloo leaned in to utter, “If Haman continues to drag along with no explanation, this imp city's clan structure could collapse.  There are many creatures out there who know a thing or two about taking advantage of... of a collapsing city's resources.”

“If Petra is not fueled by the integrity of our blood, then it is merely a tumor of improvised engineering.  Imps are capable of constructing many elaborate structures, pony.  The most elaborate structure of all, however, is our pride.  We've learned over a very long time to live on self-respect.  When sky-stealers ruled the globe, and when the Dimming stripped us of all light, our pride is what kept us resolute and strong.”

“Hey, I like this guy!”  Warden smiled wide.  “Yoohoo, prime Blaze-Bleeder, where could I get a tattoo like that?”  He shrunk suddenly under the last pony's glare.

Scootaloo cleared her throat.  She gazed across the elevator at the bald goblin.  “Has Haman ever talked to the other clans or gone into detail about his experience at the Valley of Jewels?”

“Haman of Rust Blood only ever talks to his gun-toting lackeys these days,” the elder grumbled.  Slowly, a smirk escaped his lips.  “However, rumor is that the Rust-Bleeder was not the only imp to have escaped the zeppelin crash.”

“Oh?”

“There are many in this city who believe that there were two other clan leaders with him at the time, and that all three imps made up the sole survivors of the whole fiasco with the ogres.”

“Who, if I may ask?”

“Why's Devo of Hex Blood got you on this Outbleeder task to begin with?”  The goblin smirked, eyeing the red bandanna across her mane's bangs.  “I can't say I'm altogether enthused with who and what he's chosen to be Intercessor, but a part of me is intrigued.”  He stifled a chuckle.  “You ever killed imps before in the Wasteland, sky-stealer?”

Warden glanced nervously at Scootaloo.

Scootaloo was deadpan.  “I have killed many, many things, prime Blaze-Bleeder.  You know as well as I do that if I intend to live long in this world, then I am bound to kill even more things.  Here and now?  I am a messenger...”

“You can't fool me.  I've seen enough stormfronts, pony.  You're a scavenger.  You're only doing this for the prime Hex-Bleeder because you want something and he's acting as if he can give it to you, whether or not it's true.  You ever think that maybe Devo's lying to you just to get this sudden, Outbleeding angle on Haman?  Hmm?”

Scootaloo's nostrils flared slightly.  Nevertheless, her gaze on the goblin remained resolute.  “I do believe I asked you for two names.”

“Hmmm... I always thought ponies had a one track mind, but you take the cake, lady.”  The goblin nodded.  “Waven of South Blood and Franken of Glass Blood.”  He pointed while talking, “Good luck finding them, pony.  Word around the imp city is that they silenced themselves almost as much as Haman did after the whole fiasco.  You'd have to drag them out of the shadows of the Struts to get any story from them at this point.”

“That should be no problem for a scavenger,” Scootaloo muttered.  She glanced aside at her lowly, green companion.  “Especially if she has someone who can sniff out the shadows...”





A middle-aged goblinette shuddered from where she sat behind a decrepit metal desk.  “My father, Waven, prime South-Bleeder, died several stormfronts ago.  He contracted a fever and passed away while overseeing a steam extraction.”  She swallowed hard and gazed up with baggy eyes towards the last pony.  “His immune system was never too strong.  After what happened at the Valley of Jewels, his body was shaken up.  I don't think he ever truly recovered... then again, I don't think he ever desired to...”

Warden bit his lip pensively as Scootaloo trotted across the dimly lit office, narrowing her gaze on the female clan member.  “What do you mean by that?  Did something happen in the Valley of Jewels to rob your late father of his confidence?”

“I wish I could tell you, Outbleeder.  My father has always been dedicated to Haman of Rust Blood.  Even though our family was never too prominent in our Strut, never mind the entire imp city, Haman took us under his arm and sculpted us into a sturdy component of local steam exports.  Our industry multiplied by about tenfold, thanks to the prime Rust-Bleeder's provisions.  When my father was invited to join Haman along with Franken of Glass Blood to negotiate deliveries with the Eastern Shore, the entire family saw it as our one opportunity to ascend the ranks of Petra.  Every goblin in this district knows what happened next.  The zeppelin got caught in ogre crossfire.  There was a horrible crash, but the three most important goblins escaped and returned here.  One of them was my father.”

“May I ask, what happened since then?” Scootaloo exclaimed.

“Haman of Rust Blood pulled out of the weapons trade, as every imp knows.”  The goblinette took a deep breath.  “In the meantime, Franken performed a rapid expansion of his business.  He acquired the junction between Strut Eleven and the central furnaces of the city's stalk, dramatically increasing his steam production count.”

“Strut Eleven...”  Warden whistled.  Scootaloo gave him a harsh glance.  “What?!” he exclaimed, shrugging his arms innocently.  “It's a very tough part of town!  Especially so close to the furnaces!  Any goblin who expands into that territory wants to build a bunch of crap and build it fast!”

“Your assistant is correct,” the female goblin said with a nod.  “Franken poured all of his silver strips and all the resources donated to him by Haman to organize a new assembly line of steam-powered goods.  It hardly makes sense, considering that at the very same time his prime ally had just withdrawn from the ogre weapons exchange.  The Glass-Bleeders have no steady income of their own, at least not enough to sustain any amount of prolonged industry, much less a rapid expansion into Strut Eleven.”

“Wouldn't Franken's clan simply burn out overnight?”

“Every goblin expected that,” she said with a nod.  “And yet, it hasn't happened.  It's as if he's got limitless supplies, but every imp knows that can't be true.”

“And during all of this craziness with Franken...”  Scootaloo leaned her head to the side.  “...what did your father, Waven, do?”

She took a deep breath.  “He... He withdrew, pony.  He was not a very happy imp upon the end of his days.  It was as if something was biting him, gnawing at him.  He took me aside on several occasions, on the brink of tears, as if he was about to bestow me with a heartfelt confession.  Still, to his dying breath, he never let loose whatever it was that had been plaguing him.”

Warden shifted uncomfortably.  Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “For what it's worth, I am sorry that your father passed away, especially in such a disquieting fashion.”

“Your sincerity is well received, Outbleeder.  I've always felt that goblins, gremlins, and hobs had it wrong about ponies.  Even if they did cause the Dimming, they certainly didn't invent avarice, and that is one thing that goblins shall always be blemished with, even if there was light to shine upon this horrible world.”  She swallowed a lump down her throat.  “As for myself, I have no choice but to carry on the clan's interests.  As fate would have it, I have very little to work with.  Whatever generosity Haman had bestowed upon my father, he ran out of kindness as soon as I took the clan's mantle.  It's to be expected.  No female goblin has ever truly been allowed to fill the role of prime bleeder, no matter how righteously it has been earned.  Blood is only as thick as one's genitalia in the world of Petra.  I'm not sure if ponies could ever relate...”

“Not... really...”  Scootaloo cleared her throat.  “What happens to you next?”

“Oh, I'm certain you're much more interested in catching up with Franken of Glass Blood, since I truly have nothing of value to give you,” she uttered.  Then her gaze hardened.  “But I do give you this.  Never trust a Rust-Bleeder, even for a second.  Don't trust Haman, don't trust his advisers, and certainly don't trust the bullets-blazing sociopaths in his employ.  They’re all after one thing, and I believe my father discovered what that one thing was.  Whatever it is, it consumed him, and now what's left of his clan will have to be merged with another family under an improvised blood oath, for it's the least I can do to save all of my kindred from exile.”

“Is it possible that Haman knew about your father's misgivings?”  Scootaloo inquired.  “Could that be the reason he urged Franken to expand into Strut Eleven while he left yours and Waven's entire family in the dark?”

“Whatever contracts Haman made with Franken, you will have to ask the prime Glass-Bleeder himself.”

Scootaloo sighed.  She turned to Warden and droned, “And just where may the Glass-Bleeders be?”

Just as Warden was opening his mouth, the goblinette spoke up, “I could answer that question for you, pony.  The bulk of Glass Blood's operation is in the furnaces joining Strut Eleven to the city stalk, yes.  However, such an industry requires a great deal of steam.  To get steam, goblins must mine one thing—sky marble.  It so happens that Glass Blood has a huge investment in the central mining operations of the Western Pits.”

“I'd love to go out there and get some answers,” Scootaloo murmured, “But apparently a non-imp like me will get shot on sight as soon as I touch my hooves down into the mines.”

The female goblin managed a slight smile.  “Then don't touch your hooves down.”

Scootaloo merely raised a curious eyebrow to that.

“Of course!”  Warden beamed, snapping a clawed finger.  “The train!”






“Heck no!”  Raimony grumbled, straining as she heaved several metal crates full of steam containers onto a loading platform.  “Even if I did let you aboard, the conductor would much rather drive the friggin' engine off the tracks than take you anywhere near the Western Pits!”

Scootaloo, Warden, and Devo's disgruntled daughter stood in a train depot built into the iron-reinforced body of Strut Four.  Several elevated monorail tracks converged upon the one spot, and at that precise moment, a double-engined steam train was parked at the junction.  Bursts of white mist hissed out of the wheels and spokes of the decades-old vehicle.  The train itself was six cars long, with an engine positioned at the front and the rear, built to alternate tasks of pulling the cargo freight to and from the imp city.

“But she has no intention of actually setting hoof into the mines!”  Warden exclaimed.  “She may be a non-imp, but she's Outbleeder of Intercession on behalf of your dad—er—of Devo of Hex Blood!  You've got at least two cars here that are being rented out by the Hex-Bleeders, right?  So what harm would it cause if Devo's Intercessor hitched a ride along with the dude's very own freight?”

“This is my freight!”  Raimony snapped at the twitching teenager.  She frowned as she hauled more crates onto the loading platform.  “My father may call the shots, but I manage the distribution of steam and sky marble.  What I say goes here.  If he has a problem with it, he can come out here himself and try convincing all of these goblins not to spill blood at the very sight of you!”

Scootaloo glanced lethargically over her shoulder, forcing many imps who were staring at her to immediately jerk away, pretending as though they hadn't been frowning in her direction to begin with.  “Listen, lady, I'm a pony.”  She glanced at Raimony.  “There isn't a place in the Wasteland where creatures don't want to kill me.  So why don't you stop stating the obvious and listen to us for one friggin' second?”  She leaned forward and gestured with a hoof.  “Franken of Glass Blood was one of three survivors of an airship crash that happened in the Valley of Jewels.  The other two survivors were Waven of South Blood and every imp's beloved Rust-Bleeder, Haman.  I've just learned that Waven passed away from acute depression, and in the meantime Franken's been pulling double time for Haman, using resources that quite frankly shouldn't exist.  I've just been told that Franken oversees operations out in the Pits, and I would very much like to speak with him.  I don't care if you own this part of the train, or if your father owns this part of the train, but riding this thing out there is the one loophole I can use to hopefully get to the bottom of my investigation.”

“So... in other words...”  Raimony paused to squint the pony's way through thin green eyes.  “The sooner I help you have a meeting with Franken of Glass Blood, the sooner I can get you the heck out of Petra?”

“Dang straight.”

“Well, then, high-ho silver.”  She pointed through the raised doors flanking the iron shell of the train car before her.  “Get your flank in there and hold onto something.  It's always a fast, bumpy ride with empty cargo.  Still, it's been a good seventy stormfronts since the last time a train flew off track.”

“I'll try to keep my hooves crossed,” the pegasus muttered as she trotted up into the train car.  She paused, blinking, realizing she was alone.  Shuffling about, she gazed down at a pensive green teenager standing nervously alongside the loading platform.  “What's the matter, ya little Wart?  Scared of riding in trains?”

“No.”  He gulped, peeking aside at the many laboring goblins casting angry glances their way.  “I'm scared of riding on a train with you.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes and raised her voice to speak above a nearby gust of vented steam.  “Don't worry.  If a goblin sniper shoots me in the head, just hide under my body until the coast is clear.  Then you can make a run for it.”

“Wow, do ponies speak that way to their own children?”

“Hah!”  Scootaloo smiled, navigating a wicked chuckle.  “After a day spent with you, kid, do you think I actually want to foal something into this world?”

“Get your burnt butt on the train!”  Raimony swiftly kicked Warden in the rear.

“Aaagh!”  The teenager flew, grabbing his stinging hindquarters.







The steam train chugged along the monorail track.  Staring through a slitted series of metal grates, Scootaloo's scarlet eyes watched the smog-laden world blur progressively faster past them.  The great, golden height of Petra loomed further and further in the distance as the elevated track descended along with its many concrete siblings, angling towards the perforated bosom of the stony Wasteland and the many mining operations beyond.  The hiss of steam and the grinding of wheels filled the rattling, lantern-lit hollow of the freight car with a deafening cacophony of industrial noise.  As the train roared over one of several junction points in the elevator tracks, the entire train was jostled from engine-to-engine, forcing the supply crates within the car to vibrate loudly.

The last pony took a deep breath, her Hex Blood bandanna and mane hair both whipping in the gusts of steam-filtered wind billowing through the grated window.  She closed her eyes and briefly imagined that she was flying through those skies, instead of being conveyed through them on a descending trip to the place of both her dreams and nightmares, sunken Cloudsdale.

“What are you thinking about, pony?”

Scootaloo opened her eyes.  The rattling interior of the train car came into focus, and she saw several Hex-Bleeders huddled across the far side of the vehicle, glaring at her.  One of them was Raimony, who kept casting the pegasus scavenger a cold, disapproving glance.

“Hello?  Are you there?”

Scootaloo exhaled sharply and glared down at her side.  “What do you want from me, kid?”

Warden sat on a metal crate, his legs dangling above the floor of the chugging train.  “That's the fifth time I've seen you do that since I started tagging along.”

“Do what?”

“You go into these... I dunno... these zones of heavy thought, as if you're meditating or some other magical crap.  Are you trying to think up a spell to zap imps with if they try to shoot you up ahead?”

“I'm a pegasus, Wart.  Not a unicorn.”

“There's a difference between ponies?”

Scootaloo sighed.  “Yes, we're not all the same.  Unicorns can do magic, but they can't fly.  Pegasi can fly, but they can't do magic.”

“But...”  Warden's green eyes widened curiously.  “I totally saw you go all frostbeams on that one moron in the Rust-Bleeder posse!  You said a word and your gun shot him!  Are you telling me that wasn't magic?”

“It...”  Scootaloo stumbled over her words, ultimately sighing.  “It's complicated, kid.”  Her face had a sunken quality to it.  She suddenly shifted her lower limbs so that her left hoof was hidden behind her right.

Warden glanced down to see what she was concealing.  He could only residually make out a bracelet of severed, multicolored horns.  Swallowing something down his throat, he leaned towards her and murmured, “Is it true that ponies can shoot lasers out of their eyes?!”

“No, ponies cannot shoot lasers out of their eyes!”  Scootaloo exclaimed, then winced at how loud it came out.  She cast the distant Hex-Bleeders an awkward glance before quieting her breath in time to murmur, “I don't suppose paying you ten more strips of silver could get you to shut up, would it?”

“It might...” He nodded, his ears wobbling.  He then produced a childish grin.  “But then I'd be obligated to be your assistant even longer.”

“Ugh...”  Scootaloo shook her head and gazed out the grated window again as the dead landscape flew by.  “I don't know why you insist on paying your dues with me, Wart.  I swear, the longer you hang out with the likes of this pegasus, the more these angry imps will want nothing to do with you.”

“Uhm...” He shifted uncomfortably where he sat, again pulling at the edges of his black vest in a vain attempt to cover up his horseshoe mark.  “The sooner I stop hanging out with you, the sooner they'll just beat me to a pulp anyways...”

Scootaloo bit her lip upon hearing that.  She gazed down at his branding, at the blemish that would never go away so long as the legacy of ponydom remained intact.  “So, uh...”  She cleared her throat, forcing the conversation down another avenue.  “Just how many imp cities are there in the Wasteland?”

“You mean you don't know?”  Warden blinked up at her.  “I thought you've flown all over the place!”

“Do you know?”  Scootaloo glared down at him.  “I thought I was paying you to be a frickin' informant.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his short, emerald hair.  “I... uhm... I've only ever been to two imp cities, my place of birth and this one.  All of my brothers and sisters moved out to various townships before I did.  I guess it's because I felt someone had to take care of my mother...”  He lingered at the end of that tangent, his eyes glazing over slightly.

Scootaloo pressed him onward.  “Are any other imp cities as big as Petra?”

“Pfft!” He shifted into a humored gear, smirking up at her.  “Shows how much you know, pony!  They're all Petra.”

The pegasus made a face.  “I don't get it.  I thought this place was—”

“Oh, don't get me wrong!  This place is huge!  This place is amazing!  This place is the pinnacle of goblin architecture, hob maintenance, and gremlin defense!”  Warden smiled proudly towards the rattling walls of the train car.  “But it is merely a manifestation of Petra, like any other imp city.  Non-imps just like to simplify things by naming the city itself 'Petra.'  They couldn't be more idiotic.  Heh.”

“Well... uhm...”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Exactly what is Petra?”

“Why the heck do you care?”

“I'm a pony.  I thrive on knowledge.”

“Heh... If you say so.”  Warden briefly rolled his eyes then smirked as he said, “Petra is what burns in every imp's soul.  It's what separates us from the lowly creatures of the world that we eat or turn into pets.  It's what inspires us to become bigger than what we actually are, to put our eight fingers to good use and turn the dead world into a complex and gorgeous thing.”

“Yeah...”  Scootaloo blinked out the window towards the ceiling of polluted black smog.  “Gorgeous...”

“To each their own!” the teenager hissed at her.  “Ponies were never about progress!  All they wanted to do was keep the world the way it was, and to maintain a choke-hold on the skies!”

“Heh...”  Scootaloo smirked, briefly substituting the hazy smog of the Central Plains for the dull and dismal grayness of the Grave of Consus.  “Trust me.  Some ponies had an absolute fetish for 'progress.'”  She turned to glance down at Warden.  “But Goblins?  The one word I have to describe their beloved Petra is 'tumorous!'  How better can you describe the whole city that we've been waltzing up and down all day?  It's nothing but a huge heaping pile of machines attached to machines attached to even more machines!  Do imps ever know when to stop?”

“We all die eventually,” Warden said.  “Just like ponies.  However, we've all learned long ago to fill our life with frostbeams!  That means showing nature who's boss and not letting the world have its say!”

“Yeah, well...”  Scootaloo gazed forlornly out the grated window as the desolation bowed below them.  “The thing about showing the world who's boss is that you'll squash every living thing under you until you realize that you're left with nothing but the very lonely act of 'being the boss.'  Goblin pride may be epic, but pride's not a succulent enough thing to subsist on once you've drained the world of every tiny shred of sustenance.  Ponies may have been boring in their preservation of nature—both in the sky and on the earth—but at least we knew a good, healthy thing when we saw it, and how ripping it out from its roots with industry would only quicken the death of everything.”

“But that's why I think you're so full of frostbeams...”  Warden grinned wide as he leaned off the edge of his metal crate.  “You're not like the other ponies I've been told about!”

She glared daggers down at him.  “I beg your pardon?”

“You have a steam-powered airship!”  He winked.  “You've got bullets that you can fire by tongue!  You have so many awesome trinkets and machines at your beck and call!  Heh... I never thought I'd see the day when a glue st—er—when a pony would be manifesting Petra!  No wonder Devo's so willing to employ you!  You're a real goblin underneath!”

“Don't even friggin' go there, kid...”  Scootaloo gently fumed, biting her lip so that her frown didn't morph into a snarl.  “All these years, I've built what I've had to build and I've done what I've had to do simply to survive in the Wasteland.”

“But why do it all this way?”  Warden briefly tugged at a length of her leather armor and tapped the butt of her runic rifle.  “You had to realize that manifesting Petra was the smart thing to do!  Heh—Otherwise you'd be somewhere else with your prancing cousins, singing, dancing, tossing magic dust and all that other pony crap—”

“Well, maybe there aren't any prancing cousins left!”  Scootaloo suddenly hollered at him.  “Maybe I'm all that's left of the friggin' sing-a-long!  Did you ever once think of that?!”

“Aagh!”  Warden fell down onto the floor of the train.  He didn't register any pain from the impact, for he was gazing up at her with a sudden and impenetrable shock.  “You... You're the only one?”  He blinked wide, his emerald eyes rounding.  “No way... you can't be the only one left!”

Scootaloo breathed heavily.  She looked across the way and saw Raimony's gaze again, only this time it was a relatively neutral stare.  The hard lines in the pegasus' face melted away, and she sighed into the shadows, leaning limply against the metal wall of the train car.

Warden gulped, sitting up straight.  “But... B-But my brothers and sisters told stories!  They said that whole legions of sky-stealers flew out from the pony city built in the Eastern Mountains, looking for goblin children to kidnap in their sleep and... and...”

“Ponies were far from perfect.  We were magical, yes, and we did hold sway over what happened in the sky.  But it was not a matter of dominance as much as it was integration.  We took it upon ourselves to keep this world beautiful and pristine.”  She gulped hard.  “The reason why everything changed is because we did.  The ponies died off, kiddo.  Everypony but me, that is...”

“But...”  Warden glanced towards the bulkhead, blinking hard.  “B-But that doesn't make any sense!”  He glanced up at her, his ears drooping.  “Why you?  Why aren't you dust and ash like the rest of them?”

“That's what I'm here for, Wart,” Scootaloo murmured.  “It's not because of Petra; it's not because I wanna kidnap infant imps in their sleep.  I need to find out the truth.  I need to know what caused the Dimming—what made the Cataclysm happen.”  She shuddered and flung her sad scarlets out through the metal grates in the window.  “But, most of all, I need to find her...”

“You... You mean your dead friend?”  Warden asked.  He stood up and paced around her.  “But... But if every single pony who ever lived bit the bullet... what makes her so special?”

Scootaloo said nothing.  As the steam engines of the train roared on, she gazed forlornly out towards the smog-laden sky of Equestria.






“Seriously, kid.  How long have you been watching me?”

“Eeep!”  Scootaloo blushed, hiding behind a fallen tree trunk along a sun-kissed hill outside of Ponyville.  “I-I was just fixing my metal tray when you started flying loopty-loops!  One of the wheels had come off so I sat down here to put it back on!”

“Kid, the only way you'd ever fix that rusted thing is if you chucked it over a cliff.”  Rainbow Dash snickered from where she hovered upside down over the green hill.  “Seriously—Get your mom or dad to buy you something way sweeter than that hunk'o'junk!  Your wings are just beginning to sprout; your foalday's gotta be coming up soon!  So make a plea with 'em!”

“Erm...”  Scootaloo nervously glanced at her metal tray, the beloved contraption that had carried her all the way on an awe-inspiring trip bridging Manehattan and Ponyville.  It suddenly looked jaded and lifeless in the aura of Rainbow Dash's presence.  “I'm not sure if I should bother my parents over a foalday gift.”

“Why not?  You're a polite little filly, at least when you're not almost running over little ducklings on the way to town.”

Scootaloo winced.  “You saw that, huh?”

“Heh... I see everything, ya little squirt!”  Rainbow Dash performed a miniature backflip in midair. Righting herself, she hovered down until she stood at Scootaloo's side in the noonday sun.  “I wouldn't be Ponyville's chief weather flier it wasn't for these awesome, hawk-like peepers!”  She smirked and pointed a hoof to each pupil.  “Sixty-Sixty!”

“Dashie, I think the correct phrase is 'Twenty-Twe—'”

“Snkkt—Shut up!” Rainbow barked.

Scootaloo giggled.

The blue pegasus rolled her eyes.  “So I'm a way better cloud-skipper than I am an optimist!  So sue me!”

“'Optometrist.'”

“Huh?”

“It's 'optom—'”

“What the heck do you know?!”  Rainbow Dash leaned her face into Scootaloo's forehead, staring her down with a mangy growl.  “Have you been taking lessons from Twilight Sparkle behind my back or something?!”

“Twilight who?”

“Y'know... uhm... the really straight-maned filly from Canterlot who moved into town recently?  She's got an infant dragon for a slave and she likes to practice dangerous unicorn spells out in the open?”

Scootaloo stared and stared at Rainbow Dash.  Her face was blank.

The pegasus returned just as dead of a glance.  “She smells like a newspaper stand?”

“Oh!”  The orange foal brightened.  “You mean that really boring lavender pony who sounds like she was foaled in a bookstore!”

“HaHA!”  Rainbow Dash had to close her eyes from the power of her laughing outburst.  “Yup!  That's her, alright!  Best description I heard all week!  Hahaha—You're something else, Stalkerloo.”

“Scootaloo.”

“Whatever.  You're still cool in my book.”  She held a blue hoof over the child's pink mane.  “Lay it on me, squirt!”

Scootaloo beamed.  She raised her limb to slap Rainbow Dash's—only to plunge directly into the hilltop.  “Ooof!”

“Too slow, pipsqueak.” Rainbow Dash ran the hoof in question through her prismatic mane.  “Yeahhhh—I'd love to hang out and think up some more ways to tease Twilight, but I just woke from a midday nap and I wanna practice while my body's still feeling it!”

“Nnngh... Pr-Practice?”  Scootaloo pushed herself back up onto her hooves, squinting up at Rainbow Dash.  “Practice for what?”

“Pfft—The Wonderbolts of course!”  The pegasus grinned wide with a flick of her spectral tail. “They're only the most amazing, coolest, most spectacular bunch of flying ponies in all of Equestria!”

“Jee...”  Scootaloo smirked smugly to herself.  “Where have I heard this before?”

Rainbow rolled her ruby eyes.  “Okay, so maybe I tend to talk about them a little bit.”

“Hehehehe—A little bit?”

“Okay, a lot!”  Rainbow glared at her over curved lips.  “But who can blame me?  I've graduated the best of my class at both junior and senior flight camps in Cloudsdale.  I've got the only perfect record ever achieved in Ponyville's long history of weather fliers.  On top of all that, I've come out first in every young fliers' race since my graduation!  Why wouldn't the Wonderbolts want to let me on their team?”

“If you're such good Wonderbolt material...”  Scootaloo leaned against her metal tray and gave Rainbow Dash a sly glance.  “Why do you need to practice?”

“Because...”  Rainbow trotted slowly and proudly around the foal.  “...you can't make the impossible happen by just sitting on your flank and watching the grass grow!”

“H-Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked her violet eyes.

Rainbow stared her down.  “You gotta keep moving, keep breathing, keep living.  Life is too short to spend it all in slow motion.  Staying in one place...?”  She winked with a sun-glinting grin.  “...Not cool.”

Scootaloo stared back in awe.  “You really believe that?”  She swallowed and murmured, “You really think anypony can do the impossible?”

“Well, I know I can do the impossible!”  Rainbow Dash hovered up into the air, chuckling.  “I just... don't wanna get rusty at it, y'know?  So that's why I'm off to practice!  I don't just want to  impress the Wonderbolts the first chance they happen to see me—I want to knock their horsehoes off!”

“Y-Yeah...”  Scootaloo exhaled and stared towards the windblown grass of the Equestrian plains beneath her.  “I'm sure you'll do that, no problem, Dashie.”

There was a brief beat of silence, after which a raspy voice chirped from overhead, “I could use some help though!”

“Help?”  Scootaloo blinked, then blinked again, staring up.  “From m-me?”

“Pfft—I certainly wasn't asking for the hill you're standing on to help me!”  The blue pegasus smirked.  “I've been working on these new moves of mine lately.  Maybe you can take a gander from the ground level and tell me what you think!”

“You... Y-You want me to be your personal judge on which of your stunts are awesome?”  Scootaloo stammered breathlessly.

“No, I want you to tell me which of my stunts are most awesome!”  Rainbow Dash motioned with her head.  “Try and keep up, pipsqueak, if that's even possible.  Hah!”  She soared northward.

Scootaloo smirked, jumped onto her wheeled tray, and kicked after the pegasus without a second thought.  “I think I can make that happen...”





“So wait...”  Scootaloo leaned forward, eyes wide, as she perched herself atop a rock slab resting on the edge of a steep promontory.  “You mean to tell me that you were the reason behind the dragon leaving the mountain to the west of Ponyville?!”

“Heheh—Yup!  Well, I had my friends with me at the time.  I guess you could say they were my cheerleaders.  Heheh.”  Rainbow Dash soared within earshot, performing a wind-whistling corkscrew with her outstretched wings.  “Whewww!  How was that last one?!”

“Pretty awesome!”  Scootaloo shouted up.  “But I think the triple-barreled swan dive you did a few minutes ago was a tad bit cooler!”

“Pfft—Any Wonderbolt could do that in their sleep!”  The blue pegasus grunted against the wind as she pulled up into a huge loopty-loop, beating at the air with two strong wings.  “I'm trying to add flare to my moves!  If I angle my wings just right... I might be able to produce a whistling sound to wow a crowd!”  She smirked as she dove down into a second twirling motion.  “It's just like the E.Z.N.!”

Scootaloo made a face.  “The E.Z.N.?”

“Y'know!”  Rainbow Dash briefly hovered in front of the cliff-face with a devilish smirk.  “The Epic Zoom Noise!”  That uttered, she demonstrated by beating her wings in one fluid motion.  Her body shot off in a vaporous blue blur, and the resulting bubble of air that billowed outward from her acceleration nearly rocked Scootaloo off her haunches with a mesmerizing, thunderous boom.

“Woooo-Hahahaha!”  Scootaloo grinned wide, her pink mane hair settling over a beaming, foalish grin.  “That was sweet!  Why don't you start out with that?  That would rock the Wonderbolts to their core!”

“Pfft!  Some of the best stuff you gotta save for last, kiddo!”  Rainbow Dash rocketed back into view just as the waving grass began to settle from her expert air disturbance.  “The first rule of stunt flying is learning never to immediately blow your—”  She paused in mid-speech, blinking.  “Wait, how old are you again?”

“Uhhh...”

“Forget I said anything.  Uhhh... Where was I?”

“I think you were trying to work on your corkscrew—”

“No, I mean with the dragon.”

“Oh!  Uhm... You and your friends stopped him from snoring and filling the skies of Ponyville with smoke!”  Scootaloo smiled wide.  “You're—like—heroes and stuff!”

“And don't you forget it!”  Rainbow winked and hovered skyward, stretching her limbs as her wings took her to a breathtaking height.  “I flew in there and personally kicked that overgrown, fire-breathing salamander straight in the jaw!  Hah!  That sure showed him who was the boss around these parts!”

“And then he got scared and flew away, right?!”  Scootaloo called up to her.

“Well... uhm...”  Rainbow Dash smiled bashfully.  “Not immediately, really.  Fluttershy kinda sorta had to give him a stare down first and—”

“What?!”  Scootaloo barked, cupping two hooves around her orange lips.  “You're too high, Dashie!  I can't hear you!”

“I said...”  Rainbow Dash rocketed down so that a curtain of high-pressure air blew a fountain of loose leaves out from the rocky landscape atop which a flinching Scootaloo was seated.  “Totally!  I totally scared that dragon out of his scales!  Pfft—So what if my friends were there to... uhm... help, and stuff...”

“You and those other ponies sure do hang around a lot.”  Scootaloo smiled, leaning her chin on a pair of crossed hooves as she gazed at the older pony.  “I swear, ever since Nightmare Moon appeared, I see you guys together all the time.”

“Yeah?  So?”  Rainbow's ruby eyes squinted towards her.  “Is that a crime?”

Scootaloo blinked nervously.  “Erm... No.  Not unless you think so...”

“Heh... Nosy little pipsqueak...”  Rainbow Dash ruffled Scootaloo's windblown mane, then sat down beside her on the rock.  Her wings folded over her backside as she gazed down at a stretch of tree-laden fields below the cliff.  “I've always been a lone wingpony.  It's very easy just to look after yourself.  Life is complicated enough without having others to depend on you and stuff.”

“Depend on you?”  Scootaloo blinked.  “Does this have anything to do with that crazy stuff you once told me about?  The... The Elements of...”

“Harmony?”  Rainbow smirked.  “'Crazy' certainly is the word for it.  There isn't a morning I haven't woken up thinking about how ridiculously silly my life has been lately.”

“How so?”

“Well, I know you're chomping at the bit to find out just how badly I thrashed Nightmare Moon, huh, kid?”

Scootaloo bit her lip.  Her tiny wing-stubs twitched excitedly.

Rainbow Dash only smirked more at that.  “Truth is, squirt, everypony's favorite lavender bore was the key to pulling Princess Luna free from that nasty, ink-black alicorn on the surface.”

“Twilight Sparkle?”

“Yup.  That's the bore, alright,” Rainbow said with a nod.  “On the 'endless night' just before the Summer Sun Celebration weeks ago, defeating Nightmare Moon boiled down to using magic.”

“Ugh...”  Scootaloo slumped down against the slab of rock.  “Magic is so boring.”

“Heh, I know, right?”  Rainbow Dash cleared her throat.  “Still, it wasn't so bad this time.  Cuz I was a part of that magic.”

“You were?”

“Heck yeah!  I told you we all shot a beam of rainbow at the demon horse, right?”

“You and your friends?”

“Turns out we were all... uhhh... ingredients for some enchanted recipe that Twilight Sparkle had just the right spark to cook up.  We were all Elements of Harmony.  Twilight was the Element of Magic—Duh.  Fluttershy was kindness.  Strawhead was honesty...”

“What about you?”  Scootaloo perked up, blinking.  “What Element were you, Dashie?”

“Nnngh...”  Rainbow Dash grunted indifferently and shoved a loose pebble off the slab so that it rolled dumbly downhill.  After a restless stirring of her sapphire wings, she eventually muttered, “Loyalty.”

Scootaloo squinted.  “Loyalty...?”

“Ugh!”  Rainbow Dash ran a pair of hooves over her face.  “I know... I know!  It's so lame!  Why couldn't I have been the Element of Explosions or the Element of Lightning Bolts or some other really cool thing like that?!”

“But...”  Scootaloo dryly gulped and produced a nervous smile.  “It is cool, Rainbow Dash!  It means that you're the weather flier that everypony can depend on!  It... uh... it means that they can just look up in the sky and know that you'll be around if they ever need you!”

Rainbow gave the little foal a numb glance.  “Has anyone told you that you're stiff as nails when you try to make somepony else happy?”

Scootaloo bit her lip and fidgeted, rubbing tiny circles across the rock slab with her hoof-ends.  “Yeah, well, I don't get a lot of practice.  I've sort of always been a lone wingpony myself, Dashie.”  She sighed and pouted.  “Even if my wings are about as useful as tongue depressors.”

“Hey...”  Rainbow slapped the filly's ribcage with a flick of her multicolored tail.  “Don't ever think of yourself as useless.  Not even for a second!”

“But—”  Scootaloo looked up.

Rainbow stared her down with a sudden frown.  “Not even for a second.  You are your own pony, and you are capable of doing so many cool and awesome things.  You think I ever got to be such a killer flier by thinking of my wings as if they were utter trash?  That's no way to live, squirt.  I know that because I've spent my whole life making sure I didn't live that way, and look at what I've become!  I can kick dragons in the face and still live to talk about it!”

“Yeah...”  Scootaloo smiled.  “So long as a pony named Fluttershy stares him down and saves your flank afterwards.”

Rainbow Dash's wings wilted as her blue face turned as pale as a sheet.  “Y-You heard me mention that?!”

“Heeheeheee...”  Scootaloo's cheeks were red.  “You say that you see everything, Dashie?  I hear everything.”

“Yeah, if that was true, how come you can't hear all the scorpions scurrying beneath your chest?”

Scootaloo gasped wide.  “Wh-Where?!”

A blue hoof slapped her upside the nose.

“Owie!”

“Hah!  Oldest trick in the book!  Maybe your gullibility is something the lavender bore could help you with!”

“Ya big blue meanie!”  Scootaloo frowned.  “How'd you like it if somepony did that to you?”  With a grunt, she uppercutted Rainbow Dash.

Instead of lightly slapping Rainbow's nose, like the older pegasus had done to the foal, the filly's orange hoof mercilessly slammed across the weather flier's nostrils.  Rainbow Dash actually teetered off, her ruby eyes crossing in the shock of the impact moreso than any remote pain.

“Eeeep!”  Scootaloo clasped her limbs over her mouth.  A pair of wide eyes twitched in horror.  “Omigosh!  Omigosh!  Omigosh—I'm so, so sorry!  I-I didn't mean to—”

“Hehehehe—Oh, it's fine!  Super, even!”  Rainbow Dash chuckled, rubbing her nose with the edge of a hoof before wriggling it.  “You've got one killer right hoof there, pipsqueak.  You're pretty strong for your age.”

“I'm pretty stupid too.”  Scootaloo hid behind her mane.  “Please don't be mad at me...”

“Pfft—If you start acting like Fluttershy, I just might.”  She lifted Scootaloo's bangs to expose her guilty face to the sunlight once again.  “Erm... I mean the Fluttershy who isn't staring down dragons and threatening to break necks.  If you want to be like that Fluttershy instead, then by all means, don't let me stop you!”

“Heheheheh...”  Scootaloo exhaled gently as a warm breath replaced the brief shame in her lungs.  “I don't understand this whole 'Elements of Harmony' stuff, Dashie.  But, from the way I see it, Twilight and the others are all lucky to have you as such a good, loyal, friend—”

As soon as she said this, Rainbow Dash was gone.  After Scootaloo's second blink, she felt her entire body being rocked by the gusting winds of the blue pegasus' thunderous departure.  She spun her head westward and was just barely able to make out a blazing, sapphiric blur speeding towards the valley below the cliff.

“Uhhh... R-Rainbow Dash?!  Hello?!”  There was only silence.  With a sharp exhale, Scootaloo folded her limbs beneath her.  “Hmph... She's right.  'Loyalty' is lame...”

No sooner did she utter this, however, when she suddenly noticed exactly where Rainbow Dash was soaring off to.  Far below in the valley, in one tall tree among several dozen more just like it, a tiny earth pony was dangling loosely off of a branch.  With a frightened shriek that even Scootaloo could hear across the Plains of Equestria, the helpless pony fell murderously towards the brown earth below.

Scootaloo shot up with a gasp.  Her wings twitched instinctually as she watched in terror from afar.

Then, at the very last millisecond, the blue blur reached the tree, and the wide-eyed foal was caught in free-fall.  The child dangled safely in the hooves of Rainbow Dash, clinging to her with trembling sensations as the distant pegasus smirked and slowly lowered the young equine to the floor.

Without a second thought, Scootaloo jumped down from the rock slab, kicked her metal tray into a glide, and rolled the long way down the hill to reach the scene.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Your friends here talked you into doing such a crazy thing, huh?”

“Mmmm...”  The little foal dug her hoof into the ground as two colorful companions stood nervously behind her, guiltily avoiding the adult pegasus' gaze with their eyes cast towards the muddy earth.  “They said that I was a scaredy-cat.  They said that since my older brothers are always planting peach trees, that I should be a natural at climbing branches.  I've never climbed a tree before in my life...”

Rainbow Dash squinted at her.  “And just what gave you the bright idea that you could suddenly know how to do it?”  She frowned slightly.  “Without having practiced or whatnot?”

The foal jolted, gulping nervously.  “I-I didn't want them to think that I was a coward.”

“Yeesh, kid.  You're younger than Cloudsdalian snowflakes.  Why the heck should you bother with being a coward or not when you're still not old enough to trot straight?”  Rainbow Dash smirked as she strolled over and knelt down before the filly.  She placed a hoof on her bright shoulder.  “It's one thing to be a coward, it's 'nother thing to be stupid.  Now, I don't know about your so-called-friends here, but I don't think you're either one of those lame things.  It’s okay to use your guts, but don’t be afraid to use your head as well, so long as it doesn’t turn into the shape of an egg... heh heh.”

“But they said that I don't have any guts!”  the filly said.  She turned to look back at her two shivering companions.  “They said that I wouldn't, so long as I didn't take them up on their dare!”

“The only reason they dared you to do something dangerous is because they're too scared stupid to do it themselves.”  Rainbow smirked as Scootaloo glided up to the scene behind her, gawking breathlessly at the situation.  “There'll be plenty of times in the future for you guys to climb trees.  I suggest you all do it together, as a group, once you've gotten your balance to do it and gotten your strength to bounce back up from a nasty fall.  Until then, try not to make each other do things that one pony or another is too afraid to do herself.  What's the point in being friends if you can't do fun stuff together—as a group—huh?”

“We're sorry, Rainbow Dash,” one foal said.

“Y-Yeah...”  Another joined, gulping.  “We didn't want anypony to get hurt!  Honest!”

“Then don't try to hurt anypony!  That includes your dinky selves!”  Rainbow Dash grunted, then smirked.  “Now gallop back into town, all of you, before I kick your butts!  I'm practicing some air stunts for my buddy here, and I don't want anypony but me getting hurt!  Heheheh—Ahem.  Seriously, scram.”

“Good luck with your cloud tricks, Rainbow Dash!”  one exclaimed as the three sauntered off under a fresh curtain of hopeful smiles.  “Thanks for the sunny skies!”

“Hey—I only kick away the clouds!  It's Princess Celestia who controls the sun!  Ehhhh—Who cares.  Wait until you get chained to one of Ms. Cheerilee's school desks, then you'll learn all the boring facts of life.”  Rainbow Dash chuckled to herself.  “Though I wouldn't mind being called a goddess from time to time.  I certainly reflect enough frickin' sunlight.”  She turned and caught Scootaloo gawking up at her.  “Why, hello there, squirt.  You sure made it down here fast.”

Scootaloo blinked.  Scootaloo gaped.  Scootaloo stammered, “You... Y-You totally just saved that little kid!”

“What?”  Rainbow Dash pointed aside.  “You'd rather I saved the tree instead?”

“No... It's just that... that...”

“Oh, right.  Eheheh...” The pegasus rubbed the back of her head with a blue hoof.  “I kind of ditched you in the middle of our conversation, didn't I?  Sorry, force of habit.”

“Force of h-habit?!”

“I really do see everything.  I wouldn't be such a good weather flier if I didn't keep my eyes peeled, y'know.”

“Do you ever stop being awesome?”  Scootaloo said, then shuddered, as if rebounding from a sonic boom that just suddenly hit her.  “And did you just call me 'your buddy' a moment ago?”

Rainbow Dash merely yawned and marched past her.  “Nnngh... Goddess, where did this afternoon go?  I need to work out the kinks in my aerial maneuvers before the sun goes down.  Mind if we continue where we left off, pipsqueak?  I'm running on half a tank here and I haven't robbed—er—improvised my way to a bite of apples in days.”

Scootaloo gazed numbly after her.  The orange feathers on the edge of her wings fluttered in a rhythm that matched her suddenly pulsating heart as she glided after the blue pegasus in a zombified fashion.  “Right... I... I guess I can still help you...”

“Good.  Still, I only wish the Wonderbolts were as easy to impress as you, ya little chicken nugget.”

“Little chicken nugget...”  Scootaloo cooed.  “Whatever you say, Rainbow Dash...”  She glanced back over her shoulder at the tree from which the foal had briefly dangled at a deathly height...






“Help!  Oh please, somepony!  Anypony!”  A white unicorn leaned against a tree trunk one day, bracing herself with a hoof to her pale forehead.  She looked ready to faint at any second.  “My poor Opalescence is just minutes away from a grim, bone-crushing fate, and I haven't the tools at my disposal to coax her from her foolishly chosen pedestal!”

A fluffy, Persian cat with a purple necklace and matching bow sat, looking abysmally bored as it perched atop a jutting tree branch about four meters from the dirt road below.  It let out a moody hum from deep within its feline lungs while its purple-maned owner wailed and lamented its predicament from down below.

“My poor, poor, confused darling!  If only I had showered you with more signs of my sincere affections, you would not be taking this opportunity to passionately malign me in front of the whole town!”  The unicorn sobbed.  The unicorn hyperventilated.  Several bystanders shuffled by in a sluggish gait, gazing nervously at the loud and obnoxious scene that the mare was making.  “I promise to give you only the finest gourmet feasts from henceforth!  I shall even endeavor to wash and clean your milk bowl regularly!  You always did have a thing for Canterlotlian crystalllll-ohhhhhh-woe is meeeee!”

Opalescence merely rolled her slitted eyes.  Suddenly, there was a rustling noise to the cat’s side.  The cat's hair stood on end as she glanced to the left in time to see a sweating, orange foal clambering up the rooftop of the Carousel Boutique just next to the tree.

“Nnnngh... D-Don't worry!”  Scootaloo hissed and grunted, struggling to find even-hoofing as she leaned off the edge of the boutique and reached desperately towards the white feline.  “I-I'll get her!  I will save your cat, Miss... Miss...”

“Erhm... Rarity...”  The unicorn dried her tears in an instant and blinked nervously up at the foal.  “You!  I remember you!”  She winced suddenly.  “Erm... Do your parents know that you are climbing such an awful height?”

“Did anypony tell you that you sound like a vampire?”

“I beg your pardon?”  Rarity's blue eyes narrowed icily.  “Have you been talking to Rainbow Dash—?”

“Look, do you want your stupid cat rescued or not?!”  Scootaloo took a deep breath and lunged forward, her wing stubs flailing pathetically in mid-air.  “Nnnngh—C'mere, furball!”

“Oh do be careful—Watch out for the—!”  The white unicorn winced horribly as the entire top half of the tree shook.  A rain of leaves fell down, echoing with a series of ricocheting impact noises and foalish grunts.

Finally, the pinballing foal fell down the final three meters towards the hard ground of the dirt road below.  At the last second, her pink tail curled around a branch just above Rarity's horned head.  She dangled from there, blinking and swaying, covered defeatedly from hoof to snout in scratches, twigs, leaves, and sap.  After a few seconds, a white object also fell—shrieking—and landed in Scootaloo's outstretched hooves.

“Hah!  There she is!”  Scootaloo beamed, clutching an upside-down, spasming Opalescence.  “Safe and sound!”

Several ponies watching from afar clapped their hooves against the street, whistled, and chanted in joy.  Rarity squinted—wincing—as she observed the frazzled feline covered in tree bark and dead termites.

“Oh, and what a most felicitous rescue you have performed thusly.” The white unicorn forced a crooked smile.  “I think my first act of gratitude will be to give her a timely bath.”

“Hey!  You're welcome!”  Scootaloo grinned wide and blindly tossed the murderously twitching pet into the fashionista's gasping face.  The little pegasus unhooked her tail hairs, dismounted from the branch, and trotted gaily away, oblivious to a tormenting cloud of claw-swipes, cauterwailing, and shredded mane hair behind her.  “But you don't have to thank awesomeness!  Awesomeness just thanks itself!”





“How was that?!”  Rainbow Dash exclaimed through a curtain of sweat as she came down from a majestic series of barreling spins.

Scootaloo clapped her hooves together from her seat atop a hill and whistled shrilly.  “That was wicked sweet!  What do you call that?”

“I call it 'dang hard,’ is what!”  Scootaloo wiped her brow with a forelimb.  “Wait until you fly for real, kid.  Learning not to hurl is the first step of being a true, blue pegasus.”

“But I'm orange.”

“Nopony's perfect.” Rainbow Dash flew down and slumped to her haunches, exhaling long and hard.  “Whewwww... Hahah...”  She grinned in spite of her panting breath.  “So kill me, I could totally drink Princess Nebula's oceanic tail hair after that!”

“Who...”  Scootaloo briefly fidgeted.  “Who taught you how to fly, Dashie?”

“Heh heh... You're cute, kid.”  Rainbow Dash winked.  “I taught myself.”

Scootaloo did a double-take.  “No way!”

“I sure did!”  The adult pegasus fwumped down onto the grassy earth and stared up into the sunny sky, resting her forelimbs behind her damp mane.  “First time I leapt off a cloud and took to the air, I was all by my lonesome.  It was like practicing for flight camp before my first class ever took place.”

“Like how you're practicing for the Wonderbolts right now?”  Scootaloo grinned wide.

“Yup!  I jumped high off the Cloudsdalian steam banks way more times than I could count... and I fell flat on my face twice as many times!”  Rainbow Dash inhaled, grinned, and murmured, “And I nearly tore my wings off the very moment I caught the first warm gust of air, but it sure as heck took me where I wanted to go.  I was in control of the skies.  I was flying.”  She shook her head, chuckled, and darted her eyes the orange foal's way.  “There ain't nothing like the first time, pipsqueak.”

“How...”  Scootaloo briefly bit her lip.  “How young were you?”

“Mmmm...”  Rainbow Dash examined one of her hooves up close.  “Four winters.”

Scootaloo did a double-take.  “Get out of town!  That's even younger than I am!”

Rainbow Dash winked.  “You never slap genius for showing up without notice, kid.  You just smile and be glad that it does, whenever it does.”

“But... But...”  Scootaloo almost whimpered.  “What if genius never comes to me?  You're such a natural at being cool, Rainbow Dash.  What if by the time I'm—I dunno—eight winter I never learn to fly?  Could I actually be that lame?”

Rainbow Dash sat up, raising an eyebrow sharply Scootaloo's way.  After a delayed breath, she eventually produced, “Well, your first mistake is waiting for it, ya little squirt!”

“H-Huh?”

Rainbow Dash rolled over to her chest and propped a smirking chin atop her blue hoof.  “When opportunity knocks, it's up to you to open the door.  Genius will never just let itself in.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, ya numbskull...”  Rainbow Dash rapped Scootaloo gently on the cranium.  “...is that you gotta take charge!  Nothing in life is too far off that you can't grab it with your own four hooves!”

“What if I don't know where to look?”

“Have you ever thought that everywhere you are is exactly where you need to be looking?” she remarked with a smug smirk.  “Huh?  Didja?”





Scootaloo strolled lonesomely down a dirt path.  She kicked limply at the ground, gliding herself atop the metal tray with her pink-maned head hung deeply in thought.  Just then, she heard a squeaking of wheels.  She glanced aside to see a garbage wagon rolling into a landfill gated off from the eastern stretches of Ponyville.  Several old, burly stallions were pulling the cart full of junk into the area, and a pair of similarly muscular ponies were beginning to push the gates shut.

The lonely filly blinked.  On a sudden whim, she brightened.  She kicked against the earth and skated herself towards the landfill.  Avoiding the workponies' gaze, Scootaloo slid herself underneath the chassis of the garbage cart.  In a genius maneuver that mirrored an orphan escape of the past, she snuck her way in through the closing gates of the landfil, using the wagon as cover.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Long after the garbage wagons had dumped their loads, and none of the laborers were around, Scootaloo scurried out of hiding.  Balancing the tray on her back, she galloped up a mound of garbage and slid down the opposite slope.  Eventually she made her way to a pile of discarded tools, nick-nacks, wooden frames, and machine parts.

Rummaging through the many miscellaneous objects, she produced item after item from the mound of nothingness that brightened the smile on her face.  The wheels in her head were turning, and soon she grabbed several strips of canvas, discarded saddle buckles, a pair of empty bottles, a rusted saw, a series of hooks chain-linked together, and several more tiny elements of Equestrian bric-a-brac.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Squatting at night on the upper loft of her lonely barn, Scootaloo placed several strips of canvas across her metal tray as if it was a tiny workbench.  With the help of two lit candles, the restless little filly grasped a rusted screwdriver and a mildew-stained mallet.  Licking her lips, she painstakingly reshaped a pair of copper frames so that they could surround a pair of glass lenses that she had neatly sawed off the ends of two discarded bottles.

Once the frames were in place, she looped a length of canvas to either end of the lenses and fastened them by means of little metal pins and buckles.  As the hours wore on and the candle flames sunk down their wax supports, her tired face smiled wider and wider with pride and discovery.





“Ta-daaaaa!”  Scootaloo held her engineering feat up in two orange hooves.  “What do you think?”

Rainbow Dash squinted.  She hovered down to the little filly, joining her atop a bridge that crossed a babbling brook just outside Ponyville.  Gently, with a curious gaze, she grasped the item in her forelimbs.  “They're... They're goggles...”

“No, they're your goggles!”  Scootaloo grinned wide.  “You fly around so fast up there in the sky, I figured you might want something to protect those awesome, hawk-like eyes of yours!”  The filly bit her lip and dug her hooves into the ground.  “Do you like them?”

“H-Hey!  Not too bad!”  Rainbow Dash held the article up to her blinking rubies.  “I sure as heck could have used these two days ago when the stampede of bunnies rampaged their way across downtown Ponyville!”

The orange foal blinked.  “There was a stampede of bunnies?”

“Oh, you didn't know?!”  Rainbow Dash chanted, “Your flank better calllllllll someponyyyy!  Hahahahah—Ahem.  No, seriously... These are really frickin' sweet.  I... uh... I don't owe your parents a bunch of bits for them or something, do I?”

“Nope!”  Scootaloo bounced.  “I made 'em!”

“You made these?”  Rainbow Dash did a double-take.  “No friggin' way!”

“What's so crazy about that?”  Scootaloo stuck a tongue out.  “Genius came to me.  I just stopped thinking that I had to look far to find it.”

“Heh, well more power to ya, pipsqueak.”  Rainbow Dash straightened her prismatic mane and slid the goggles over her face.  She grinned with refracted red orbs aimed down at the foal.  “How do I look?”

“You...”  Scootaloo braved a smile, but it turned into a slight grimace.  “....y-you look a little bit like a bookworm.”

“Oh dear Celestia, no!”  Rainbow Dash gave a mock gasp.  “Soon I'm going to start smelling like a newspaper stand and begin lecturing ponies!”

Scootaloo giggled insanely.

Rainbow Dash wasn't done.  “Come along, my little dragon assistant! I must wave Galloping Gala tickets in front of my friends' faces and then act all shocked when they nearly fight each other over them!”

The little filly was practically rolling in the dirt by this point.

The blue pegasus smirked.  She slid the goggles up to her forehead, then paused to sniff their canvas straps.  “Say... any reason why they smell like a month-old can of kitchen junk?”

Scootaloo suddenly, explosively blushed.  “Uhm...”

“Ah, who cares.  Wanna watch me nearly kill myself doing the Buccaneer Blitz?”

“Do I?!”





“Ugh...”  A goggled Rainbow Dash sat up in a fresh crater of earth, the tips of her mane still smoking.  She rubbed her head and winced as a frightened Scootaloo galloped briskly over to her side.  “Nghh... Yeah, I think I'm gonna put off working on the Buccaneer Blitz for a while...”

“Rainbow Dash, are you okay?!”  Scootaloo’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Heh!”  Rainbow dizzily shuffled up to her four limbs and slid the goggles up to her forehead.  “Rainbow Dash is always okay—Augh!”  She tripped on an exposed tree root and fell on her chest.  “Dang it!  Stupid trees, always digging into the earth and... stuff....”

“Ohhhhh... But you were so close!”  Scootaloo pouted and slumped down to her haunches.  “Just why is the Buccaneer Blitz so impossible to do?”

“The only—ugh—reason it's impossible is because I haven't done it yet!”  Rainbow hissed as she finally struggled to her feet.  “It's a trick that's traditionally supposed to be performed by two ponies at once.  But I think that's total bunk.  There's no reason in Nebula's blue skies that one pegasus and one pegasus alone can't do it if she friggin' wants to!”

“Heeheehee...”  Scootaloo ran a hoof through her pink bangs.  “You make it sound like the Buccaneer Blitz is your life goal.  I thought joining the Wonderbolts was your life goal.”

“Kid, life never runs out of goals,” Rainbow Dash gazed at her.  She flippantly patted the ends of her mane hairs, extinguishing the tiny puffs of smoke.  “The sooner you stop making goals for yourself, the sooner you might as well stop living.  And since no longer living is boring as mud, I'd say that making goals should be a neverending thing.”

“So...”  Scootaloo glanced all around the cratered landscape.  “What do you want to do now?”

“I kind of want to make like Pinkie Pie.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Huh?”

Rainbow flashed her a look.  “I wanna get wet.”





“Geronimoooooo!”

A prismatic cannonball leaped off a rock cropping and sailed into a crystal blue pool of pondwater below.  A sapphiric wave drenched a gasping Scootaloo.  Floundering back up to the surface, the little foal sputtered for breath and giggled as she tread water at the edge of the glittering stream.

With a sharp gasp, Rainbow Dash resurfaced and flung back her water-slicked mane.  She winked and flexed her wings to spray even more droplets on the flinching filly.

“Heeheehee!”  Scootaloo winced and winked at her.  “I'm surprised you didn't flood half of Ponyville with that last one!”

“Kiddo, you forget I'm the chief weather flier.  I can flood Ponyville any day of the week if I feel like it.  I like to make sure my chief climate manager back in Cloudsdale remembers that on a monthly basis.  It makes him think twice about transferring me to some goddess-awful hole in the wall like Torontrot.”

Scootaloo made a face.  “What's wrong with Torontrot?”

“Have you seen the way they play hoofball?”  She winked.  “Ahhhhhh...”  The blue pegasus backstroked through the luxurious, rippling stream.  “Nothing like pond dipping in the middle of the day to make you really appreciate summer.  Equestria's really lucky to have pegasi changing the seasons.  It keeps things constantly grooving, y'know?”

Scootaloo clung to a tree branch sticking out from the lake's edge.  “Have you ever wondered what would happen if pegasi like you or me stopped controlling the weather?”

“Hah!”  Rainbow Dash backflipped, dove, and came back up to the surface, shaking her mane again.  “Why the heck would we do that?”

“I just can't help but wonder, is all,” Scootaloo shrugged, shivering slightly as the moisture found its way to her bones in the sudden contemplation.  “The way I see it, pegasi are the most important creatures in Equestria.  The unicorns have their magic, and the earth ponies are good at raising crops, sure.  But pegasi control the flippin' air!  That counts for a lot, don't you think?”

“Well... Heh... It all goes back to Commander Hurricane's Declaration!”  Rainbow Dash exclaimed amidst paddling.

“Uhm...”  Scootaloo squinted at the older equine.  “Commander Hurricane's what-now?”

Rainbow Dash nearly went under.  Bobbing up and down, she gasped for a breath and gave Scootaloo a cockeyed glance.  “You mean your parents never told you that story?”

“My... uhm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted, clinging tighter to the tree branch.  Her eyes were lost in the flanking blades of grass.  “My parents don't tell me a lot of things.”

“I'm beginning to see that, kid.”  Rainbow nodded from where she floated.  Nevertheless, she smirked and swam circles around Scootaloo's figure.  “Well, hold onto your hooves, cuz this is something that just about every pegasus is told from cloud kindergarten and beyond.  Ahem.  The story goes that long ago—back when pegasi and seaponies were first made—one half took to the sea and the other half took to the air.  They were both given the order by Princess Nebula to populate the firmaments, cuz that was all her shindig, you see?  Anywho, the sea ponies had it made cuz there's so much more ocean on the friggin' planet.  The air... eh... that's a lot harder to maintain control of.  However, the pegasi of the First Age weren't just about to admit that they didn't have their act together.  So when they met the earth ponies and unicorns, and they saw them doing so much fantastic stuff with the cards dealt them, well it was high time that the winged Equestrians pulled a trick from their sleeves as well.  In comes Commander Hurricane, general of the First Stratospheric Airforce.  She figures that the only way to strike awe in the hearts of such new and strange ponies is to—well—lie her friggin' flank off.  So she did just that!  She claimed that we could control the weather!”

“You mean...”  Scootaloo squinted at Rainbow Dash as moisture dripped down her face.  “You mean to say that pegasi didn't always have a hoofhold of the climate?”

“Well, after Commander Hurricane opened her big mouth, they sure as heck had to!  The unicorns were calling her bluff, and the earth ponies—naive to the end—were begging the pegasi for rain to help their crops.  Soon Hurricane's integrity—including that of all pegasi in general—was being asked to deliver!”

“Did Hurricane ever find a way out of that bind?”

“What—You think she was a coward or something?!  She saw all the stuff that was about to be tossed her way and just said 'Screw it, I said we can control the weather and by Nebula we're going to!'  So, in typical pegasus fashion, she began a sky-wide campaign to figure out the mechanics of clouds.  With the help of scholars who had been hoofed down the secrets of meteorology straight from Nebula's godly mouth, Hurricane devised a way for moisture to be compressed and manufactured into a new solid.  Today, we call the stuff 'sky marble', and it's what makes up all the wickedly cool buildings of airborne cities such as Cloudsdale!  By the time Commander Hurricane passed away, the pegasi were more than able to do the very same thing that she described when she first ever spouted bullcrap to the other equine races.  Heh.  Talk about a delivery, am I right?”

“So... Uhm...”  Scootaloo squinted.  “Is this another lesson about how wrong it is to lie?”

“Ugh!”  Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes and kicked a lower hoof, splashing Scootaloo viciously.  “Did you get leeches in your ears or something, pipsqueak?!  The lesson here is that when you lie—make sure it's something you can live up to!”  She smirked.  “Any pegasus who respects herself in this life knows this.  Even if we didn't have wings, it's how we'd freakin' stay aloof, you feel me?”

Scootaloo tapped a hoof to her pond-soaked chin.  She smiled, navigating a distant thought...





“Hey!  I remember you!”  A stallion with a threadbare mane smiled from the far side of a thrift store's sales counter.  “Our sweet little helper!  You know, those shelves have remained spotless since the last time you blessed us with your presence.”  He winked.  “I hope the cupcake was delicious, because you sure as hay had the magic touch, little missy!”

“Yeah!  Well... About that... uhm...” The orange foal shuffled up to the counter.  In a brave breath, she said, “My parents read that letter that you and your wife wrote to them.”

“Did they?  How splendid.  I would very much like to meet up and tell them what a nice worker you'll turn out to be someday!”

“Well, that's just the thing...”  She smiled.  “My parents are extremely busy, cuz they've got jobs of their own during the day, and they had this really wicked sweet plan—but they didn't quite have the time to write it down or nothing.  Still, they were wondering if... if I could ask you—that is—if you'd help me practice some more.”

The stallion raised an eyebrow.  “Practice...?”

“Y-Yeah!  For having a real job someday!”  Scootaloo exclaimed.  As she stood under the gaze of the stallion clerk's iron gaze, she struggled to maintain her composure.





“So you mean to tell me it's okay to lie?”  Scootaloo remarked.

Rainbow Dash was lying on the grass, basking in the golden sunlight, lazily drying the pondwater off of her.  She gazed aside at her foalish tag-a-long.  “What I mean to say, is, when a pegasus needs something, then it's okay to do whatever you can to get that something, so long as you're not robbing another pony of something they're gonna need.  Does that make any sense?”

“So... it's okay to lie sometimes.”

“Lying...”  Rainbow Dash gestured with her hoof as she strained to lasso an invisible thought down from the bright blue sky.  “Lying is... a lot like a game of chess, not like I play the boring crap or whatnot, but I've seen it done when I've visited Twilight's house.”  She smirked aside at Scootaloo.  “Both players have the exact same stuff at their disposal.  The way you win at chess is if your opponent makes more stupid mistakes than you do.”

“How do you lie without making misakes?”

“Pfft!  You use what you know, kid!”





Scootaloo brightened.  “You see, my family is moving to Manehattan in the future—You ever been to Manehattan?”

The stallion clerk rubbed a hoof along the back of his neck.  “Erm... I... uhm... I have a cousin who lives there—”

“Do you know the average starting age of retail workers is in that city?”

“I have no clue.”

“Fourteen,”  Scootaloo said with a smirk.  “That's—like—three and a half years away for me!”

The stallion did a double-take.  “You mean to tell me that you're only eleven years old?  You look way smaller than that!”





“And if using what you know doesn't work...”

Rainbow Dash shrugged, yawned, and settled back down into the soft, warm grass.

“You say something kaizo.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “What the heck does 'kaizo' mean?”

“Do I gotta spell it out for ya, kid?”  The adult pegasus smirked the filly's way.  “You go all crazy just to misdirect the idiot in front of you!”





“Heheh!  Yeah, I know...”  Scootaloo blushed and rolled her eyes.  “I'm pretty tiny.  I was foaled about a month and a half early, you see.”

“Oh... truly?”  The stallion clerk gave a pitiable expression.

“Yeah.  It was crazy.  My parents tell me that a bunch of unicorn doctors had me strapped up to life support and stuff.  I was so small, I could almost fit in the crook of a royal guardpony's hoof!”

“Whew... It's spectacular that you survived such an ordeal.”  The stallion shook his head solemnly.  “My sister-in-law went through a similar thing when she was foaled.”

“Oh?”  Scootaloo leaned in with a compassionate expression.  “How's she faring?”

“Wonderfully, actually!”  The stallion clerk beamed.  “She's got three kids of her own and she sells real estate out in Fillydelphia.”

“Well, at least we both know she's got the guts to live there, huh?”

“Heheh—Yeah.  Tell me about it—”

“So... Uhm... About what my parents are proposing...”  Scootaloo gnawed on her lip as she wound up and prepared to pitch...





“The most important thing...”  Rainbow Dash pointed with a hoof as she gazed aside at Scootaloo once more.  “The most important thing about getting what you want...”

Scootaloo gazed steadily at her, unblinking.  “Yes...?”

The blue pegasus smirked.  “...is to not want much to begin with.”

The orange foal raised a confused eyebrow.

“And, even more importantly...”  Rainbow Dash added.  “Don't pretend to ask for much either.”





“...they really liked the cupcake idea,” Scootaloo said.  “How about I mop the floor and sweep your stock room?  If I do a good job, perhaps you can give me two bits to buy myself another cupcake?  I promised my parents I'd take it home and show it to them before I ate it.  Once they come home late from work, I want them to see that I can be just as much a hard worker as them in four or five years.”

“Awww... Well, that's a mighty fine spirit of diligence you've got blooming inside of you, little missy!”  The stallion smirked and sauntered around the sales counter.  “Tell you what, in the spirit of good neighborly business, I'll do just that.  I'll help you and your parents with this little exercise.  But I won't make you work any longer than an hour without a break!  I don't want you overdoing yourself, ya hear?”

Scootaloo beamed, but managed at the last second to suppress her elation.  “Ahem—Oh yes, I hear you, sir!  Loud and clear!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I only want to buy this really neat toy that I saw in Bon Bon's novelty shop!”  Scootaloo stood in a hotel lobby, rubbing her hooves together and putting on a puppy dog face.  “All I need is two more bits!  I'll polish the elevator buttons, empty the trash, even clean the bathroom if you just let me earn what I can before the place closes this evening!”

“Awww... how cute...”  The uniformed filly behind the desk cooed.  She glanced around for her supervisor, leaned in, and whispered, “There's a broom just behind the counter!  See if you can get the sidewalk looking nice and clear of leaves!”

“Yes ma'am!”  Scootaloo saluted and galloped off.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I just need three more bits, and I can buy the makings for daffodil alfredo from the market that my mom needs for this special dinner she's making for our neighbors tonight!”

“Did she put you up to this, young lady?”

“Pfft—No way!  She's had a horrible week at work and I wanna surprise her!”

“How sweet of you!  I wish my daughter was as considerate.  Here, have six bits—Get her a side of oats to go with it!”

“Jee!  Thanks, ma'am!  You have no idea how much this means to me!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Eh... if you've got an extra bit or two from your money drawer to spare, I'll watch the storefront so you can go take a leak.  I just need money for cab fare to get home.”

“Oh, thank Epona!  I was about to burst!  Just don't tell my boss, kid!”

“Heh, don't sweat it.  Nice mane, by the way, dude.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Seriously?  I'm not gonna lie.  I just need a few bits to go buy me a sarsaparilla from Sugarcube Corner.”

“Heh!  Works for me, kid.  It's hotter than's Celestia's tail hairs today!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scootaloo ran—practically galloping—until she entered the hollow of her barn.  She scrambled up the ladder, slid to a stop across the wooden loft, and fumbled with a tin box in her grasp.  The rattling thing opened, revealing over three dozen separate golden bits filling the contents inside.

The orange foal couldn't help it.  She slapped the can shut and hugged it to her chest, giggling like a schoolfilly.  Her laughter flew through the gnarled branches poking above the exposed holes of the barn's rooftop above.  She fell on her back, drunk with victory and euphoria, until the afternoon swam around her in numb delight.





“If you leave the world alone and let it be what it wants to be, then everything is just—I dunno—boring,”  Rainbow Dash said as the two trotted along a dirt path outside of downtown Ponyville.  “You gotta show off!  Make some noise!  Rattle a few cages!  How else will you stay sane?” 

Scootaloo's face scrunched up.  “Is that why you're always doing practical jokes?”

“Snkkt—Heheheh... Maaaaaybe...”  Rainbow Dash smiled victoriously towards the horizon as a fresh breeze kicked at her colorful mane.  “Mostly I just like messing with other ponies' heads.  The way I see it, I'm doing them a favor.  Once I've shown up, ponies realize how boring their life was before now.”

Scootaloo giggled at that.  “How would you know if you've gone too far?”

Rainbow Dash squinted down at Scootaloo, smiling.  “Okay, so I sometimes screw around a bit much with my friends.  Still, I make sure that, no matter what, in the end I've got their backs.  You dig?”

“Yeah, I dig.”






Under a setting sun, Applejack pulled a wagon full of apples up to a bright red barn.  She hummed a tune to herself and made for the building's wide double doors.  Suddenly, she saw something that made her stop in her tracks.  Curious, she unhitched herself from the wagon and trotted up to a little wooden crate seated next to the barn.  Atop the box, there was a sheet of paper being weighed down by four whole golden bits.

Adjusting the brim of her hat, the farm filly picked the sheet up and scrolled her green eyes over it.  In very sloppy, very foalish scribbles, the letter read:

This should pay for the apples you tossed at two ponies weeks ago.  Sorry about the snakes.

~Scootaloo

Applejack blinked.  She glanced at the sheet of paper, then at the four golden bits.  She muttered in a confused breath, “What in the hay is a 'scootaloo?'”





“As long as you respect this crazy world for all of its cooler shades...”  Rainbow Dash managed to say in between grunts as she performed several push-ups, warming her muscles for another afternoon's set of practiced aerial tricks.  “...then whatever you want to get in life, you should have free reign to grab.  Don't... nngh ...don't let anypony tell you what you should or shouldn't deserve.  They ain't you!  They ain't ever gonna understand you, especially when they claim that they do!”

“Can you really be yourself without other ponies telling you what to do?”  Scootaloo asked, sitting atop a grassy knoll and watching her sweating idol.  “Doesn't that—well—get you beaten up a lot?”

“Hahaha...”  Rainbow Dash hissed between haggard breaths and tossed a bold smirk the filly's way.  “Kid, what's life without being dealt a horrible buck or two in the face?”





“Ugh!”  Scootaloo stumbled back, wincing.

Blackjack leered over her in a dirty backstreet behind Ponyville.

“Didn't you learn your lesson the last time I beat you like the piece of meat you are?!”

Several young fillies and colts trotted out of the way—trembling—giving the tall adolescent enough room to march towards Scootaloo, raising a threatening hoof yet again.

“Why don't you turn tail and get out of my town?!”  He spat.  “I'm tired of seeing your pathetic, stubby little wings!”






Rainbow Dash panted, resting in between twirling dives as she sat down besides Scootaloo's figure.

“There is no punk on this earth who can you hit you so many times...”  She smirked and glanced over her mane of colors.  “...that you can't hit them back twice as many times with smack talk.”

Scootaloo made a nervous face.  “Just what does that accomplish?”

“What else?”  Rainbow Dash winked.  “It brings out their inner idiot!”






“Then maybe you should close those those ratholes you call eyes!”  Scootaloo barked back at Blackjack.  The entire street's worth of children gasped at her utterance, but she never stopped smirking.  Not once.  “Of course, if I was as ugly as you, I'd blind myself as soon as I could.  It’d save me from having to see my reflection in a mirror!”

Blackjack blinked, as if a synapse in his brain that had never fired before suddenly popped at the unbelievable audacity of this petite pegasus.  With a drooling, animalistic growl, he charged at her with a heavy fist.

“Why... you little—”





“You can't have a victory without some loss,” Rainbow Dash said, hovering over Scootaloo as the two paced their way down a forested path under a glowing afternoon.  “Be it loss of pride, loss of dignity... or—heh—loss of blood...”





“Ooommf!”  Scootaloo spun from the colt's blunt hoof to her face.  She spat some red fluid into the dirt as Blackjack loomed over her.

“Ha!  You think you're so tough now?!”  He stomped a vicious limb over her pink tail hairs.

Scootaloo winced, but braved the pain as she shuddered underneath his weight.

The nearby foals looked away as he loomed over her, snarling.  “I'm gonna rip those ears off your puny little head, you pathetic piece of your momma's crap!”





“But the best way to win at anything is to show ponies three times your size who's boss,” Rainbow Dash said in between bites of a delicious red apple.  The two ponies, young and old, reclined on a hillside overlooking a sea of orchards that glittered under a crimson sunset.  “Because they're too stupid and full of themselves to see it coming!”

The blue pegasus took another bite, hummed delightfully at the taste, gulped, and smiled.

“Whenever you're up against a really big force that dwarfs you, then there's no shame in doing whatever you have to do to win.  Even cheating—”

“Don't you mean improvising?”  Scootaloo smirked.

“Pfft—Whatever.  Long story short, punks that think they can intimidate you simply have it coming to them.”





“Please...”  Scootaloo sobbed, suddenly shivering and waving her limbs as she quivered under Blackjack's weight.  “Pl-Please, I'm sorry!”

The muscular colt blinked confusedly.  “What... the heck?!”

Scootaloo curled into herself, sniveling and choking on her foalish tears.  “J-Just stop hurting me!  I'll do whatever you want!  I'll leave town!  I'll give you all my bits!  I'll even kiss your hooves!  Just please... please don't hit me again!  Nnngh-ahhhh-Mommmmmmyyyyyy... Uhhhhh-huhhhhh...”

The other foals gazed with pitiable expressions.

Blackjack merely smirked.  “Heh... Heheheh!  Get a load of this chump!”  He gazed over his shoulder towards his chuckling cohorts as he pointed at the wailing little pegasus.  “Somebody call Nurse Red Heart to come here and kiss her boo-boos!  While we're at it, somepony fetch her blankie!  Hahaha!”

Scootaloo sniffled and moaned.  However, what Blackjack didn't see was her rear legs stealthily coiling up, her orange muscles bunching together, tighter than steel.

“Heh heh heh...”  The lumbering mini-stallion turned back to look at Scootaloo.  “Come to think of it, having my hooves kissed doesn't sound all that bad—”

“Yaaaugh!”  Scootaloo let loose a warcry and shot her lower limbs straight up.  A bloody loogy flew from Blackjack's face as he was severely bucked across the skull.

The street's worth of kids grew silent as stones.  Meanwhile, the bully stumbled back, gasped with a gargle of his own mouth fluids, and collided with the body of a lamppost.

A noticeably tearless Scootaloo was already hopping to her hooves.  She glared daggers Blackjack's way.

The growling bully wasted no time charging at her.

She ducked with a flurry of her pink mane.  Her agile body felt the mountain of hormones lurching numbly past her.  She spun about, and as she did so she caught a familiar, glinting object in the peripheral of her vision.





“However...”

Rainbow Dash paused in between bites and waved the apple between her and Scootaloo.

“Under no circumstance must you ever... ever allow yourself to severely hurt another pony.”

She took another bite and chewed and chewed.

Three seconds in, though, she gave Scootaloo a deadpan glance and muttered with her mouth full.

“Unless they really, really deserve it.”





The orange filly spotted her metal tray.  Grasping it in between her tight little jaws, she spun with a long-winded, muffled growl.

Blackjack turned to look.  He soon wished that he hadn't.

“Rghhh!”  Scootaloo swung the wheeled object clear across his cranium.

The resulting noise that echoed across the lengths of Ponyville resembled Cheerilee's schoolbell.  It was, in fact, slightly louder.

A pair of bloody teeth fell into the dirt, followed by the slumping body of Blackjack, cradling a hoof over his jaw.  Wide-eyed and trembling, the brutish bully navigated a forest of rapid pants, and then his eyes began to water.  An orange set of hooves stood before him.  He glanced up in a horrified jerk.

Scootaloo spat the slightly bent tray out from her mouth.  She stood above Blackjack.  She glared at him.  “Mrrrrrrr—Raaaaaaaaaagh!”  She howled into his face, her eyes flaring like hot, violet torches.

Blackjack whimpered and scoot-scooted away from the filly, scrunching his suddenly shrunken form against the lamppost.  “Mmmfmff—Don't!  Please!”  He bloodily spat in the crumbling effort to contain his suddenly foalish sobs.  “I d-didn't mean to hurt you all those times!  Honest!”

“You didn't mean to do anything, you worthless, spineless animal!”  She marched icily over him, snarling straight down into his quivering snout.  “You think I don't belong to Ponyville?!  What good have you ever done for the little kids of this town?!  Huh?!”

“I'm sorry... I-I'm so sorry—”

“You go home and tell your Momma you're sorry!”  She sneered.  “But once you're there, stay there!  Learn to be a respectful pony!  Earn something for once, instead of beating others' skulls in for it!  Do you understand what I'm saying to you?  So long as you're a bully in my town of foaling, these streets won't be safe for you to trot in anymore!”

Blackjack merely stared at her, his eyes twitching wide.

Scootaloo barked, “Scram!”

Squealing like a freshly neutered canine, Blackjack scampered out from the filly's tiny shadow and galloped limpingly down the main streets of Ponyville, causing many heads to turn as his hiccuping sobs formed a trail of tears between his hoofprints.  Shivering along the edge of the street, a herd of young coltish sidekicks huddled in his absence.  They all glanced Scootaloo's way.

Scootaloo stared daggers back at them.  “What are you looking at?!”

They all galloped away, bumping against each other in the process.  As soon as they left, a smaller, far more colorful crowd  of young equines pranced up to replace them, cheering and giggling and patting a seething orange pegasus on her shoulders.

“Yeah!”

“Woohoo!”

“You sure showed him, Scoots!”

“I don't think he's ever gonna mess with us again!”

“Heeheehee!”

“You're really awesome, Scootaloo!”

“Yes...”  The young filly tossed their hooves off with a flick of her mane.  Tilting her bruised head up high, she sauntered proudly down the dirt path.  “Yes, I am.  Maybe someday even you guys will be awesome too.”  With a single bound, she leaped onto her weapon of choice and glided the tray down the road, kicking up dust into the line of gazing foals.  They coughed briefly from her brisk exit, but ultimately bounced and cheered all the same.





“Rainbow Dash?”

“Yeah, Scootaloo?”

Night was falling.  The two sat on a hilltop as a gorgeous canvas of stars spun overhead.  The Equestrian plains danced in a deep blue glow, highlighted by the gleefully unblemished moon shining above.

The orange filly gazed up at her idol.  “What if... What if after all of your practicing, the Wonderbolts never come near you?”  She gulped.  “What if... they never get close enough to see you do all of your wonderful tricks?  What if you never get to amaze them after all?”

For a few disquieting seconds, Rainbow Dash merely gazed down at the little pegasus.  A small cloud briefly passed underneath the moon, and as soon as it dissipated, there appeared a luminous grin across the blue pony's face.

“Pfft... What, are you stupid, ya little squirt?”  She ruffled Scootaloo's mane hair.  “Who cares?  I'm already more awesome than all of the Wonderbolts combined.”

The orange foal giggled breathily.  She parted her pink bangs and laid down against the soft, moonlit grass.  “Of course you are, Dashie.”  Her eyes danced with stars as she smiled.  “I never had a single doubt.”





Scootaloo dropped the dented tray against the surface of the barn's wooden loft.  Groaning in the afternoon's glow, she felt a day's worth of bruises and spent muscles aching underneath her coat.  None of it mattered, though, because the sobbing voice of Blackjack still rung freshly in her ears, and as she gazed at the loft that was now filled to the brim with tinkering tools, blankets, a suitcase, a paperback book with her parents' photo, and a rattling tin can full of bits, she found her life dancing under a blissful new chorus.

“Hmmm... It wasn't impossible...”  she murmured to herself, tonguing the traces of blood still in her mouth.  Her smile was as rapturous as it was agonizing.  “...But it happened, nonetheless.”

She gazed limply towards the far corner of the loft.  A little white box waited right where it had been left—almost entirely abandoned—several weeks before.  It was once something hideous, something that stabbed its way straight into her very heart.  Now, however, it was something earned.  Scooting over on her knees, the little filly raised the box, opened it, and raised the stale cupcake victoriously in the air.

“Well...”  She grinned wide.  She didn't know her foalday, but suddenly it didn't matter.  “Here's to tomorrow!”  She closed her eyes, rosily imagining a glittering rainbow shining across her subconscious.  In such a tranquil breath, she leaned forward and chomped her teeth liberally over the length of the cupcake.

No less than half a second later, she was keeling over and spitting the granite crumbs all over the wooden surface of the loft.

“Ughhhh!”  Scootaloo wiped a forelimb across her face, strung halfway between a violent retch and uncontrollable laugther.  “Celestia, that's old!  Snkkkkt-Hahahahahahaha!”







Thin, vaporous breaths billowed out through a canvas mask as the last pony stood atop the granite plateau, gazing at the sight before her.  She reached a hoof up and exposed her mouth from behind the tight fabric.  A dull, orange face shuddered beneath a pair of scarlet eyes.  She swallowed a lump down her throat.  No matter how many times she regularly did this, it never got any easier, not like the other things in her fatefully exhausting life.

Scootaloo sat down in silent reverence before the grave of Rainbow Dash.  The heap of snow-white stones rested, undisturbed beneath the ever-present halo of twilight shimmering down from the Wasteland grayness above.  All around her, the sunken depths of Cloudsdale danced thickly with ash.  As more and more months ticked away, Scootaloo felt the powdery flakes in the air growing denser and denser.  She no longer paid it any mind, for to do so was to lose her very mind in the end.

“I'm sorry I didn't visit you last week,” she murmured quietly to the rocks, gazing at them like so many white stones that blanketed the surface of her eyelids throughout her short and lonely existence.  “A moonrock meteor landed not that far from the ruins.  It didn't send any debris falling into the pits, but the resulting tremors knocked a bunch of stuff off-kilter at home, so I had to spend twice the time rebuilding a bunch of crap.”

The rocks said nothing in response.  The air was deathly still here.  Ironically, all that moved was a fluttering blue feather tucked behind Scootaloo's ear.  The last pony felt its many tiny threads caressing her shaved mane as she continued speaking.

“I have a real frickin' fortress now, or at least I like to think of it as such.  I stumbled upon a guardpony barracks that the goblins didn't find first.  Heh... that was a lucky break.  Now I have enough spears to practically make an entire fence of pikes around my hole-in-the wall.  The only problem with that, I suppose, is that it's obvious to any imp or troll gazing at my side of the ruins from a long distance that something very ticked-off lives there.  I gotta figure out the difference between fending off trouble and inviting it.”





A hoof dipped a large canteen into a pool of grimy Cloudsdalian water.  Screwing a cap tightly onto the container, Scootaloo raised the translucent thing up to her squinting gaze.  She briefly saw a half-faded reflection, making the violets of her eyes appear twice as dull as she imagined they had become. Suddenly, it no longer bothered her.

With a lengthy sigh, she slid the canteen into her canvas saddlebag and trotted off from the junction of several dried-up waterfalls.  She climbed over mounds of ivory rubble, making her way home where she would build a fire to boil the water, hopefully making it as drinkable as her last trip's worth.





“It's been over two years since I fell down here.  It has to have been—perhaps longer.  The only regular things are the stormfronts that sound off above the pits, and I wish I could find a frickin' way to measure them.  But it doesn't really matter.  All I know is that I'm definitely older.  I can feel it in my legs.  My hooves are thicker, my joints are stronger, and I no longer waddle when I walk.  There are even twice as many feathers in my wings as when I first stumbled down here, though I still can't seem to put them to good use.  On top of all that, I had my first period a few weeks ago.  Yeah, that was fun.  I can still remember Sweetie Belle rambling on and on about how she couldn't wait for her cycle to begin, as if it was as important a part of becoming a grown filly as getting her cutie mark.  Personally, I don't find it's all that special.  If anything, it reminds me just how pointless it is to try foaling kids in a world like this.







Scootaloo finished hammering the last of several wooden pikes into the ground before her granite niche.  She paused, wiping her brow and sweating.  Around her, a tiny camp rested within the safe boundaries of the line of guardpony spears.  There was a gravel pit for making fires, a series of skymarble slabs for crafting tools, and several wooden racks for shelving junk salvaged from the Wasteland.

Not wasting any time, she grabbed another pike, fitted it to a hole in the stony earth that she had carved into place days before, and began hammering the sharp object in tightly.  Beyond her improvised fort, the gray mists of sunken Cloudsdale hung in perpetual shadow.





“Before I came down here in search of... well... in search of you, I started a journal to help me keep track of things.  Now it's stuck up there in that first shelter I built for myself.  Looking back, I can't imagine it's anything worth reading.  At the time, I felt it was necessary to prove that I had survived everything, so that if another pony stumbled upon it, they would know they weren't alone either.  The whole idea feels stupid to me now.  I mean—really—what's the point?  Still, I kind of wish that I had it with me, even if it doesn't make much sense.  All the stuff I'm telling you now is the same sort of stuff I would write... assuming I can teach myself to write any better than I always have.  I have to admit, I kind of want to learn to put down words better.  After all, there are these books that I've stumbled upon lately...





Scootaloo curled atop a pile of canvas sheets just outside her niche.  A crackling campfire hissed and sparked beside her as she reclined with a spear under one hoof and one of several salvaged tomes clasped in her other.

“Mmmmm...”  The dark-orange filly squinted at the sheets of paper, licking her lips and eventually strugging to produce, “'...and then Consus took Ele... Elec... Elecktra under his wings, and be... bes... bestowed upon her spirit the mantle of... of ter... terrest... terrestr... terrestrial ma... mast... terrestrial mastery, for she was a dau.. daughter under his own heart...'”





“I'm learning things like I've never learned before.  I guess it's partly because I'm feeling bored in between the times that I'm feeling scared.  Another part of it, I suppose, is that I kind of need to read as much as I can.  You, of course, remember how much we joked and kidded about Twilight Sparkle.  Heh... She used to offer me books from her library all the time.  I always found excuses to be doing something else besides reading.  Now, the way I see it, if I'm not reading, then who's going to carry on all that's worth knowing?  It sure as heck isn't going to be the goblins!





Scootaloo paused in the middle of rummaging through a collapsed hospital at the echoing sound of grunting voices.  Freezing in brief fright, she produced her dagger from a hoof brace and crawled slowly up a hill of granite rubble.  Gazing down from the hollow of the dilapidated building, she spotted several half-ling shapes fumbling over a crate of arcanium.  She spotted Matthais, Braxx, and several others attempting to crack the container open.  The leather-armored imps fumbled in the effort, obviously not knowing where the simple locking mechanism was.  Scootaloo didn't offer the breath to tell them.

From the sidelines, a pale-blue figure sashayed into view.  Scootaloo gazed aside from her quiet, lofty position.  She spotted Devo coming upon the scene.  His snow-white hair was longer now, having poured past his pointed ears.  While his inferior companions bickered and spat at each other, he brushed them aside with authoritarian limbs, marched over to the device, put his ear to it, and briefly concentrated.  After half a minute passed, he slid a palm up to the side of the arcanium box and merely flipped a switch.  The lid to the container flung open, and a flood of Cloudsdalian water muddily poured out, soaking Matthais to the bone.  Braxx pointed at him and laughed.  The other goblins chuckled amongst themselves and followed a calm, collected Devo towards the next site of scavenging while a fuming Matthais stumbled wetly at the back of the procession.





“I've only run into them a half a dozen times since our first meeting.  All but one of those times, thankfully, their pale-haired leader was there to keep them from ripping me to shreds.  I don't really understand the goblins too much.  So many of them hate me, and yet their boss really seems to care.  I wonder if the ugliest of them will ever stop blaming me for what happened to this world.  I don't suppose there's any point in hoping.  There's no more sun and there's no more moon.  What's to hope for?  Hatred is as good a fuel as any in this world.





“Nnngh!” Scootaloo spun and slammed her rear hooves into a wooden door.  The decrepit thing splintered to bits behind her.  Exhaling sharply with victory, the sweating pegasus sauntered into a collapsed Cloudsdalian apartment atop a pile of subterranean rubble.  She squinted as she trotted her way into the groaning, lopsided enclosure.

She saw furniture, rugs, family portraits, and kitchen utensils.  Then, in the far corner of the place, she saw the unmistakable alabaster shapes of bones, ribcages, skulls, and hooves.  Without wasting a second breath, the last pony marched indifferently over these brittle remains, and immediately began rummaging through several drawers full of rare stones, sharp-edged jewelry, and other assorted heirlooms.





“There was a time when seeing a dead body would freak me out, or else make me feel really sad.  Now, after so many stormfronts, after bumping elbows with the goblins on occasion, I simply don't have the time to care.  There are so many dead ponies, so many to bury, so many to mourn, so many to give a moment of silence to.  I think a part of me still wants to pay them respect, but I have to trample that thought into dust.  I simply can't afford to be a good pegasus and do a ritual for every body I see.  I have to scavenge what I can find before the goblins grab it all up.  What's more, I'm running out of food, and I still don't have any frickin' clue how to get out of this place.





Scootaloo grunted with the effort it took to climb over the last steep clump of rocks.  A blue feather fluttered behind her ear as she scrambled, flexed her limbs instinctually, and ultimately pulled herself victoriously atop the mountain of crushed sky marble.  Panting, she stood and gazed out onto the gray, twilight-banded vistas of the inner ruins.  She stood upon the tallest point in the entire grave of Cloudsdale, and still the top of the pit was well over twenty meters beyond her reach.

From this vantage point, she slowly spun about and looked for any shape, any slope, any incline, any ramp of crumpled earth that might give even footing for a soul wanting to climb out of that place.  She was no luckier than the goblins were in this matter, and as the cold Wasteland air kicked waves of snow against her shaved mane, she let loose a deep breath before subsequently inhaling the circular desolation enveloping her.





“I almost pray for a moonrock to land against the mouth of the pit, much like the one that stranded me here to begin with.  Maybe it'll carve a hill that I can climb out of this place, or maybe it will knock loose a tall slab of sky marble that can miraculously form a bridge so I can get to the tools that the goblins are always desperately whining about.  If they can find a way out of here simply with getting those lost things of theirs back, then I'm sorely tempted to help them out.  I mean, what's the use in holding onto my pride anymore?  If I'm to survive, I'm going to need all the help I can get, right?  So what if the only things that are around to help me also hate my guts for whatever reason?





A crack of thunder exploded outside the niche.  Scootaloo didn't budge a single centimeter.  She sat in the tiny crook of her hovel, calmly chewing on a morsel of dried oats as the world flashed and roared outside.  She cast a bored gaze beyond the mouth of her claustrophobic home, mentally counting the hours until the stormfront would eventually die down, silencing itself just as loudly as it had started on schedule.






“After all, the only thing that matters is that I survive, right?”  Scootaloo murmured, gazing into the sea of stones that formed Rainbow Dash's grave.  “It has to matter in the grand scheme of things.  If this is all there is, then I'm all that there is to receive it.  Forget the goblins and the trolls and all those other miserable things that pretend to have souls; I have to look after myself, and I have to do it as long as I can...”

She lingered on the last few words, her face contorting into a painful grimace.  She gulped hard, and whimpered in a wilting breath.

“Because I want it to make sense to me.  I need it to make sense to me.”  She bit her lips and her eyes began to water, magnifying the scarlet that was slowly bleeding its way out from her pupils.  “Because, for whatever reason, it m-made sense to you.”

There was no movement from underneath the stones.  There never was.

“I keep asking myself why I'm still struggling.  I keep asking myself what's the point.  Even if I made it out of this Nebula-forsaken hole and made it back to the surface and recollected all my other things, what future do I have?”  She stifled a bubble of panting breaths rising up her sore throat.  She blinked her eyes dry, sniffled, and gazed off into the black chasm flanking the grave.  “And all I can think of is that you must have known the answer.  Otherwise, why did you save me?  Why did you decide to put me someplace safe and then fly off to some crazy part of the skies that wasn't?”

With a shuddering breath, she raised a hoof to her ear and tucked the blue feather tighter behind it.

“All that's ever mattered to me... all I've ever wanted to accomplished in my life... w-was making you p-proud of me...”  Her vision briefly blurred as she struggled to keep her gaze away from the hauntingly white stones.  “And now, how can I do that, Dashie?  I just... I just can't imagine a world where all I have to look forward to is myself.  I'm... I'm simply not that awesome.”

Scootaloo gulped hard.  She finally looked back at the grave.  She shuddered.

“But you are.”  There was silence.  There was stillness.  There was death.  “You were.”

The last pony was finished.  Her shivers subsided.  The cold briefly stopped being such a stabbing thing.  After a minute or two, she murmured something to herself, planted a hoof to her lips, and laid it gently atop the closest rock of the grave.  Standing up afterwards, she wrapped the canvas mask back over her mouth, turned around, and—like so many identically quiet occasions previous—she walked away alone.







“I can't believe it!  A damnable glue stick!  Has your father gone mad?!”

“Franken, just calm down and listen for a second,” Raimony said.  “It's not like the Outbleeder is gonna jump down your throat, for Petra's sake!  I only want you to talk to her for a second!”

Scootaloo craned her neck, her ears twitching beneath a blood-soaked red bandanna and a blue feather as she sauntered down the interior of the unmoving train car.  She rounded a corner of empty steam crates in time to see the brown-haired goblinette gesturing wildly, attempting to calm an elderly imp with dark gray skin and stocky shoulders.

“I'll have no part in this!  This is an outrage!”  Franken seethed, his frazzled black threads dangling between two moth-eaten ears.  “Don't you think I have enough on my plate in trying to unearth those pathetic sky-stealers' grimy pillars without going so low as to talk to one of them?!”

“Pffft—Hey!  I'm not the biggest fan of this whole crapfest myself, y'know!  I'm only doing this as a favor to my father and prime Hex-Bleeder—”

“Your father should know better!  Huh?!  He's growing senile, that blighted imp!  Not only is he slapping me in the face with all of this Intercessor nonsense, but he's gonna incur the wrath of Haman!  Did you ever think of that?!  And after all that the prime Rust-Bleeder has done for your old man...”

“C'mon, Franken!”  Raimony exclaimed.  “My father did business with Haman of Rust Blood!  He respected Haman of Rust Blood!”

Franken pointed with a frown.  “Your father did business with Haman of Rust Blood, he respected Haman of Rust Blood, but he never trusted Haman of Rust Blood!  I always assumed that was the case, but now I know it!”

“Jee, I dunno,” Scootaloo hummed.  “If he's willing to trust a glue stick, I imagine he's willing to trust just about anything.”

Both Franken and Raimony glanced over from their side of the train car.  The prime bleeder of Glass Blood rolled his bagged eyes.  “Great.  On top of wanting to talk to me, it's a real smartass too.”

Before Raimony could retort, Scootaloo spoke, “This smartass also happens to have heard a lot of things as of late.”  She slowly and boldly strolled over towards Franken's side, staring him unabashedly in the face.  “Like how a small group of clan leaders miraculously survived a zeppelin crash in ogre war territory.”

Franken snorted.  “What's it to you, horse filth?  If I had my way, my boys would shoot you dead, here and now.”

Scootaloo slowly, icily grinned.  “Well, it's a good thing you're not having your way, is it?”

“That's it!  I am gone.”  Franken groaned and marched out towards the cargo doors, beyond which a bustling cluster of imps strolled to and from the edge of the mining pits.  “I don't need any of this nonsense.  I have a schedule to keep...”

Scootaloo called over his shoulder, “I wouldn't work too hard.  That's what ended Waven of South Blood's life, isn't it?”

Franken stopped in his tracks, fidgeting slightly.

Raimony saw it.  Scootaloo saw it too.  The last pony walked to the very edge of the train's cargo door.  “Isn't it?  He worked himself to the bone?  Even if he was perfectly healthy just prior to the zeppelin trip that nearly ended his life at the meaty hands of battle ogres?”  Her metal horseshoes tapped and rang against the floor of the train.  Just one more step, she figured, and she would give every gremlin and goblin within sight free reign to plug an iron dart in her skull.  “Or perhaps something else consumed Waven, drove him to a bitter end, something akin to the same frenzied panic that is making you work your bat-ears off?”

Franken slowly turned around.  He cast a dark, wrinkled frown in Scootaloo's direction.  “What I do for my clan's industry is none of your business, glue stick.”

“But it is Haman's, I take it?”  Scootaloo leaned her head to the side while squinting suspiciously at him.  “Prime Glass-Bleeder, when the Rust Blood clan stopped dead in their tracks, almost all of the other families related to Haman had to experience a severe drop in production.  But your clan?  You're expanding three times faster than any of the other families, and you've been closer to Haman, financially speaking, than even Lazarus of Core Blood.  Just how can you afford to be processing so many resources along the stalk of Strut Eleven?  For Celestia's sake...”  She pointed past him at the several mining lattices lining the torchlit edges of the pits.  “...You're mining nearly twice as much stuff as the Hex-Bleeders you're sharing this part of the pits with!  At some point, you've gotta run out of steam—no pun intended, I mean the silver kind.”

The elder clan leader said nothing.  He clenched his fists and gazed off towards the smog-laden horizon.

“Unless...”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “...Haman is either promising you a reward for all of your otherwise fruitless endeavors, or...”  The last pony smirked as her thoughts produced themselves out loud.  “...He's withholding something from you, until you do all the dirty work for him behind the shadows, while he unassumingly sits atop his high seat, doing nothing.”

“This is why it's a horrible idea to make a glue stick an Outbleeder...”  Franken grumbled, standing icily still.  “Your mind is full of paranoia and prejudicial assumptions of impkind...”

“On the contrary, I'm beginning to see the wisdom of Devo having chosen my sorry flank for this lousy job.”  Scootaloo paced across the wide mouth of the train's cargo door.  “‘Cuz I can see into this whole goblin infrastructure without having my hooves tied by the ridiculous politics of it all.  But you?  What freedom do you have?  You came back from a horrible situation in the Valley of Jewels, Franken, and while Haman has been eating a slice of his own pie ever since, you're the one who has been stuck doing a mountain of work, and I bet it just gnaws at you.  I've lived in the Wasteland all my life, prime Glass-Bleeder.  I know that sometimes the only way to deal with something you hate is to utterly drown yourself in it.  I think you're too afraid to stop whipping your family into an industrial machine for one second, or else you—and your loved ones—may all end up just like Waven of South Blood and his brood.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Franken grumbled.  “I've lived even more years than Waven.  I'm not foolish enough to succumb to food poisoning.”

Scootaloo's scarlet eyes rounded at that.  “Poisoning!  Interesting... Her daughter didn't even remotely mention something like that.  She said it was just a fever.”

Franken bit on his lip.  There was a drooping motion to his ears.  Raimony blinked at that.  The next gaze the goblinette gave Scootaloo was filled with remarkable interest for once.

“Franken, you can probably guess this, but...”  Scootaloo's nostrils flared as she gazed coldly at him.  “I frankly don't care what Haman is up to, what it means to your family, or how many other prime-bleeders may be suffering from the recent financial slump as of late.  What you goblins do for each other, with each other, or to each other is none of my concern.  What is my concern is a little something I left decades ago in the pits you're constantly mining from over there...”  She pointed towards the busy sight past him.  “I'm only doing this for your friend and business partner Devo because he's promising me a potential chance to get down into those ruins without a bullet flying through my skull.  As odd as it sounds, I'm not exactly a stranger to witnessing Devo of Hex Blood being true to his word.”

Raimony glanced curiously at Scootaloo upon hearing that.

The last pony went on, “Now, there's nothing stopping me from taking all this armor off, stretching my wings out, and diving full-feathered into that mess.  Yeah, I might die, but odds are just as well that I could come out alive with all the stuff that I need.  But I'm not going to do things that way.  Why?  For one thing, I'm not a frickin' idiot.  For another, I've learned that goblins—for all of their craziness and occasional bloodlust—are not devoid of honor.  I'm trying to be respectful here, Franken.  I, a pony, a Petra-forsaken glue stick, am extending a hoof of trust out to you.  Can you say that Haman has gone out on a limb to do anything remotely as sincere for you?”

“I don't see what the point is...”  Franken murmured in an off-key voice.  His jaded eyes turned to meet hers once again.  He looked suddenly and utterly defeated.  “There is nothing to share that is salvageable.  Soon I will be up to my nose in debt.  No imp will ever know that the Glass Blood clan ever existed.”

“Then answer me... Answer Devo,” Scootaloo insisted.  “I may not give a crap, but he does.  He wants to know the truth of what's going on.  What he does with that truth is beyond my power to know.  But my guess is, if uncovering the truth means I can possibly walk into those mines without getting shot, then all of this secretive crap is the answer to the rapid xenophobia that's been infecting the steam operations.  The only reason for such an infection is that the many families of Petra are sick to death of Haman's nonsense, and I have a feeling that you are too.”

“Pony, where are all of your hooved kind now?”  Franken briefly frowned her way.  “Why should I trust the opinion of a creature who has no civlization to rest on?  Doesn't that make your judgment moot?”

“I'm not here to judge, only to observe,” the scavenger said.  “And besides, if I was as... as lucky as you, prime Glass Bleeder, and I still had a living species to answer for, I would do everything in my friggin' power to preserve it.  Take a look at the Wasteland around Petra and ask yourself if you would do the same.”

Franken fidgeted, glancing aside at his many clan members working the steam barges as they rolled down towards the wooden lattices hanging over the pits.  “Word around the imp city is that there will be a meeting tomorrow, so I won't be able to speak to you then...”

Scootaloo squinted.  “Since when were you going to speak to me?”

“Since now,” Franken said, gazing sharply at her.  “There is much to tell you, much about what we're mining down here.  It's more than steam.”

Raimony almost said something, but Scootaloo brushed her aside and took up the center of Franken's vision once more.  “Something other than steam?  What the heck could you want from the depths of Cloudsdale if not sky marble—?”  She paused in mid-speech, blinking.  “Moonrocks.  Of course, tons of them rolled down into these pits while the rest of Equestria blanketed them with earth...”

“I can't talk about it here, even among my own workers and allies,” Franken said.  “But it's important that someone must know.  Tomorrow's meeting of the families is merely a superficial, puppet gathering.  No true information is going to be spread there.  But if Devo's found a way to carry word of mouth through this... equine Outbleeder nonsense, then I might as well swallow my pride and take advantage of the situation.”

“Very well,” Scootaloo said with a nod.  “If you're more willing to say the truth directly to my face rather than to Devo's—”

“A lot is on the line, pony, I cannot be more detailed than that,” Franken practically whispered.  He glanced from side to side, shiftily, and added, “Meet me in Strut Eleven the day after tomorrow, Ceti Level, along the stalk.  The foundries there will be abandoned briefly for hob maintenance.  That will give us ample time to speak without interruption.”

“Works for me,” Scootaloo performed a mock curtsey.  “Wear a white carnation.”

Franken walked away, paused, gave Scootaloo a double-take, sighed, and sauntered off towards where his many lackeys were slaving away at steam shipments.

Scootaloo's nostrils flared as she hummed to herself in thought.  She trotted back into the center of the train car.

“Uhhm...” Raimony brushed aside a few brown bangs, her thin green eyes blinking.  “What just happened?”

“I think we struck pure steam, metaphorically bullcrapping, of course.”

“What the heck could the Glass-Bleeders get out of moonrock?”  The goblinette's scarlet bandanna flapped in the wind as she gazed towards the Outbleeder.  “Or Haman of Rust Blood for that matter?”

“I've mined moonrocks all of my life,” Scootaloo muttered.  “From them, I've been able to create runestones, enchantments, luminescent gemstones, and several different kinds of nasty explosives.”  After a deep breath, she muttered, “Only Goddess Luna knows what goblins are capable of doing with the stuff.”

“I can't believe that you got him to open up like that!”  Raimony exclaimed.  “I've known Franken all my life.  He's like an uncle to me.  I've never gotten him to tell me something I wanted to hear, and you just canter up and make him spit something out in a flash!”

“He hasn't spat anything out yet,” Scootaloo said.  “That's in two days' time, apparently.  Since when was there a huge meeting going on between the families anyway?”

Raimony smirked devilishly.  “I'd say sometime shortly after you and short-round began marching around the city, strut to strut, asking questions.  I knew my dad was gonna cause a stir, I just didn't think it'd happen this quickly.”

“I guess it goes to show that he had every right to to be concerned about all the families in general,” Scootaloo murmured, gazing out the door as a trio of loud, thundering gremlin aircraft throttled over the gaping pits.  “Ever since Haman closed shop with the ogres, they've likely been antsy to see something happen—anything—just to spark this imp city into action.”  She turned and glanced over her pink mane at the goblinette.  “For all we know, Franken may have nothing to share with me whatsoever.  I think Devo just needed me to do this whole Intercessor thing to get the imp city blood flowing.  I bet, as we speak, Haman's starting to feel the squeeze.”

“Heh... By the Dimming's Blight...”  Raimony managed a razor-toothed chuckle.  “Wouldn't that be a first!”

Just then, a little green figure bounced into the midst of the two females.  “Whew! Alright, I'm back!” Warden stood by Scootaloo's side.  “What did I miss?”

“Go back to the other side of the train,” Scootaloo droned.  “We were almost having a moment.”

“Pfft—Were not!”  Raimony scowled.  “Dream on, you sky-stealer!”

Scootaloo sighed and gave Warden a sarcastic smile.  “Welcome back, ya little Wart.”

“Sorry I took so long,” he sheepishly smiled.  He pointed a clawed finger behind him.  “I was taking a leak in the train's toilet.”

Raimony twitched, giving the little teenager a vicious glare.  “This train doesn't have a toilet.”

Warden froze.  His green ears drooped.  “Whoops...”

“Unngh...”  Raimony grabbed a mop from the corner of the car and marched off beyond the line of crates.  “Story of my friggin' life...”

“Hey, while you're at it, why don't you clean up after your sarcasm too?”  Scootaloo exclaimed.

“Bite me, battle-mare!”

“Love you too, ya mud-headed ragdoll—Augh!”  The last pony suddenly stumbled.  “Celestia dang it!”

“What?!  What?!”  Warden jumped, breathless.

“Nnngh...”  Scootaloo seethed and settled down on her haunches, waving a barren front right hoof.  “My friggin' horeshoe.  This thing hates me, I swear to Epona.”

“Yeesh...”  Warden stared at her from an angle.  “How much does it suck to have to nail a footpiece into your... foot?”

“It's called a 'hoof,’ for your information, Wart,” Scootaloo groaned as she struggled to wedge the loose metal article back onto the end of her limb.  “I only know of one pony who had feet, and it was all in the silly unicorn's head.”

“I still can't get over the fact that you don't have hands.”  The green teenager smirked.  “Just how do you expect to live without fingers?”

“Jee, I dunno.  How do you expect to live without your kidneys?”

“Haha!  What are you smoking?  I totally have my kidneys—”  His aquamarine pupils shrunk upon her tossed frown.  “Oh... Ohhhh... Ahem.  Right, no more making fun of the pony's hooves.”

“Now you're learning,” Scootaloo muttered, halfway through reattaching the damnable article.  “There's nothing left in this Wasteland that's so small that it isn't worth killing your conscience to threaten it unashamedly.”

“I'll have you know that I'm pretty big for my age!”  Warden folded his arms with a haughty glare.  “None of my siblings were nearly as tall as me when they set out for another township!”

“Oh really...?”

“Yeah!  Besides, I dwarf most gremlin adults.  I could even piledrive a hob if I wanted to.”

“What's the difference between all of you little imps anyways?”

“Pffft—Only everything!”  Warden made a face.  “Haven't you been paying attention?”

“Some of you walk around with guns, others of you fly around with guns.”

“Gremlins make up barely a tenth of the imps who live in this city,” Warden said.  “I remember a guy on the street stating that fact for me.”

“Was that before or after he began curb-stomping you for being branded with the 'emblem of sky-stealers?'”

“Erm... Well...”  Warden blushed slightly, but shook that thought off entirely.  “Anyways, gremlins don't belong to clans like goblins do.  They have families, of course, but they're all engineers first and sons and daughters second.  They gang together in city-wide corporations that the bigger, far more powerful goblin organizations hire for their security and flight skills.”

“What's with the helmets they wear?”

“Helmets?”

“Yeah,” Scootaloo nodded, finishing her horsehoe job and pressing the bottom of her limb tightly to the bulkheads, testing the tightness of the metal article.  “They've got these breathing apparati and visors on all the time.  Do they have a problem inhaling the Wasteland air or something?”

“It's more of a religious thing.”

“Religious?”

“Yeah, they believe that Petra is an actual imp, and not a spirit inside all of them.”  Warden smirked.  “I used to have a gremlin buddy in the township I grew up in.  I asked him how come he never showed his eyes.  He said that it had to do with Petra being an all-seeing entity, and that gremlins weren't worthy of exposing their mouths or eyes nakedly to Petra's vision, or else their souls might fall apart and they'd no longer be vessels for manifesting their engineering skills and stuff.”

“Heh.  Trippy.”  Scootaloo stood up evenly on all fours once more.  “And what about hobs?”

“Hobs just smell bad.”

“Oh.”  Scootaloo blinked.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” Warden said, stifling a yawn.

She stared at him for a prolonged period of time, then shrugged.  “Well, okay then.”

“I've never been this close to a mining operation,” Warden murmured, gazing out the wide open cargo door to observe the many shuffling bodies of goblins dredging steam from the pits outside.  “I didn't realize how hot it'd feel.”

“I'm guessing that, all your life, Petra has demanded you manifest the clerical side of ingenuity.”  Scootaloo briefly smirked.  She trotted over and leaned against the doorframe, gazing into the perforated landscape.  “If they want to pull pegasus sky marble from out of those ravines, they gotta generate a lot of frickin' heat to slice straight through the condensed steam-solids.”

“So, it's true then?”  Warden gazed curiously up at her, his ears twitching.  “Winged ponies made all that stuff?”

“Yup.”  Scootaloo inhaled.  “That we did.  We built it out of the clouds.  Much of it was condensed vapor wrangled from above the waves of the East Ocean.  Even to this day, you can measure the structural integrity of sky marble by its saline content.  Cloudsdale was built entirely with twenty-five percent saline pure sky marble.  When I was a little foal, the kids in this foster home I grew up in used to say that if you put your ear to a chunk of pure sky marble, you could hear the sea ponies singing.  Heh...”

“What... What was Cloudsdale...?”  Warden made a face.

“This... This was Cloudsdale, Wart,” Scootaloo murmured, her eyes tilting forlornly upward until they were absorbed into the surging black  fumes.  “This was the floating skytropolis of pegasi, a brilliant city built of the clouds, in the clouds, and for the clouds.  It was the center for all weather construction and climate distribution in central Equestria, from Canterlot to Manehattan.”  Her eyes settled back down onto the torchlit wooden lattices, the grimy mine workers, and the ocean of industrial machinery stretching as far as the ghastly pits would allow her to see.  “This was where rainbows were made, along with snowflakes—and I don't mean the putrid ash that pelts the Wasteland today, I mean real, honest-to-goodness, geometric masterpieces of artistic beauty.”

“So...”  The teenager scratched his emerald skull.  “You're trying to tell me that ponies weren't so much sky-stealers as they were... sky-builders?”

“Hmmmph...”  Scootaloo smiled gently.  She glanced at him and raised her eyebrows.  “More like 'sky sculptors.’”

“It's hard to believe that a city was ever capable of freakin' floating in the air.”  Warden briefly stuck his tongue out and folded his arms.  “If you ask me, it's too good to be true.”

“And just what makes you say that, ya little wart?”  Scootaloo cackled.  “Your fellow imp-bleeders are dredging up all the sky marble to turn it into steam that makes zeppelins of the Wasteland float, right?  Is it so hard to believe that pegasi could do all of that naturally without so much as breaking a sweat?”  She smirked harder and gazed back out onto the landscape.  “Y'know, it's ironic, and I've held my tongue until now, but ponies were hardly ever sky-stealers.”  She gulped and grunted, “You goblins are.”

Warden made to protest that, but stopped in mid-breath.  A sigh escaped through his nostrils, and he leaned lethargically against the doorframe of the train car opposite the last pony.  After a minute or two, he swallowed and inquired in a curiously solemn voice, “Were you ever here, pony?”

“Hmmm?”

“Back... y'know... before the Dimming.”  He gazed up at her with sensitive, turquoise eyes.  “Did you live in Cloudsdale?”

Scootaloo bit her lip.  “In a manner of speaking...”  She gazed once more into the pits.  “Yeah, I lived here.  For over two years, I lived here.  But that was after the Cataclysm.”  She inhaled deeply.  “But before...?”  Her lips quivered as her scarlet eyes dilated at the thought.  “...I was here for less than a day.”

Warden chuckled slightly.  “Less than a day?  Heheheh—Well, that's hardly exciting!”

“Hmmph... If only you knew....”

“What did you come here for?  Was it grocery shopping or some crud?”

“Remember that friend that I buried here a long time ago?”

“Uhm... Kind of.”

Scootaloo swallowed hard.  “She brought me here.  It was my first time spent in Cloudsdale ever.  She was... She was going to teach me how to fly.”

“Heh... Frostbeams...”  Warden smiled, but as he gazed up at Scootaloo's blank expression, the curve left his lips.  He cleared his throat.  “Um... did she ever get a chance to?”

Scootaloo slowly shook her head.  “No,” she said in a single breath, her eyes glistening.

Warden shifted uncomfortably.  “Well, uhm, did you ever learn how to—?”

Just then, a loud buzzing alarm went off.  Warden jumped with a high-pitched gasp, shrinking beside Scootaloo's flank.  The last pony stood up straight, craning her pink-maned neck as she looked every which way.  The granite landscape between the train tracks and the pits was covered with red-bandanna wearing goblins as the many Hex-Bleeders scrambled towards a crate of steam powered weapons and armed themselves.  An elder, gray overseer shouted orders towards all the imps while miners rushed in one massive, panicked surge from the depths of the Cloudsdalian ravines.  Red flashing lights strobed all across the latticework as the buzzing noise intensified.

“Wh-What's going on?!”  Warden exclaimed, trembling.

“You asking me, Wart?!”  Scootaloo barked, staring at all the scampering bodies along the edge of the pits.  “Give me a pony siren anyday, and I might do a better job of interpreting it over impish bedlam!”

“Of all the stinkin' timing...”  Raimony suddenly dashed her way between the two figures, her bandanna waving in the cold Wasteland winds as she jumped down from the train.  “Franken!  Look after your fellow Glass-Bleeders!” she shouted across the frenzied work area.  “My father's workers and I will form the forward barricade!”

“What's the alarm going off for?!”  Scootaloo exclaimed over the noise.  “Has there been a pressurized steam leak in the mines or some crap?!”

“As if!”  Raimony barked back at the train as she rushed towards a metal crate and picked up a hulking semi-automatic dart cannon in her lithe limbs.  “We're under attack for the fourth time this month!”

“By what?” Warden asked.

“What do you think?!”  Raimony cocked her steam cannon to hissing life.  She shouted towards her compatriots in matching bandannas, “Face the mines!  They were sighted in the depths!  Don't let a single one of them live!”

“I don't get it...”  Warden trembled.  He was hiding behind Scootaloo's leather frame. “Wh-What are they going to be shooting at?”

“Trolls...”  Scootaloo murmured.  The pink hairs on the back of her mane stood on end.  She darted her eyes across the Wasteland, past the line of gun-toting Hex-Bleeders, past the gray overseer shouting orders at his phalanx and Raimony's, past the distant, dark image of Franken forcing the miners back behind the line of defense.  “They must be attacking in full waves, otherwise the goblins wouldn't be making such a solid formation...”

“What, did somebody die and make you a military commander all of a sudden?!”

“Shhh—Just shut up and let me think for a second!”  Her eyes narrowed upon the scene.  She saw the goblins positioning themselves behind crates and mining equipment, their guns aimed at the wooden lattices leading up from the ravine.  They were all facing one direction, and their backsides were to the grand widths of the Wasteland beyond the monorail tracks.  “Something isn't right here.  If this is how they plan to kill the trolls, it's way too easy to be true.  It's too organized, too predictable...”

“It looks A-Okay to me!”  Warden gulped, his bright eyes darting left and right.  “Let's just let them to do their job, huh?”

Scootaloo's brow furrowed.  Her lips pursed as she thought and thought...





The last pony knelt down low, squinting in disbelief.  She lowered the canvas mask from her mouth so she could breathe more easily.  With a dark orange hoof, she reached forward and turned over the pony skull in front of her.  In the glistening twilight, a strange thing appeared on the deceased equine's bony head.  It was a horn.

Never before had Scootaloo encountered a non-pegasus skeleton.  It boggled her mind to be staring at an actual unicorn corpse.  Her most logical guess was that the unfortunate equine was passing underneath Cloudsdale when the Cataclysm took place.  She wondered if it had been lucky enough to have died from either the flames of Equestria or from the weight of the city falling on top of it.  For the life of her, Scootaloo couldn't pretend to know which of the two was the better fate.

There was something odd about the horn, something that made it look and feel brighter than the rest of the bone matter in the penumbra of the twilight's glow.  Scootaloo realized that this brightness was changing with each shift and wobble her body made as she knelt over it.  The wheels turned in her head, and on a whim she reached into the depths of her saddlebag.  When her hoof pulled back out, she was grasping a bright red gemstone that she had pilfered from a mound of powdery moonrock.

Glancing back and forth from the gemstone to the horn, she slowly waved the ruby-colored jewel back and forth.  Sure enough, the horn of the dead unicorn resonated with a faint but very real glow, intensifying the closer that the translucent moonrock approached the alicornia substance.

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  She didn't quite know what to make of this discovery.  Her first thought, however unsavory, was to somehow find a way to harness that magical connection...

There was a rustling sound behind her.

With a metallic ringing noise, Scootaloo pulled her dagger out from its sheath and instantly spun about.  She frowned, her nostrils flaring as she gripped the blade between gritting teeth.  A cold gust of air wafted over her shaved mane, and still she was helpless to find the source of the inexplicable sound.

Then something moved just to her right, something snow-white and shivering.  The lone scavenger glanced over, and her breath left her.

It was a white bunny rabbit.  It was the white bunny rabbit.  Scootaloo remembered it from over a year ago, there was no way she couldn't have remembered it.  It was the only living thing besides bipedal monstrosities that Scootaloo had seen since the Cataclysm happened.  It glanced at her with the same frightened, wriggling expression that the filly remembered.  Its one ear was still a shredded mess, and it still moved with a painful limp.

Scootaloo gazed in silent awe.  Two years had passed, two years of stormfronts, two years of dodging angry goblins, two years of starving and struggling and bleeding.  In spite of all the odds, all the lengthy nightmares and trials, this tiny, fragile creature was just as alive as she was.

The Wasteland survivor nearly whimpered, assaulted by the most painful sensation yet, for once again she was a pony.  Instead of a grimace, this wave of agony came out of her through a smile.  She didn't think twice about it, she didn't consider the consequences, but she reached into her saddlebag, grabbed a container of moldy bread bits, and unscrewed it.  Eyes glossy, Scootaloo knelt down and offered the morsel to the twitching little mammal.

The rabbit eyed her shiftily, its nose glistening with condensation and melted snow.  Nevertheless, it navigated the tense distance between itself and the patient pegasus, shuffling towards her, one miniature hop at a time.

Scootaloo waited.  Scootaloo watched and smiled.

Finally, the rabbit reached the filly's hoof, took one last glance at the tender bits of dirtied bread, and eagerly swiped some from her limb.  It hunched over in the rubble, gobbling the edible material down its tiny throat.  Its shivers matched the painful lurch in Scootaloo's own stomach, but the pony waited the encounter through, giving as much as she could... all that she could.  It would be against her pegasus essence to do anything but help this last sliver of nature live, even to her own detriment.

“I'm sorry...”  Scootaloo said, sniffling her way through a fragile smile.  “I know the world's due for two, maybe three Winter Wrap-Ups...”

The rabbit gave no reply to this.  Instead, it froze—becoming still as stone.  Suddenly, the little rodent shot up, its chest beating like a petrified groundhog's.  In a single breath, the white thing spun about and sped like a fluffy missile directly eastward, down a slope of crumbling ruins.

Scootaloo squinted curiously.  She watched as the rodent scampered away out of view.  She watched as the petite pads of its feet flashed like burning moonrocks.  Her eyes traveled up towards the twilight yawning above as she pictured something else just as pale but twice as frightening.  She imagined...

The last pony jerked.  She flung the jar back into her saddlebag.  She sheathed her dagger, pulled her mask back over her mouth, and galloped straight down the craggy hill of ivory rubble.  She bounded eastward over chunks of skymarble, ducked under pale pillars, slid through beds of gravel, and leaped over a mound of collapsed earth.  Just as a frightening rush of thundering limbs filled her twitching ears, she slid down behind a granite outcropping, spun backwards, stripped of her saddlebag, squeezed herself inside a thin slit formed beneath a leaning slab, and pulled her belongings into the tiny crevice along with her.  Flattening her body against the stony womb of the sundered world, she held her breath and gazed at the tiny sliver of light separating her from the inner ruins beyond.

Breathlessly, she waited for ten seconds, twenty, thirty.  Less than a minute later, the claustrophobic world above her shook and rumbled.  Pebbles and flecks of stone littered the mouth of the tiny crevice within which her petite body was hiding.  She clenched her jaws tight and squinted her eyes as the rumbling intensified to a low roar, followed by the shrill, haunting sounds of whooping, hollering monstrosities.

In a gust of hot, rancid air, they finally stampeded past the mouth of the crevice, clambering on razor-sharp hands and feet as their pale, leathery bodies took their murderous charge down the sloping inner ruins of Cloudsdale.  Hungry, hyperventilating breaths pierced the air, robbing Scootaloo of clean oyxgen.  She almost asphyxiated from the sheer stench of their numbers as she trembled there for a cramped and sweating eternity, waiting for them to clear, waiting for them to dissipate, waiting for them...





“They're coming from behind,” Scootaloo said.

“H-Huh?”  Warden glanced up at them as the face-off began.  “How do you know that—?!”

The green teenager shrieked as the air filled with hot steam bursts and gun blasts.  The phalanx of goblins were firing blindly into the mines.  All of them were shooting into the southern slope of the ravine.  Occasinally, a tiny shrill shriek or two filled the air in a blood curdling octave, but it was hardly enough to warrant the menacing firepower.

“Dang it, they're gonna get flanked—!”  Scootaloo made to hop down from the train car.

“D-Don't!”  Warden gasped and blocked her at the last second with his small, outstretched arms.  “Are you crazy, pony?!”

“They've been set up!”  Scootaloo exclaimed, glancing fitfully towards the unguarded edges of the stony embankment as a dull thunder filled the air below the cacophony of the imps' combined firepower.  “They won't shoot all of the trolls!”

“But they will shoot you if you so much as land your feet—erm, I mean—hooves down onto this ground!”  Warden stammered to say above the noise and bedlam.  “Or have you forgotten why you're here in this train to begin with?”

Scootaloo gazed, her lips quivering.  After a strong breath, her face tensed.  “Very well then.”  She shrugged half of her armor off her.  “Hold my stuff.”

“Hold your stuff—?”  His aquamarine orbs blinked incredulously.  “Augh!”  He shrieked suddenly under the weight of her leather gear falling into his quivering arms.

With her wings free, Scootaloo flung her saddlebag and reached into it.  She grabbed a magazine full of purple, explosive rune-darts and clamped them in her teeth.  With a single flick of her limbs, she extended her rifle and cocked it so that the normal runestones flew to a clattering heap on the train car's bulkheads below.

Warden glanced up at her.  “Uhm... what are you—?”

“Hey!” an elderly voice shouted from below.

Warden gave a breathless, panicked look.

The old, gray overseer was gazing up at the train.  With his back suddenly to the waves of goblin riflers, he gave the pony on board the train a frowning glare.  “Who invited this murderous glue stick here—and armed?!  Raimony?!  Is this your father's doing?!”

The brown-haired goblinette was too busy shouting orders to her fellow Hex-Bleeders.  The many imps let loose a sea of blazing steam bolts down into the gaping ravine beneath them.  The air was filled with burning hot mist and gun exhaust.

“Dang it—Somebody!  Anybody!”  The gray overseer pointed up at the last pony.  “Shoot the frickin' sky stealer before she gets us in our backs!”

“P-Pony...?”  Warden trembled.

“Great, just what I friggin' need...”  Scootaloo hissed as she scrambled to shove the magazine full of runestones into her rifle.

“By Dimming's Blight...”  the goblin elder hissed and pulled out a steam-powered revolver from his belt.  “...if you want a job done yourself...”

“Oh jeez oh jeez oh jeez...”  Warden flinched, covering his eyes.

Scootaloo sweated, bravely continuing with her weapon loadout as her eyes darted between the one overseer and the thundering hills beyond.

The overseer frowned.  He aimed his pistol up at her.  The imp's clawed finger pulled the trigger.

The last pony's eyes twitched.

The elder goblin's revolver jammed.  Cursing, he slapped the gun against his thigh and reloaded a fresh steam bolt into it.

Scootaloo took a brave breath.  In a desperate race with this gray goblin, she cooly slapped the last lengths of her glowing magazine into the rifle.  She cocked it.

The overseer finished refilling his revolver.  He spun the chamber.

Scootaloo aimed past him.

He aimed at her, squinting, narrowing the sight on her forehead.  He fired—but the bullet flew off-kilter, for a green teenager had just tackled him to the ground.  “Aaugh!”

The steambolt ricocheted off the top of the train car's cargo door frame, just a meter away from Scootaloo's skull.  Undaunted, the equine in question shouted into her rifle:  “H'rhnum!”

“Nnnngh!”  The overseer flung the petite body of Warden angrily off him.  “What the heck do you think you're doing—?!”  The elder stopped in mid-sentence as he watched a pair of explosive rune-darts soar over his pointed ears.  He and the teenager spun to see the projectiles embedding into the stony flesh of the earth right as a cloud of ash billowed above the rising Wasteland hilltop beyond.

Scootaloo craned her neck.  She watched with an icy gaze.  Just as her scarlets reflected a solid line of pale leathery menace, she spat into her bracelet of horns,  “Y'hnyrr!”

The hilltop exploded in a brilliant mess of purple mana and plasma.  The resulting thunder shook every rifler off his haunches.  Many goblins spun, gasping, along with Franken... and finally Raimony herself.  The daughter of Devo watched with mesmerized green eyes as a sea of pale limbs flailed amidst ink-black blood, fountaining outward from the last pony's bursting ordinance.  Without a second's hesitation, she stood up straight and pointed a clawed hand straight at the failed charge of bleeding trolls.  “About face!  Fire at will!”

Every goblin spun around.  The edge of the Cloudsdalian ruins glinted with one swaying motion of twilight-reflecting rifle barrels.  Then the air rang with murder and mayhem as the steambolts flocked the other way, reducing the unwitting army of flanking trolls to a bloody soup of leather and bone.  Arms, fingers, and teeth flew as the howling creatures flung themselves back over the hill, only to be consumed in the lingering flames of the last pony's runic discharge.  Not a single one of the helpless, scampering carnivores made it past the crest of the sundered landscape.

“Ha!  Boo-ya!”  Warden hopped up and down in place.  “Killer frostbeams!  Send them packing back to the Dimming!  Hahaha!”  He smiled an infectious crescent moon in a world without light.  Spinning, he gazed warmly up at the last pony.

Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, leaning her entire body against the frame of her smoking rifle.  She watched as the gunshots came to a stop, filling the air with the smell of hot steam and exposed troll innards.

“Well...”  She brushed her pink bangs back behind the red bandanna and bore a dry smile. “...that certainly made my day.”

“Holy blazes!”  The elder overseer stood up, wincing.  He managed a drunken grin as he holstered his pistol and sauntered over to the train car, navigating an age-old limp.  “Heck, glue stick!  If you were gonna do that, why didn't you frickin' say so?”  He chuckled hoarsely and turned his pale face up to look at her.  “I almost gave your head a new oats-hole—”  The old goblin froze upon seeing her up close.  His eyes blinked slowly.

Scootaloo returned the gaze, though she hardly looked as shocked as he was.  Her narrow eyes poured unemotionally over the frail, bony frame of the lowly imp.

“It's... It's you,” Matthais murmured, his jaw agape.  He swallowed dryly.  “You're still alive...”

“Mmmm...”  Scootaloo slowly nodded.  Her voice came out in a blunt drone, “No thanks to you.”

Matthais winced slightly from that.  A deep tremble flew through his body, and he briefly twitched his fingers once more around the holster of his pistol.  “After... After all this time... You were out there?”  His ears drooped back as his eyes darted towards the gray horizon.  “...You spent it all in the Wasteland?”

“Did I have a choice?”  Scootaloo uttered.  “Nice job you've done with the place, by the way.”

His eyes rounded at that.  He gazed up at the dark clouds, then at the sudden sea of troll blood saturating the earth beyond the rows of grimy mining equipment.  “I keep waiting... Keep waiting for it to blossom...”  He hissed in a suddenly sour breath.  “But Petra keeps taking... keeps needing...”

“You know, I never did cause the Cataclysm,” she murmured.  Her eyes narrowed like knife-edges.  “And the least I've done since is make the world even dimmer.”

Matthais bit his pale lips.  Turning around, he limped off in a defeated shuffle.  He paused briefly at Warden, glancing down at him.  He reached a wrinkled hand over.  The teenager appropriately flinched, but the elder merely patted his head—an apologetic gesture—and he walked off on his lonesome, losing himself in the shuffle of goblins scavenging from the dead corpses of trolls.

Warden gazed quizzically from Matthais' figure over to Scootaloo's.  “What was that all about?”

Scootaloo sighed long and hard.  She retracted her rifle and slid it back into the folds of her saddlebag.  “I'm sorry, kid.  I'm sorry that you'll never be able to understand.”  Sadly, she gazed her eyes up towards the blackened sky of the Central Plains.







“Hey!  Hey Rainbow Dash!  Down here!”

Scootaloo's pink tail flicked excitedly, like an overgrown puppy's, as she beamed up towards the tiny, white cloud hovering low above the green hilltops north of Ponyville.

“I've been looking for you all day!  What are you doing up there?  Napping?”

There was no denying a sapphiric speck perched atop the lone, fluffy object.  A small curtain of prismatic tail hairs dangled over the side as the shadow barely budged.

The orange foal didn't stop grinning.  “I can see you moving up there, Dashie!”  She grinned wide, bearing a devilish glint to her teeth.  “You've got some bugs caught in your mane.”

“Nnngh... I do not...!”  a cracking voice echoed from above.

“Heeheehee!  Made you talk!  Since when did Ponyville's chief weather flier talk in her sleep?”

“Since annoying little brats with drumsticks for legs started barking up my cloud!”

Scootaloo stuck her tongue out at that.  Undeterred, the little filly squawked, “C'mon, Dashie!  I thought you had a whole bunch of aerial tricks to practice today!  Don't you wanna finally pull off the Buccaneer Blitz?  I even have the notes we took from last time!”

What came from the cloud was as sullen as noonday rain.  Sighing, Rainbow Dash muttered dully into the air, “I... I-I'm not in the mood today, Scootaloo.  Could we do it another time?”

“Not in the mood?  Hehehe—Are you joshin' me?”  Scootaloo uttered.  Silence filled the breezy air, and slowly her smile faded as she came to comprehend the utter limpness of Rainbow Dash's body against the vaporous splotch above.  Gulping, she sat down on her haunches and murmured, “Dashie?”

The blue pegasus was still as a stone.  The only thing that moved was her colorful tail, swishing indifferently against the high winds of the sunny day.

“Dashie, what's wrong?”  Scootaloo felt a lump in her throat.  She couldn't understand why, but her heart was beating a kilometer-per-minute.  “Y-You're usually not like this...”

“Please, kid, seriously, could you just lay off?”

Scootaloo's face jerked back as if dealt a vicious blow.  Her violet eyes began to curve...

As always, Rainbow Dash swiftly came to the rescue.  Sighing, she stirred, shuffling about-face so that she finally hung her head in Scootaloo's direction.  The smile on her face was a brief, hasty construction.  “I'm fine, kid.  I wouldn't mind hanging out with you, just—another time.  Okay?  Today, I...”

“What, Rainbow?”  Scootaloo stared up at the pegasus, her lips pursed.  After months of looking after herself, fixing up her loft in the barn just right, earning bits, and staving off bullies, she suddenly and unexpectedly felt vulnerable again.  “What happened...?”

“I learned a new word,” Rainbow grunted.  She slumped down over the edge of the cloud and gazed forlornly towards the sky.  “'Flip Flop.’”  She blinked and frowned.  “Pfft—Okay, so maybe that's two words.  Either way, I'm an idiot.”

“Why... How are you an idiot?”

“Because 'Flip Flop' describes me.”

“It... H-Huh?!”  Scootaloo's orange face twisted as if she broke a blood vessel.

“Because I'm cool one second and then I'm lame the other.  I flip flop around like a drunken mule,” Rainbow Dash spat.

“Pffft—That's so not true!”  Scootaloo smirked bravely.  “You're the most spectacular flier in the skies!  Ponyville depends on you to keep the weather perfect!  You save ponies from trouble all over town!  As a matter of fact, your friends—”

“My friends?”  Rainbow Dash balked, frowning briefly.  “You mean that egghead in the town library?!  The fashionista who sounds like a vampire?!  A bouncing diabetes explosion and a pegasus who's afraid of her own shadow?  Oh, and don't forget Strawhead!  Where do I begin...?”

“I... I-I don't understand...”  Scootaloo squinted at her.

Rainbow Dash practically growled.  “I used to hang out with Cloudsdalian speedsters, kiddo!” she said.  “There was a time when you would only see me with the fastest and coolest pegasi in all of Equestria.  Heck, if I never came to Ponyville, I'd probably have met the Wonderbolts over a year ago!  I used to outrace stallions, knock feathers with harpies, and shoot the breeze with...”  She paused in her speech, then utterly deflated with a long winded sigh that pulled the blue soul straight out from her.  “...With griffons.”

Scootaloo couldn't find words to respond to that.  She was still processing it all.  The foal felt ridiculously and hoplessly tiny along the hilltop in the cloud's shadow.

“But look at me now...”  Rainbow Dash muttered, punching a few puffs of cloud material off into the wild blue yonder.  “I'm stuck in this boring town, and I can't bring myself to ditch it.  For the life of me, I have no friggin' clue why.”  Her nostrils flared and she shut her eyes, murmuring, “I'm a lame-o...”

“Rainbow Dash, y-you're...”  Scootaloo tried finding the words.  She felt like she suddenly had to fight to salvage this situation, as if Rainbow Dash might suddenly float away forever and never come back.  “You're not lame.  You're...”  She brightened hopefully.  “Y-You're the best friend a pony could ever have.”

“Snkttt-Heheheh...”  Rainbow Dash chuckled with her eyes closed.  She turned over as if summoning sleep.  “Uhhhuhhh...”

“Y-You are!  Anypony would want to have you as a friend!  Applejack, Twilight, Pinkie Pie—and the rest: they're lucky to have you around!  There's nothing lame in that!  It's... It's because of how good a friend you are that they refuse to let you go!”

“Hmmm... Why?”  She opened her ruby eyes lethargically.  “Because I'm loyal?”  Her inquisition came out as a cold grunt.

Scootaloo bit her lip briefly.  She swallowed and said in a sincere breath, “No, because you're... you're just so awesome, Rainbow Dash.  And what's more—you know it.  And you're not afraid to show off just how awesome and cool you are.  When other ponies... when your friends are around you, they see that in you, and it gives them hope, because they want to become the best that they can possibly be, just like you are.  You show them that it's possible to be so spectacular.  How can someone hang around you for so long and... and n-not want to be a better pony?”

Rainbow Dash stared down at her blankly.  She said nothing, but her blue ears were suddenly twitching.

Scootaloo was hanging her head by that point, brushing at a few flakes of dirt on the ground as she murmured, “Why anypony would look beyond all of that and call you a 'flip flop' is just stupid.  Whoever that is, it's obviously somepony who doesn't want to become better than what she or he is.  That's a pony who's willing to settle for less in life, and that's so not like you.  You've made such good friends in this town, because to give them the brush off would be... well... really boring.”

The air was still.  The breeze shifted, bringing a chill to the landscape.

The orange foal shuddered from it, among other things.  On waddling limbs, she got up and trotted away.  “Well... uhm... I'm done being annoying, Dashie.  If you want, I'll just leave you alone...”

Scootaloo wasn't counting, but she was sure that it was less than two seconds after uttering the word “alone” that she heard a voice rasping from above—

“Hey pipsqueak.  Where are you running off to?”

The foal blinked.  She turned and looked up.  “But, I thought you wanted—”

Rainbow Dash was smiling.  It was a soft grin, softer than the cloud that was dissipating beneath as she suddenly levitated down to the grassy hill on blue wings.  “Don't you want to see something cool past the hilltops over there?”

“H-Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked.

“Hahah... Ooops.  What I meant to say was....”  Rainbow Dash chuckled and ruffled the foal's mane.  “...I totally got something cool to show you past the hilltops over there.  Try and keep up, ya ‘lil squirt!”  She winked, motioned with her head, and trotted off.

The orange filly was confused, but it didn't matter.  She rediscovered her smile and swiftly galloped after her.  “Hey!  Wait up...!”






“Okay, I'll admit that you're full of surprises...”

Raimony folded her arms and leaned against the side of the rattling train car full of sky marble and pressurized steam containers.  The vehicle roared eastward along the monorail track.  It was a slow trip, due to the various cars being filled to the brim with cargo and goblin miners returning home to Petra.

“But tell me, how did you know that the trolls would try to blindside us like that?”

“I've battled those walking, pale turds more times than I can count,” Scootaloo said.  The last pony stood opposite from Devo's green-eyed daughter.  Her armor was off, so that she stood—clad in only the Outbleeder bandanna and blue feather—as she took the time to polish her copper rifle and magazines.  Minding her leather belongings, Warden sat on a crate by her side.  The goblin teenager's legs dangled over the container's edge while he stared at the brown pegasus.  “I know what scents attract them.  I know where to hit them so that they don't get back up.  I know their herd instincts.  And I know when they're using their meager brains to outsmart higher creatures that rely on patterns in battle.”

“You also know how to raise hell out of frickin' nowhere,” Raimony uttered with a smirk.  “I'm kind of surprised that Matthais didn't lop off your head at the earliest opportunity.”

“You mean that gray-haired spitstain who pulled the pistol on me in the middle of all that nonsense?”  Scootaloo scoffed.  Warden watched her as she reexamined one last magazine of runes before slapping it back into the rifle's compartment.  “Heck, he almost did.  I guess yours and Franken's miners aren't the only things that were lucky today.”  She paused in the middle of her weapons check and glared aside at her “assistant”.  “What?” she barked.

“Hmmm... Nothing,” he said with a smile.  He continued staring at her, his legs kicking playfully against the metal crate.

Scootaloo sighed.  She gazed over at Raimony again.  “I counted at least thirty trolls who bit the dust today.  That's more than enough to send the rest of the pack hiding, at least for three or four stormfronts, before they figure out a new way to attack your mining operations.”

“You mean that there's more of them out there?”  Raimony exclaimed incredulously.

Scootaloo nodded.  “If there's anything a pony like me has come to expect in life, it's that there shall always... always be trolls.”  She cocked the gun, retracted it, and slid it into the armor lying beside Warden.  She cracked a few kinks in her necks before sighing.  “Nothing multiplies more in the Wasteland than creatures of pure hate.”

“I'll get my father to hire extra gremlin air patrols,” Raimony uttered.  “Y'know, you're pretty helpful to have around.  I think I was wrong about you...”

“Whew... If I had a silver strip for every time I heard that...”

“You'd be dirt poor, right?”  Raimony smirked.

Scootaloo smirked back.

“Heeheehee...”  Warden suddenly giggled again.  “I think you two are having a moment again.”

Raimony rolled her green eyes.  “Do yourself a favor, pony.”  She strolled off towards the adjacent car and her fellow Hex-Bleeders.  “Ditch the shrimp, then maybe you'll become hireable material around Petra.”

Scootaloo watched her walk off.  She blew a pink lock of hair back up over her red bandanna.  “I take what I said back.  The only thing more common than trolls in the Wasteland is insincere creatures pretending that they give a crap about things.”

“So...”  Warden leaned against the crate's edge, his pointed ears twitching curiously.  “What are you gonna tell Devo?”

“Hrmm... What should I tell him?”  Scootaloo examined the horseshoe on her front right limb.  Once again, it was rattling loose.  Frowning, she fiddled with it and muttered, “That his casual business partner, Franken of Glass Blood, is mining moonrocks instead of sky marble?  That Waven of South Blood may have died of far more suspicious means than old age?  That more crap happened in the zeppelin crash at the Valley of Jewels than any goblin is willing to let on about?”

“All of that is nice, but what about the royal troll-bashing you did back there?!”  Warden grinned wide, his aquamarine eyes practically electric.  “Y'know, saving his daughter and stuff?”

“I... don't see how any of that sheds light on Haman of Rust-Blood and the recent economic drag in Petra...”

“Who cares?!  It's full of frostbeams!”  Warden giggled excitedly.  “Yeesh, if I had known that my life was gonna have this many explosions and gunshots, I'd have left mom and dad way earlier!  Even before my brothers and sisters!”  He sat back atop the crate and hugged his knees.  “They kept me in the house way too long, thinking that I'd run into nothing but trouble if I left for another township.”

“Er... yeah...”  Scootaloo shifted uncomfortably and tossed a glance at his right leg.  “And did you?”

Warden's ears drooped, and the last pony realized then and there that he had actually forgotten about the branding, if even for half a day.  “Heh... Okay, so they were right about some things.  Still...”  He cleared his throat and rediscovered his grin.  “...they also taught me that ponies steal infant imps in their sleep.  But that's a load of crap!  Ponies only steal the show by making trolls burst into flames!”

“Nnngh... I didn't make any trolls burst into flames—”

“You sure did!  Your magic gun ripped their stomachs out and shoved fireworks in their place!  Kabooom!  Heeheehee...”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “What is it with goblins and their love of all things that blow up?”

“Pfft—Come on, pony!  Don't tell me you're not a fan of explosions!”  Warden smiled wide.  “Blowing up is—like—the most poetic thing any self-respecting element can do!  When I'm lying on my death bed, and the lights go down, I hope I explode too!”

“You're a big bucket of something else, kid.”  Scootaloo tilted her head at an angle and gave him a distant grin.  “Speaking of explosions, you've got a little bit of spark inside you that's worth something.”

“The heck are you talking about?”

“I'd be a bloody glue stick right now if you hadn't speared that gray-skinned moron who was waving his pistol around.”  She chuckled breathily.  “That's twice you've done something to save my skin.  Has that ever dawned on you?”

Warden blinked at that.  Despite a slight rosiness to his green cheeks, he rolled his eyes and scratched a hand behind his head.  “Pffft—Please.  I'm just earning the silver you've given me.  It's what any goblin would do.”

“Any goblin?  Or any goblin who likes to see a pony make explosions happen?”

Warden stuck his tongue out at her.  “Yeah, whatever.  I still can't blow trolls up at a distance.  Why, if I had as many frostbeams in my blood as you do, pony...” He exhaled with a fading curve to his lips.  “Then I'd be somebody else, not this branded little punk.”  His nostrils flared as he gazed briefly out the metal grated window, his turquoise eyes absorbing the blurring landscape.  “Maybe I'd even... convince my parents that not all my brothers and sisters have to do the same thing.  I'd show them that... there are cooler, far more exciting things to do in life than banging your head trying to manifest Petra...”

Scootaloo gazed long and hard at Warden, as the colors in his eyes changed, dulling like a foal's violets that were engrossed in an endless cascade of waterfalls.  She glanced out the same window that he was, at the slow rate at which the train was gliding eastward with its heavy cargo.  The last pony then glanced towards a series of metal steps leading towards an aluminum door in the ceiling.

“Hey, ya lil’ wart.”

Warden glanced up at her, blinking.  “Hmm?”

She gave a devilish smirk and motioned towards the steps with her head.  “Why don't you let me show you something?”






“I don't get it, Dashie,” Scootaloo murmured.  She trotted up the hill, catching her breath from the long climb.  A steep cliff suddenly blocked their path as she saw the wide green plains of Equestria stretching beneath them in the noonday glare.  “What am I supposed to see?”

“You ask way too many questions, squirt,” Rainbow Dash said, smirking.  She shuffled to a stop halfway towards the cliff.  “I bet the reason you're always gliding around town is ‘cuz your parents kick you out for some peace and quiet.”

“Don't be a dunce!”  Scootaloo stuck her tongue out at the blue pegasus and proudly shuffled past her so she could gaze down the edge of the cliff.  “Half of the time, I'm running errands for my parents' lazy flanks!  I swear, we'd all starve if it wasn't for me!”

“Heh, sure thing, kid.”

Scootaloo glanced up towards the blue sky.  “So, what'd you want to show me?  I don't see why you couldn't do your tricks back there on the lower hilltops.”

“Oh, this is a good place for tricks, alright.”

“Heh, you know best, Dashie,” Scootaloo said.  Her mane suddenly billowed over her skull.  She whistled.  “It sure is windy up here!”

“There's a reason for that,” Rainbow Dash said, suddenly above and behind the foal.

“H-Huh?”  Scootaloo glanced down, realizing that her legs were dangling.  What was more, the earth was more than two dozen meters way.  “Aaack!”  She flinched and flailed, her eyes convulsing.  “Uhhh... Uhhhh...!”

“Hey.  Hey.  Chillax.”  Rainbow’s hooves gripped her waist tightly from behind.  The rush of her beating wings cooled the little filly's feverish panic.  “I got ya, kid.”

“But... B-But...”  Scootaloo's teeth chattered as her dilating eyes reflected the ever-distant landscape.  “It's... It's j-just so high...”

“Oh, it'll get even higher,”  Rainbow Dash said coolly.  There was a humming to her voice, a tranquil thing, so that Scootaloo didn't have to see it to know that the blue pegasus was smiling.  “Heh.  Don't worry, pipsqueak.  Even if worst came to worst, there's nothing on this earth that could fall so fast that I wouldn't be able to catch it.”

Scootaloo breathed slower, easier.  She felt her own heartbeat pounding through to Rainbow Dash's hooves around her torso.  On so many occasions, she had seen Ponyville's chief weather flier carrying small rainclouds across the skies.  In a blurred blink, she saw herself as just such a cloud, something that should have naturally flown apart, but was instead being held together tightly in the blue pegasus' expert hooves.

The little orphan knew then and there just who it was that had always held her together.

“Sure beats that little metal slab on wheels, huh?” Rainbow Dash chirped.

“Yeah...”  Scootaloo's smile widened with each mound of Equestrian earth that blurred underneath them.  “Heheheheh—Yeah!”  She stretched her forelimbs out wide like a falcon.

“Hahahaha!”  Rainbow Dash smirked and angled her wings so that the two of them soared upwards.  “You ain't seen nothing yet, kiddo!”





“Uhhh...”  Warden nervously stammered as a gust of wind kicked at his ears.  “Isn't this dangerous?”

“Everything is dangerous,” Scootaloo said, pushing her way through the squeaking door so that she stood halfway on the wobbling rooftop of the train car.  She gave the smoggy, desolate sky a drunken grin and trotted out.  “You're only safe when you're dead.  But, y'know, that's boring and crud.”  She turned around and reached a hoof down.  “What are you, your parents' kid?”

That did it.  Warden frowned at her and practically hopped to join her.  “I'm not afraid—Aaaah!”  He belatedly shrieked as he lost his balance and clumsily flailed before clutching her side in desperation.

Scootaloo stifled a chuckle.  “Smooth, kid.  Gonna melt the frostbeams before they have a chance to show themselves?”

“Don't make fun of me,” he said with a frown, albeit a trembling one.  “I don't get it.  What are you trying to show me?”

“There's something awesome about train rides,” she said, leading him so that the two stood on top of the Hex-Bleeder's car.  The engine two spaces ahead of them churned hot clouds of steam into the air that split on either side of the two as they gazed at the blurring desolation beyond the monorail tracks below.  Ahead, due east, the epic, golden stalk of Petra and its many circular struts shone like a beacon against the smoggy sky.  “It all brings out the little foal in me.  What about you?”

“I don't think I h-have an inner f-foal!”  He trembled, gritting his teeth as he felt his feet slipping pathetically atop the metal surface of the car.  “This is stupid!  It's just a train delivering cargo back to the imp city!  What's so special about that?”

“You know what?”  Scootaloo muttered.  “You're right.  There's nothing awesome about this.  Trains suck.”  She suddenly shoved the two of them clear off the roof of the car.

Warden's impulse to gasp was only interrupted by his impulse to scream.  Halfway in between, he settled for a childish squeal.  This outburst had no punctuation, for he hadn't struck the bone-crushing surface of the earth as he had anticipated.  Squinting his aquamarine eyes open, he saw the world blurring below as if they hadn't leaped off the train to begin with.  This utterly confused the goblin until he saw bulging shapes rhythmically stretching outward from their combined shadows in the penumbra of Petra's looming glow.

“H-Huh?”  Warden glanced up and witnessed the last pony's wings outstretched for the first time, slicing the air in pristine, earth-colored majesty.  “Whoah...”

“Careful,”  Scootaloo droned in a sarcastic voice.  “You say 'whoah' to a horse, and she's liable to stop in her tracks.”

“No!”  Warden jolted in her grasp, his eyes bugging out at the ground below.  “I-I didn't mean to say that!  Honest!”

“Heheh—Take it easy, Wart.”  Her breath was bittersweet, saturating the lengths of her smile like the lengths of her years as she said, “Even if you fell a million kilometers per second, I'd still catch you.”  A rising snarl bubbled through her lungs, but for once in her life she wasn't aiming it at something she hated.  “Now, how about we catch some more of those frostbeams?”

Warden gulped, but very bravely smiled.  “Okay—”  The world surged past them at a greater speed as suddenly they climbed upwards, propelled by her beating wings.  “H-H-Holy crap!”





“You said it, pipsqueak!”

Rainbow Dash squealed into the whipping winds as she banked the two of them up high into a gigantic loopty-loop.

“It's the Rainbow Express!  Next stop, the sound barrier!”

“Heeheehee!”

Scootaloo grinned wildly into the gravity-defying madness.  The world spun around them.  The blue canvas of the sky switched with the green bosom of Equestria, and the two pegasi were free from it all.  For a few seconds, all space and matter revolved around them.  They were the center of the universe, and the universe was awesome... because they were awesome.

At the bottom of their dive, Rainbow Dash's voice pierced the beating winds to meet Scootaloo's twitching ears.  “Hey!  Ya little smart aleck!  You remember what E.Z.N stands for?”

Scootaloo's teary eyes blinked against the centripetal chaos.  “Uhhh... Uhhh... 'Epic Zoom Noiiiiii-iiiiiise—!'”  The orange foal literally heard her voice echoing behind her as the two broke through a booming cloud of vaporous air.  The two outraced sheer thunder as Rainbow Dash shot one wing perpendicular to the other and twirled the two of them in a maddening barrel roll towards a jutting hilltop.  Scootaloo exhaled mutely into the insanity, wincing.  At the last second, Rainbow Dash lifted them up so that they skirted the edge of the hill's cliff-face with a splash of loose grass.

Scootaloo's face briefly stretched from the impacting g-force.  The blood suddenly rushed to her head, and as the two twirled upside down again, she heard distinctly in her own voice:  “Sweet Celestia's flank!”  She blushed.  She shouted behind her shoulder, “D-Did I just say that seconds ago?”

“Haaaahahahaha!”

The little foal was suddenly a bottle of giggles and adrenaline.  It was as if she was suffering the bends, but in a blissful, heavenly way.  Never before did hyperventilation feel like a good thing.  She stretched her limbs out fearlessly as Rainbow Dash dipped the two of them down a hilltop, parting the high grass as they scooped daringly low over the Equestrian countryside.





Raimony was talking to Matthais about hiring extra gremlin security patrols when she heard the screams.  Her pointed blue ears twitched, and she spun about with a cockeyed expression.  At first, she thought it was another troll attack.  Shuffling over to a metal-grated window of the train car, she gazed outward.

The smoggy sky was ever so briefly sliced by a brown shape streaking with pink threads.  A green figure was in the equine's grasp, and the screams that filled the desolate air were those of rapture and joy.

The goblinette blinked queerly.  A few of her impish cohorts shuffled up and gazed out along with her, murmuring curiously amongst themselves.  She stifled a smirk and shook her head in disbelief before strolling back towards the center of the train.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Outside, Warden was flying.  At least, that's what he allowed himself to imagine.  His eyes lit up like crashing ocean waves.  They were just as moist: they filled with tears in the cold winds of the Wasteland as Scootaloo flung the two of them fearlessly.

The last pony gritted her teeth, pulled an old trick out of the book, and stuck one wing out—perpendicular to the other.  She barrel-rolled the two of them in a wide arc, spiraling broadly and wickedly around the monorail train tracks as they effortlessly matched the chugging speed of the train.  Warden's hollering voice was like a twirling siren in the gravity-defying loops that the pegasus weaved for them both.

With a burst of her wings, Scootaloo accelerated the two of them so that they sped up along the engine of the train.  The conjoined wheels of the front vehicle spun, the iron joints rustily squeaking and creaking to join the cacophony of the majestic steam boiler surging within.  As the monorail tracks lifted, the metal wheels of the train spat a rain of sparks in its climb.  Warden flinched and chuckled in the sudden fireworks display of bouncing embers that rained on them.  Scootaloo smirked and suddenly jerked to the left.  The goblin in her grasp let out a startled yelp as the two barely surged past the murderous front of the chugging engine, coming out unscathed on the other side just in time to perform a loopty-loop and a dive that took them spinning through the concrete crossbeams of the monorail track's support struts.

Warden's shrieks of fright once more morphed into cheerful whoops, so that the two blended together, and all that was left to fear was all that was left to anticipate.  As the two of them and the train approached the body of Petra, he inhaled the golden glow as if it was something cleaner than oxygen.  It was a sharp sensation, full of excitement and mystery, so that the dark shades of the Wasteland suddenly had an enormous library of colors worth splitting asunder.





A flock of geese flew up from a crystal blue pond as Rainbow Dash dipped the two of them lower and lower, just stopping at the water's surface.  Once or twice, the blue flier faked dropping Scootaloo, so that the orange foal let out an appropriate shriek on each occasion.  Rainbow Dash merely chuckled and glided the two of them along, filling their faces with a gentle breeze.

Scootaloo gazed down at the pond's reflective surface, and when she did, she saw her and Rainbow Dash in an immortal embrace, as if they were flying a thousand kilometers per hour, and yet were going nowhere.  She closed her eyes to preserve that snapshot, along with all its colors, and for once, the spectral awesomeness of it all drowned out a pair of white stones haunting the back of her mind.

As the two glided over the pond and toward the sun-lit clouds beyond, she relaxed into Rainbow Dash's limbs, tilting her head back to nuzzle the blue pegasus' shoulder.  Everything was warm, perfect, and safe.







“Tell me about the world of ponies.”

Scootaloo paused in the middle of taking a sip from her canteen.  The wind kicked at her pink mane as she glanced aside.  “Well, what do you want to know about it?”

The two sat hours later on the tiny metal platform just outside the aperture entrance to the Harmony.  The airship hovered at a distance from Petra.  The smoggy sky billowed overhead while half the world burned bright and gold beyond them, swarming with the distant specks of other zeppelins bustling to and fro.

“What was it all like before the Dimming?”  Warden asked.  He hugged himself as he gazed out into the industrial mess and the endless desolation surrounding it.  “What kind of a world did you live in when you were young?”

The last pony paused, contemplating that.  She took a swig of the canteen and spun the lid shut.  After a brave swallow, she murmured to the high wind, “Well, it was a lot more alive than what you have now.  There was grass... and, uhm, trees and birds flying in the air—”

“Birds?”  Warden asked, squinting curiously at her.

Scootaloo drew a blank at that.  She gazed at Warden, then beyond him.  Awkwardly, she eventually uttered, “Er... yeah.  Y'know... birds.  Small, hollow-boned creatures with wings and feathers that flew and sang in the sunlight...”

“S-Sunlight?”  The teenager once again gawked.

The pegasus' lips hung open.  She ran a hoof through her mane, lost in thought.  Clearing her throat, she laid the canteen down on the platform and folded her front hooves.  “Yes, Wart.  There was once something called the Sun.  It was a bright, celestial object that lit up the sky, making it far brigher and far warmer than you could ever imagine.  There was never this... this pitiful, dim twilight.  Well, sure, it got dark at night when the Sun went down past the horizon, but then you had another object—a beautiful object—called the Moon, and that lit up the night so that life wasn't entirely thrown into darkness.”

Warden chuckled bitterly at that.  “Okay, now I know you're really pulling my leg.  Two big bright things lighting up the world?  That sounds too good to be true.”

“There's a reason your parents and every other imp calls it the 'Dimming.’  Did you ever once think of that?”

“How could anybody live in a world that switched from bright to dark constantly?”

“But we did,” Scootaloo said, and the moist sincerity in her eyes swiftly silenced him.  She took a deep breath, murmuring into the heights of the dead world.  “We did, Wart.  We lived warmly, happily, and graciously...”  She swallowed a lump down her throat and gazed off towards the grayness.





Scootaloo clung to Rainbow Dash, trembling.  Undaunted, the blue pegasus aimed the little foal's dangling legs towards the body of a tiny, fluffy cloud.  Slowly, she lowered the orange filly until her twitching limbs made contact.  Nature took over, and soon the young pegasus' hooves stood squarely on the body of the misty vapor instead of sailing straight through.  Scootaloo's violet eyes flashed open, and she finally let go of Rainbow Dash, standing in a wobbly motion in the center of the white cloud.  A dumb smile swam slowly across her lips.  Rainbow Dash chuckled and squatted down next to her.  Gesturing for Scootaloo to watch, she gathered a clump of white vapor in her hooves and juggled it like a bouncing ball.  Gracefully, she hoofed it over to Scootaloo.  The little foal clasped the tiny pillow of clouds, reveling in the way it stayed solid in her gentle grasp.  Rainbow Dash winked, leaned in, and blew mightily at the cluster of white froth.  The mist fluttered every which way through the blue sky in ivory tendrils.  Scootaloo watched in awe, unable to stifle the occasional giggle that came out from her lips as she and Rainbow Dash stood aloft the tropospheric pedestal.

“We lived under a sky that was pearlescent blue, just like the oceans.  The clouds there were bright, white—not an endless gray ash heap.  They liked to change color too.  In the morning, they glowed like platinum silk sheets.  At night, they burned red, like glistening apples.  Do you know what apples are, Wart?

An orange mare in a cowgirl hat traded squabbling sentences with a blue pegasus.  As the conversation ran on, the rainbow-maned pony rolled her eyes and stuck a playful tongue at the green-eyed farm-filly.  Applejack growled in consternation.  She was about to say something else when the two heard the noise of a growling stomach.  Gazing aside in the afternoon sunlight, they spotted Scootaloo gazing up towards the first row of orchards just beyond the fence line of Sweet Apple Acres.  She sighed and clutched the metal tray to her chest, but said nothing.  With a shuffling of hooves, Applejack was suddenly standing beside her.  With a wink and a smirk, she flung her lengthy, golden tail hairs up with whiplike precision, knocking an apple clear off a low-hanging branch.  It fell neatly into a gasping foal's hooves.  Blushing, Scootaloo glanced from the apple and back to the two ponies.  Applejack and Rainbow Dash needed only to toss the foal a conjoined smile, and she had all the permission she needed.  Too touched to be stubborn about it, Scootaloo gave in, filling her mouth with a sweetness that set her senses on fire, christening the lengths of the toasty afternoon sunset.

“Apples are fruit.  Fruit used to hang off of trees.  If you treated the land right, and if you cultivated the bounty that the earth had to give you, you could simply walk down a line of groves and pluck these things off the branches.  And their taste, Wart?  It was like biting into the juiciest, sweetest morsel of food you could ever imagine.  It was too heavenly to be called food; it was dessert that sprouted from the ground.

Fluttershy hummed a tune into the air, coaxing a pair of songbirds to hover down from a line of trees bordering the Everfree Forest.  She stretched out a hoof from where she reclined on the soft grass.  Smiling, Fluttershy reached her nose out and softly nuzzled the two colorful creatures.  They sang innocently, filling the morning air with a melodic beauty.  Gazing over, Fluttershy quietly beckoned for Scootaloo.  The orange filly trotted up nervously.  Fluttershy gestured towards the tiny pegasus' wings, and Scootaloo obediently stretched the feathery stubs upward.  With gentle grace, Fluttershy waved her hoof over the little pony's body, and the two birds hovered down and each perched atop a separate wing of the young pegasus.  Scootaloo smiled at the two fragile creatures on either side of her, staring at them in wonder.  There was a grunting noise off to the side.  Scootaloo and Fluttershy looked over to see a severely bored Rainbow Dash, hooves folded, balancing the weight of a dozen fat pigeons across her blue appendages.  The other two pegasi giggled helplessly as the weather flier rolled her eyes.

“There were forests.  Forests were things that brimmed with life.  This was a life that sustained itself, that perpetuated itself in a cycle of everlasting beauty.  There were carnivores and scary creatures, yes, but they had just as much of a part to play in life as the softer sides of nature did.  The world only produced things that made life plentiful, instead of wanting to devour everything like trolls or harpies.

A hot pink balloon soared over the cool skies of Equestria.  An energetic, bouncy voice echoed through a loud megaphone as a great rumbling noise roared through the earth.  Scootaloo watched from a hilltop as a huge herd of colorful ponies galloped down a dirt road and straight into a forest full of autumn-red leaves.  Leading the pack was a pair of fillies: an orange mare in a brown hat and a bright pegasus with a flowing, spectral mane.  Scootaloo's eyes were on one of them and one of them only.  Cheering loudly, Scootaloo pumped a hoof in the air and tried to keep up, her tiny limbs mimicking the Running of the Leaves as she ran parallel to the dirt-trampling crowd, grinning with joy as she saw them thundering their way into the line of trees and shaking the color out of the dead branches.

“The forests changed, as did the weather.  There was never just one season, but many.  The world constantly shifted in a rhythmic cycle, bending the colors and the texture of everything from green to amber to gray to green again.  Spring and Summer were toasty and warm.  Autumn filled the air with a gentle crispness that made you happy to be alive.  In Winter, ponies played in the snow, instead of having to hide in it.

Scootaloo's breaths came out in vapors.  She wore a violet, velvet scarf that a fashionista had sewn for her in spite of all her protests.  At that moment, though, she couldn’t care less about cold temperatures or excessive generosity.  She sat atop a wagon full of baskets and rakes, gazing up into the air as hundreds—if not thousands of pegasi filled the air above Ponyville.  In colorful droves, they brushed the last gray clouds of winter into obscurity.  Birds flocked in from the south, escorted by winged figures that mimicked the hustle and bustle of the town streets below.  All around Scootaloo, Ponyvillean citizens were melting the snow and raking up dead leaves.  Everypony wore color-coded vests that dazzled the air with merriment, as did their song and cheer.  Smiling to herself, Scootaloo grabbed the nearest rake she could find and jumped off the wagon to join the Wrap-Up.

“We were not just passive witnesses to the changing canvas of the world, we were participants in it, purveyors of that which blessed us.  We gave to the earth, and the earth gave back.  We beat the skies with our wings and herded the weather like cattle, making everything pristine and structured, building ourselves a utopia out of the materials that the Alicorn Sisters granted us.  Life was more than just a series of bleak circumstances; it was an artpiece.  We had the entire canvas at our disposal, and what we painted we did with finesse, with respect, and with joy.






“The world was a sparkling, vibrant place,” Scootaloo murmured into the ashen wind as the Harmony bobbed and weaved beneath the two of them.  “Ponies reveled in it, the pegasi especially.”  Her brown wings twitched slightly as she spoke, “It was in our blood to monitor the landscape, to keep the skies clean, and to let the weather release itself in stride, so that the only storms that ever happened were necessary.  Even ugliness had its own merit in the world, so long as it was exercised properly.”

Warden gazed at her, his ears low to his skull.  “It all sounds just so... so amazing.  Who would ever want to dim that?”

Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “I don't know, Wart.  If you ask me, I seriously doubt the Cataclysm was a conscious decision on somebody's part.  Whatever happened must have been a terrible disaster that no living thing in Equestria—equine or not—could have been capable of stopping.  Ponies were innately bound to preserving all that was warm and bright.  We would never even think of dimming it all.  Never.”

“And still... after so much time has passed... every imp believes that you did,” Warden murmured.  He rode a painful shudder down his spine.  “That's depressing.”

Scootaloo nodded.  “Everything is depressing once you know enough about it.”

“Is it because you're a... pegasus pony that you miss the warmth and brightness so much?”

“It's.. It's not just that, Wart,” Scootaloo said with a sigh.  “Any creature in this Wasteland that respects itself would miss the brilliance of the old world.  Pegasi, though... we were more than lucky creatures.”  She gazed off forlornly into oblivion, her scarlets awash in ash and soot.  “We were the stewards of the earth.  It was our job, our sacred duty, to keep this world pristine.  We gave our entire lives into doing it; we reveled in it.  The seasons defined us, and we defined them.  Creatures respected us and we respected them.  We had a drive, a purpose, a reason to exist, and we made it manifest by finding what was gorgeous and beautiful about life and making it last as long as we could.”

“Heh...”  Warden smiled, his cheeks warm as he contemplated that.  “Sounds a lot easier than manifesting Petra.”

“Yeah, well, what's natural is necessarily easy,” Scootaloo said.  She gulped dryly as her eyes fell to the metal platform beneath her.  “At least that used to be true.  Now...”  She shook her head slowly and sighed.  “It's all too much... Just way too much to fix.  So much is gone... so much is dead... I don't even know where to begin...”

Warden bit his lip.  His aquamarine eyes briefly glossed over to a soft turquoise.  “That... That must be tough, being the last one of your kind... being the last steward...”

She glanced up at him, blinking.  With her next breath, however, she bravely bore a smile, even if just a soft one.  “One way or another... I will bring light back to this world.  I may not live long enough to see to its beauty, but I will see to its hope.”

“What brings you here to Petra, then?”  Warden gazed out towards the golden structure and the gaping pits beyond them.  “How's it helping you to dig up your old friend?  Did she leave something behind that will assist you?”

“Heheheh...”  Scootaloo gazed down at her shifting hooves and murmured, “I may be the last steward, Wart, but only one pony in the history of time was the best steward.”






“Oh ye of little talent, watch and be amazed at the magic of Trixie!”

A thick crowd of excited ponies had gathered in the center of town.  Scootaloo wriggled and stumbled her way through the many equine bodies in order to get a better view of the large wooden stage that had been erected in front of the Town Hall building.  She barely made it in time to catch the sight of Applejack's hooves being tied in a coil of magically floating rope.  The orange mare was flung upside down as a crimson apple was teleknetically stuffed in her mouth.

Instantly, the orange foal winced, but as the other ponies around her laughed and cheered, she nervously joined them with a titter of her own.  Her ears pricked to the sound of a showmare's voice, dripping with haughtiness and pomp.

“Once again, the Great and Powerful Trixie prevails.”

Scootaloo stared up at the stage.  The sight of a blue unicorn was suddenly outdone by the rapturous hue of an even bluer pegasus.  The foal's heart instantly skipped a beat.

“There's no need to go struttin' around and showin' off like that!” Rainbow Dash squawked, levitating in the robed magician's face.

“Oh?”

“That's my job!”  With a sharp smirk, Rainbow Dash bolted into the air.  A rainbow blur soared over the many heads of cheering ponies as her fellow citizens chanted and hollered her name.  By the time she athletically spun around the wooden blades of the windmill along the outer reaches of town, Scootaloo's boisterous yelps were joining the chorus.

“Yeah!  Go Dashie!” Scootaloo hopped and hopped in place, her wings twitching.  “You show that mare who's the coolest—”  She stopped in mid-exclamation, her eyes suddenly exploding as wide as saucers.  Breathless, she stumbled back, gazing through the thick of the crowd.

Two stallions were shuffling through the crowd.  They wore bands around their front right hooves that brandished a copper badge.  Dark shades adorned their eyes as they approached one spectator after another.  One stallion clasped a photo in his teeth while his partner muttered in an undeniable Manehattan accent:  “Hello, have you seen this filly?  Excuse me, has anypony seen this filly?  No?  Sorry to bother you, carry on with what you're doing...”

Scootaloo's eyes twitched.  Even from several meters away—through the thick of the crowd—she saw the unmistakable colors of the foal in the photograph, and they all matched her.  Too frightened and panicked to observe Rainbow Dash's current airshow, Scootaloo scrunched down low, backtrotted, and scampered her way out of the crowd.  She laid low, hyperventilating, and ultimately galloped towards the edge of Ponyville, heading her way straight for the forest and the barn beyond.

Behind her, the rainbow blur finally returned to the stage, basking in the explosive cheers of the crowd.  “They don't call me 'Rainbow' and 'Dash' for nothing!”

“When Trixie is through, the only thing they'll call you is 'loser.’”





“Hmmm... but seriously, boomer, what else is there to call you?”  Miss Ryst's left eye twitched as she leaned in and tapped the upside down forehead of a goblin with her steam pistol.  “You've cut yourself off from Haman.  You've cut yourself off from his grace as well, yes yes yessssss... you did...”  She tapped him harder, almost striking him with the gun.  “What is there to gain in that?”

The bruised and twitching goblin hung upside down from a steam pipe in Strut Fifteen.  He spat and dribbled blood as he gazed helplessly at her and her many lackeys.  “I-I was promised a new job with decent pay!  I was g-gonna help my family expand into hovercraft production!  Things with the Rust-Bleeders have been st-stagnant!  What choice did I have?!”

“You always have a choice, dear boomer,” she hissed into his face, licking her teeth before gnawing on the end of her knuckle.  “Hmmm... like right now, you can tell me just what family made you this offer that they couldn't make to Haman's face.”

“I-I can't do th-that!”  He choked back a sob and wriggled in his bindings.  His voice rattled against the steam-venting bulkheads around them.  “I made an agreement!  It was a contract of confidentiality!”

“Blood is hardly confidential.  Hmmm... so easy to smell, even easier to taste.”  Miss Ryst sniffed, scratched a part of her forehead with the barrel of her gun, and lisped, “Here's another choice, boomer.  Yes yes yesss... you can either tell me what I want to know, or you can tell my steam pistol.”

The goblin's eyes widened.  “You gotta be kidd—Mmmff-Mmmmf!”

The green-haired goblinette had just planted the barrel of her pistol into the gasping imp's mouth.  He quivered and let loose muffled whimpers into the body of the weapon aimed down his throat.

“What was that?”  Miss Ryst's eye twitched as she squinted at him.  “'Moth Blood'?”  She glanced aside at her thugs.  “Did that last muffle sound like 'Moth Blood?’  Mmmm... I hate steam; it burns my ears...”

All of the goblins were staring down through the latticework at the lower platform of the Strut.

The yellow-banded goblinette raised an eyebrow flaked with dying skin.  “Do my boomers see something so interesting that they must leave me alone in pistol poetry?”

“Sorry, Miss Ryst...”  Otto murmured, running a clawed hand over his balding head.  “It's just that... that pony...”

“Hmm?  Four legs?”  Ryst craned her neck to see a leather-armored equine and a green goblin marching out from the hangar and making their way towards the distant elevators.  She instantly spotted the red bandanna on the equine's forehead.  “Huh... the pony is an Outbleeder.  I have seen the insides of many exploding creatures,” she hissed into the tear-stained face of the goblin whom she was forcing to swallow the gun barrel.  “Yes yes yesssss... many, many guts—but that takes the cake of gross absurdity.  Devo has lost more than his legs in his old age, the poor boomer...”

“I dunno, I think he may have made a good choice, Miss Ryst,” Otto exclaimed.  “The gremlins have said that the pony single-hoofedly killed over a hundred of trolls yesterday, saving a bunch of miners.”

“Hmmm... Truly?”

“Yeah, including Franken of Glass-Blood.”

The upside-down goblin's brains flew all over the lattice work.  Miss Ryst blinked through the steam rising up from the pistol after having its trigger inadvertently pulled.  She stared numbly as curds of red matter oozed down her dry skin.  “Hmmm... He was wetter on the inside than I had hoped...”

The many thugs gazed in wide-eyed confusion as Miss Ryst stood up, ran a bloodied hand absent-mindedly through her hair, and waved the soaked pistol in the direction of the pony.

“She... She talked with Franken?”  Ryst uttered in a hoarse voice, her eye twitching with frightening severity in the Rust-Bleeders' direction.

Otto and the rest shuffled nervously away from her.  “Uhm... Y-Yeah, Miss Ryst,” the stout thug stammered under a crooked smile.  “Is there... uh... is there something wrong with that?”

“My dear boomers, there is always something wrong with everything everywhere.”  She muttered into the back of her knuckles, licking the blood away to give her room to gnaw on the flaky skin once more.  “Hmmmm.... Hmmm-but only once in a dozen stormfronts can you succulently bite into the neck of a problem and twist its spine asunder.”  She gulped hard, shivering briefly, before grunting in a low voice, “I must have a word with Haman before the meeting today.  Handsome boomer deserves the work he pays for.  The world spins so long as we keep stirring the silver around.”

She made to shuffle out of the cranny of rusted metal, leaving the corpse dangling behind her with a hole in its skull.  She paused, spun ,and aimed the gun up high.  Her lackeys flinched and shrieked as she fired two bullets, severing the rope so that the corpse fell wetly to the metal bulkheads below.

“There,” she hissed, offensively waving the steam out of her face.  “It'd be a shame to attract crows to the mess.”

“Crows?”  Otto made a face.  “Miss Ryst, what are 'crows' exactly?”

The goblinette rolled her eyes, wincing fitfully as if rising to the surface of a cold, cold dream.  “Unngh... damnable steam,” she blurted and shuffled away while her thugs followed behind her, exchanging confused shrugs.






“And then Matthais nearly shot her dead right there on the train!”  Raimony exclaimed, her mouth unabashedly balancing a grin or two as she stood across the cramped office from her father.  “In fact, he would have, had her little sidekick not jumped in and slammed Matthais' lousy butt to the ground.”

“Hmmm... I've had imps call me senile,” Devo said with a nodding smirk.  “If only they knew how much I've had to rein in Matthais.  I love him like a brother, but he's come close to wrecking my operations on numerous occasions.”

“Well, things couldn't have gone smoother this time.  Father, I can't pretend to understand what you're accomplishing with all of this Outbleeder Intercessor crapola, but it may not hurt to hire the pony as a full-on security guard.  She's certainly accomplished a lot more in a day than an entire squadron of gremlins have in months.”

Devo pointed behind Raimony's shoulder.  “If you feel that way, why don't you tell her yourself, child?”

The goblinette blinked her thin green eyes.  Her ears drooped as she groaned and slowly spun around.  “Just how long have you been standing there?”

Scootaloo stood beside a snickering Warden.  A pair of bandanna-clad guards allowed them into the crimson glow of the metallic office.  “Long enough to know a fangirl when I see one.”

“And since when were you the expert on that, pony?”

Scootaloo merely smirked.

“Whatever.  Father, I'm off to meet with the gremlins to talk of our agreement.  The big meeting will be happening in less than two hours.  I suggest you don't spend too much time talking to Miss Blazing Saddles here.  Remember, your legs don't move you around as quick as they used to.”

“Thankfully your mouth does the moving for us both, darling.”

“Ugh.  I'm gone,” Raimony stumbled out of the room.  The door creaked shut behind her.

Scootaloo glanced over at Devo.  After a deep breath, she let forth, “Your daughter has... a very delightful name.”

“I thought as much when I raised her,” the elder nodded, his white dreadlocks dangling in the red light.  “She wouldn't have come into this world had a pair of very important souls not blessed the lives of my clan just before the Dimming.”

“A pair of... goblins, right?”  Scootaloo asked.

Devo merely smiled.  With a whirring of his leg braces, he shuffled over and stood before his metal locker.  “I heard that you talked with Franken of Glass Blood.  Did he give you a lead?”

“He might tomorrow,” Scootaloo said.  “He's asked that I come meet with him in secret at Strut Eleven.  It's the same location where he expanded his family's business into the foundaries of the impcity's Stalk.”

“A meeting?”  Devo squinted, folding his muscular blue arms across his chest.  “You and him alone, at Eleven Strut?   Hmmm... how remarkably clandestine.”

“It's not exactly the prettiest, safest part of town,” Warden nervously added.

Devo smirked down at him.  “And did you inform her of that, young one?”

He blinked.  “Should I?  She brings explosions wherever she goes—”

Scootaloo nudged him into silence.  With a breath, she softly smiled Devo's way, “I agreed to talk with Franken.  Whatever he had to tell me, he didn't want me to hear it out there in the open, within earshot of so many miners.”  She paced towards the prime Hex-Bleeder a few trots.  “But if I didn't know better, I'd say he's mining more than sky marble.”

“Like what?”

“Moonrocks,” the last pony bluntly said.  “I've scavenged enough of the material to know that they can be enchanted or chemically altered to become dangerously volatile.”

“You mean like in weapons?”  Devo's brow furrowed.  “Could the Glass-Bleeders be starting a new trade with the ogres via a black market?”

“I told you she brings explosions wherever she goes—”  Warden started, cut short by a glare.

Scootaloo turned to look at Devo once again.  “It isn't safe to assume anything until I get to talk with Franken.  Still, it's interesting to note that his whole demeanor changed when I mentioned Waven of South Blood's death.”

“The two clan leaders were business partners, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Yes, and Waven's own daughter claimed that her father passed away from natural causes.”  Scootaloo murmured, “Franken implied that it was food poisoning.”

“Hmmm... Quite interesting...”  Devo scratched his chin as his copper brown eyes swam across the bulkheads of his office.  “Three goblin clan leaders survive a zeppelin air crash in ogre territory.  One comes back silent, the other comes back dying, and the third gives in to sharing something desperate and secretive with a pony Outbleeder.”

Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Just how many goblins in this imp city know about the zeppelin crash in the Valley of Jewels?”

“Oh, many goblins think they know about it, but none have stepped up and attempted doing legitimate research.”  He cleared his throat and gazed proudly at the armored pegasus.  “You, on the other hand, have accomplished more in two days than all of the other business families have in months.  The meeting that's transpiring today is evidence of that.  The entire city knows something is up, and this council is a way of letting off steam... eheheh... if you pardon the pun.”

“I'm guessing Haymane will be there.”

Devo delivered a bizarre look.  “'Haymane?'”

“Sorry—Haman.  Haman of Rust-Blood.”  Scootaloo sighed and tiredly ran a brown hoof over her features.  “Forgive me; I dazed out for a moment there.”

“No problem,” Devo said with a subtle smile.  “Yes, the prime Rust-Bleeder will be at the meeting, as will Franken of Glass Blood, if he knows what's good for him and his image.  Still, I look forward more to your meeting with him tomorrow than I do to what transpires today.”

“What should I do in the meantime?”

“Heheheh... What else?”  Devo's razor sharp teeth showed in a smile.  “Attend both meetings, public and clandestine!”

Scootaloo's face scrunched up at that notion.  “Wouldn't I just... cause a stir?”

“I'm sure you can find a place that's strategic and tactful enough to not catch too many goblins' eyes.  These meetings are mostly excuses for the families to engage in passionate and cyclically pointless arguments.  I think the clan leaders will be too embroiled to notice something as out of place as a pony.  Besides...”  He suddenly stared at her with a fixed gaze.  “You were always good at staying out of sight.”

Scootaloo merely blinked at him.  In a completely neutral voice, she droned, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“My dear pony,” Devo replied coolly, his eyes just as rich as the earth once was beneath them.  “I think we both know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Silence permeated the office like beams of frost, but not the sort that Warden reveled in.  The goblin teenager glanced nervously between the two ghostly figures, until finally Scootaloo bowed out of the staring competition.

“Wart,” she murmured.  “Would you mind stepping outside for a minute?”

“But... But...”

“Remember who you're earning the strips for,” she added.

Biting his lip, Warden hesitantly complied.  He shuffled out of the room and stood beyond the guards.  The door creaked icily shut behind them.

Scootaloo inhaled deeply and glared in Devo's direction.  “Prime Hex-Bleeder, I'm only here to do business, nothing else...”

“Only business, pony?”  Devo asked in a soft voice.  “There is something you're returning to this sundered earth for.  You nearly died in those pits, at the hands of my own followers, no less—”

“Please, I don't want to talk about—”

“Who in their right mind, pony or imp or ogre, crosses the lengths of the Wasteland to enter the very abyss that nearly claimed her?”  He swallowed briefly with a haunted expression.  “That nearly claimed us all?”  His copper brown eyes narrowed on her.  “Something drives you, pony.  I've seen it in the eyes of your kind before.  Where so many of my brothers and sisters fall prey to prejudice and hatred, I was given a chance to see what the beauty of Equestria had to offer.  I'm here this day, leading my people, manifesting Petra, because of grace that has extended beyond the Dimming, not luck.”

“Grace is just luck painted up with poetics.”

“Spoken like a true imp.  Tell me, pony...” Devo pointed at her.  “Do you remember flowers?”

Scootaloo's eyes twitched.  “Flowers, Hex-Bleeder?”

“The scent of them, the color of them, the symbol of flourishing life that they promised to all the world?”  Devo smiled painfully.  “I remember when the fields of this earth were covered with them.  That was a peaceful time, a green time, and I carry those sights with me to my grave, for there are very few imps of my age who are blessed... or cursed with that same token of the past.  What's more, I hold them dear to me because a long time ago, I had an epiphany—something that was inspired within me by an act of kindness that bridged even the darkest of chasms—that flowers aren't the only thing that can blossom in this world.  Someday, even in the Wasteland, even Petra could blossom—with a flourishing of souls.  After all...”  He smiled warmly and gently uttered, “...We have it within each of us to be stewards of the earth, so long as we are alive, so long as we have hope.”

Scootaloo's breath left her.  Through gaping lips, she almost whimpered, “Where did...?  How did you, of all creatures, stumble upon such a philosophy?”

He gazed blankly at her.  “I am hoping, pony, to find out.”  Devo gave a slow nod, then after a breath he brandished another smile.  “Well, all in good time, hmmm?  That, after all, is the one thing we all have to count on...”  He shuffled past her on whirring leg braces and slapped her shoulder.  “...Time.”

She glanced at his hand, at his legs, at the bulkheads beyond.  “I'm sorry.  I'm just a little... a little...”

“Overwhelmed?  Who isn't?  These are trying times.”

“It is always trying times.”

“All the better reason to be on our toes—erm—or hooves, if you will.”  He folded his arms.  “So, can I expect to see you at the meeting?”

“I... I-I don't know...”

“Come on, I need your pair of ears there, Outbleeder,” he said with a smile.  “Besides, you'll undoubtedly find it educating.  These family meetings are the pinnacle of goblin honor, respect, and gentlemanly etiquette.  You may even be surprised!”





The carcass of a black-eyed, razor-beaked, winged creature was slammed offensively down atop a curved desk before several flinching goblins.  Leaning over the mangled thing, a fat imp snarled before the crowded ring of imps gathered before him.

“This!  Look at this!” he bellowed.  “This is all that remains of the fifth consecutive band of harpy pirates who have assaulted Strut Fourteen in the past month!  Strut Fourteen!  My family's strut, and nobody else's!  I want to know the meaning of this relentless, conspiratorial assault of avian mercenaries!  And I want to know what the rest of you silver-sniffing, thankless filth-bleeders are going to do about it!”

The air above the meeting filled with growling, murmuring, squawking voices.  The clawed feet of several imps rang against the bulkheads as every single body attempted voicing their frustration at once.  A grand, multi-tiered ampitheatre of rusted platforms vibrated from the sheer magnitude of the gathered representatives.  Every row of seats, every metal desk, every aisle of bulkheads was occupied by goblins of all walks of life, from every strut, from every platform within the Struts.  Colored armbands, scarves, eyepatches, bandannas, vests, and bracelets properly identified more than ninety seperate clans who had gathered themselves there to address such topics as...

“What about the families of the Lower Struts?!  They are most vulnerable to incursion!  If this is a sign of mercenaries doubling their efforts to get to our steam resources, then we need a new line of defense!”

“For Petra's sake, can we finally outlaw all outsiders?!  For months, we allowed harpies to dock at our stations!  Certainly they were nothing more than spies for these attackers!”

“This is why we need to resume business with the ogres!  They are the one force to be reckoned with in the Wasteland!  If they were still on our side, they would protect us from these assailants, no matter how the battle goes over the Valley of Jewels!”

“I don't see how any of this is going to come to a head unless we get Haman of Rust Blood to come out of hiding and show his moth-eaten ears for once!  It's about time we had some answers!  Wasn't he supposed to be here?!”

The meeting chamber rolled and rang with hundreds of squabbling voices.  High up, along the top-most tier, a pink-maned pegasus ran a hoof over her head, groaning.

“Dear Celestia, I'd sell the Harmony and all that's inside it just to listen to Octavia right now...”

“Octavia?”  Warden murmured from her side.  The teenager sat on a metal bench and the pony stood next to him as the two craned their necks to see the majority of the meeting from their lofty height.  Only a few goblins took notice of the pair, casting shifty-eyed glances and pretending to be absorbed with the ring of arguments bellowing out from below.  “Who is Octavia?  Some friend of yours?”

“Kid, the closest thing I have to a friend in this world smokes himself to death and wears a bushy tail.”

“Really?”  The aquamarine-eyed imp blinked.  “Oh...”  He glanced aside, bearing a rather sad gaze.  “Well... okay then...”

Scootaloo heard him, but pretended that she didn't.  She hardly even paid attention to the meeting.  She saw Franken of Glass Blood sitting in the far edge of the circular place.  The elder goblin was hardly the center of attention, but his features were jittery nonetheless, as if the upper Struts of Petra would collapse in on everyone at the last second.  Gazing past him, Scootaloo engrossed herself in staring at Devo, at his calm features, at his solid copper eyes taking in everything that was happening.

“I still can't believe that Haman isn't here,” Warden murmured, sounding as though he was a million kilometers away.  “You’d think such a freakin' important member of this imp city would know better than to be a no-show.”

“Hmmm... It means he knows.”

“He knows what?”

“That somebody is onto him,” Scootaloo murmured in a muted voice.  “Things aren't... as safe as they used to be...”  She blinked, reflecting the bright torchlamps beyond like a mound of white stones before her.






“It's no longer safe here, but then again it never was.  At last, it's happened,” Scootaloo spoke to Rainbow Dash's grave.  Armed with two spears embedded into her canvas armor and a rusted dagger sheathed against her forelimb, she stood within the halo of twilght and glanced nervously behind her at the yawning chasms of Cloudsdale.  “The trolls have found their way here.  I don't know how there are just so friggin' many of them.  It's almost as if they all sprung up from the ground at once.  I... I keep searching the ruins of the Cloudsdalian Library that I found six months ago.  Most of the books there are either soiled or shredded beyond belief, but I'm still hoping to stumble upon some historical text that will explain to me just how to get rid of these dang things.  Because it's just too much to deal with, Dashie.  I don't think I have the power to do it on my own.”

She seethed through clenched teeth, shutting her eyes as she weathered a nervous wave of fear.

Gulping, she murmured, “For the last several weeks, I've hidden in my cave, or forced myself to lay low amidst the rubble.  The trolls have shuffled past me at least a dozen times.  I think it's sheer luck that they haven't sniffed me out.  Up on the surface, I came close to dying two or three times.  But that was two years ago, and I was a lot stupider then.  I'm doing all I can just to avoid them now, but it's not likely that they'll starve to death or get bored to tears or find any other excuse to leave me alone...”

The last pony opened her half-violet eyes.  Moisture clung to her lashes as she murmured towards the stones.

“I'm sc-scared, Dashie.  I'm running out of food and counting the stormfronts before these things finally find me and gut me.  I shouldn't even be out here, talking to you.  But I had to.  I had to see you again.  I had to ask myself... what would Rainbow Dash do?”  She gulped and dodged a sob with more or less grace.  “I need to get out of here, but it's impossible.  There're trolls around every turn, and I need to get out of this stupid, festering hole but I can't.  What would you do, Dashie?  What would you think of?  How would you win the day?”

Her voice trailed off like the cold, Wasteland air that was wafting down from above.  Silence rattled off the stones with the grace of melting snow, and Scootaloo was soon alone with her own panting voice.  Hopelessly, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.  For the briefest of seconds, she saw herself in Rainbow Dash's arms, safe and secure...

There was a loud popping noise from the distant edge of the Wasteland.

The pondwaters rippled madly, shredding apart the image of Scootaloo and Rainbow Dash.  The last pony looked up with a gasp.  She spun, turning towards the source of the noise.  She heard the chuckling sounds of impish voices, then a series of argumentative tones.  After a few seconds, there was another popping sound, and Scootaloo imagined it sounded like fireworks, gunpowder, dynamite, or any number of intelligently concocted explosives that were indicative of anything but trollish handiwork.

She blinked, comprehending a new and alarming thought.  She had been so busy running from the goblins over the past few weeks that she hadn't once thought about the goblins' plight.  It suddenly occurred to her that they may have been completely oblivious.

Numbly, the filly ran a hoof up to her brown neck.  She ran the limb across the fuzzy stubble of shaved mane hair.  Realizing something, she gasped hard, her eyes returning to a frightful, foalish brilliance.  Without wasting another second, Scootaloo spun away from the sacred grave and galloped towards the popping noises, bounding and leaping over the mounds of debris at lightning speed.






“You need to come with me, pony...”

Warden blinked quizzically.  Scootaloo turned and glared at the figure who had just tapped her on the shoulder.  “I need to do what, now?”

Otto stood beside the equine on the topmost row of metal seats overlooking the loud, bickering meeting between the elder goblin clan leaders.  “There is someone who wants to speak with you,” the balding thug uttered.  “It isn't a good idea to waste her time.”

“If they want to skin me alive, tell them to wait in line,” Scootaloo muttered and stared back down at the clamorous discussion.  “I kind of have a job to do here, whether I like it or not.”

“I... think it will be in your best interest...”  Otto leaned in and sneered into her twitching, brown ears.  “...As Devo's Intercessory Outbleeder to let my boss pay you a visit.”

“For real, just what are you going on about—?”  She glanced at the goblin just in time to catch him flashing his armband.  The yellow color caught her off guard, and she suddenly remembered a goblin rifler with his hands missing, kneeling before a tall imp with long green hair.  “Hmmm... Rust Bleeder business, huh?”

“Please, pony, everything in Petra is Rust-Bleeder business,” Otto said with a grimy smile.  “If you would please make haste: the lady does not do a good job of waiting.”

“Who does in this goddess-forsaken town?”  Scootaloo shuffled to trot away.

“Hey!  Hey hey hey—Wait!”  Warden tugged on her armored flank.  He whispered up towards her ears, giving Otto a forlorn glance.  “What gives?  I thought Devo wanted you to pay attention to this meeting!”

“Yeah... Uh...”  Scootaloo glanced down at the rows upon rows of barking, arguing figures.  She suddenly brightened.  “Congratulations, Wart.”  She took the bandanna off her brow and wrapped it three times over the teenager's petite forehead.  “You're the new Outbleeder.”

“I am?!”  He blinked crookedly, his face scrunching under the weight of the blood-stained article.  “B-But... This seems like a really bad idea!”  He leaned up towards her, pouting.  “At least let me come with you!”

“Devo wants me to listen in on the meeting, right?”  Scootaloo said to the green-haired imp.  “Then be my eyes and ears, but just for a little while.  In the meantime, I'm about to do my job—y'know, the one that involves getting to know Haman more?”

“But... What if it's a trap?!”  Warden gulped, giving Otto a frightened look.  “It's a trap, I just know it is!”

“You're right.  Those Rust-Bleeders won't know what hit 'em,” Scootaloo smirked.  He was hardly placated, so she added a wink for good measure.  “Seriously.  Relax, Wart.  Would I let the world have any less frostbeams by disap...?”  She trailed off at the sound of her own words, navigating a bizarre grimace that suddenly assaulted her face.  She salvaged it with a bold smile at the last second, cleared her throat, and simply uttered, “I'll be back, okay?”  She trotted off without a second thought.  Otto and two other yellow-banded imps from the shadows shuffled along with her.

Warden sat there, by himself, wringing his clawed hands down low beside his thigh.  In the last pony's absence, he suddenly felt the need to hide his branding again.  The meeting rolled on loudly below him, and he knew that he suddenly had to pay attention to it.  For some reason, he couldn't, for the young imp was encumbered by the need to murmur something he didn't have a name to.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“You've made quite a stir, pony,” Otto murmured through a confident grin.  His stout form led the way towards a lone elevator shaft with rusted metal barricades.  “In all your days spent in Petra, you've only fired two shots from your weapons, and still it's been enough to make many imps turn their heads, including the most powerful ones.”

“Why, is something wrong with their necks?”  Scootaloo mused.

“Ah... a funny horsie,” Otto pointed as he stood within the elevator car and gripped the controls.  The last pony and the other imp thugs marched in after him as he muttered, “Be careful who you joke with in this town.  Some goblins don't have the same sense of humor you do.”

“Jee, I don't know.”  Scootaloo smiled calmly at him.  “Looks like you can afford to give me two thumbs up.”

Otto opened his mouth, but then blinked as shades of Darper flashed briefly across his pale eyes.  With a grumbling breath, he yanked the door to the elevator car shut and pulled at the controls.  Rattling, the rusted chassis slid down the chamber, bathing the orphan of time's face in a brief darkness.








“We've been looking all over for this little pony.  Have you, by chance, seen her?”  One of two stallions inquired of a gray pegasus in the middle of the road.  “She answers to the name of 'Scootaloo.’”

“Hmmm... I c-c-c-c-can't say that I have!”  A wall-eyed mailmare rubbed her chin in thought.  From where she hovered in front of the two social workers, she smiled and shrugged.  “Then again, I only keep my eyes on my muffin!  Otherwise, where would my whole world b-b-b-be?”

“R-Right.  Well, if you happen to... erm... see a young, orange pegasus who hasn't yet gotten her cutie mark, do please get in contact with our service.  This foal has run away from her foster home in Manehattan, and many ponies at our bureau think she might have turned up here, her town of foaling.”

“Manehattan?!”  The pegasus gasped.  “Why, that's a long, long way from here!”

“I know, but still, if you could keep your eyes peeled, ma'am.”

“Will do, sirs!”  Ditzy saluted with a cockeyed grin and floated away.  “Good luck to you!  Be on the lookout for squirrels—Owie!  Nnngh, silly lamppost.  Eheheh... Bye now!”

As the gray mare floated off, the two stallions slid the photograph back into one of their saddlebags and trotted down the road.

“Yeesh, did you see the eyes on that mailpony?”

“I can't believe she can see anything, much less the kid.”

“Still, we gotta keep asking.  I get the strange feeling we're missing something.”

“You're still trusting the word of that colt with the missing teeth?”

“That punk may have been exagerrating a bit, but he's definitely afraid of somepony.  It sounds just like something the Manehattan kid would have done, too.”

“Elektra Alive, why's it always the pegasi that are the little spitfires?”

“Don't look at me; blame Nebula's spirit.  Anyways, let's try the west side of town again.”

“Right with ya.”

Long after the two stallions had trotted off, a row of bushes stirred.  Slowly, a pink-maned little foal popped her head out.  Panting, she shuffled out into the middle of the road, gazing with sunken eyes towards the distant social workers.

Scootaloo couldn't help it.  She had hid out in the barn for days.  Those were days without sleep, days without peace, and days without eating.  Scootaloo's stomach was desperate for food, and while she had a few bits to spare, she needed to find a way to get something down her throat.  Applejack was an honest pony, so while representatives from the foster home were asking around about Scootaloo, she didn't want to risk going straight to Sweet Apple Acres and paying for an apple.  She figured that a quick dash by Sugarcube Corner would make the difference, but she had almost run into the two stallions instead.

Now she was too panicked to eat, much less think.  Every breath she took was like flinging pins and needles against the walls of her insides.  She thought about a deathly train ride back to Manehattan.  She thought of foster caretakers frowning at her, looking at her as if she was the plague.  Most of all, she thought of Rainbow Dash, and how she might not see her again—

In the middle of a mindless shuffle, Scootaloo's hoof slid on a randomly fallen tree branch.  She stumbled and fell—crashing loudly into a pine tree.  “Ooof!”  She grunted as several pine cones showered the rocky path around her, filling the edge of town with a goofy echo.

To her horror, it had been heard by somepony other than her.

“The heck was that?”

“Probably the mailmare slamming into something else.”

“No—This sounded different.  It came from right were we just were...”

“Hey... do you see something—?!”

Scootaloo whimpered.  Scootaloo kicked dirt loose.  Scootaloo blazed a panicked, heavy gallop towards the far end of town, making towards the first, bright red structure she could see on the bounding horizon.  She panted and hyperventilated and fought back the tears as she heard a pair of thundering hoofsteps sounding off just behind her.










“Listen to me!  This is serious!”  Scootaloo gritted her teeth and shouted towards the broad cliff-side.  “You have to cut your hair!  All of you!”

Braxx, Matthais, and a dozen other goblins laughed pathetically at her.  They all crowded around a series of improvised tools that they had built out of Cloudsdalian bric-a-brac.  Using goblin ingenuity and a pile of powdery explosives that they had alchemically brewed over the past year, they fashioned a grappling hook and were attempting to fire it across the black chasm towards where their far more precious tools of salvation lingered perpetually in wait.

“I mean it!”  Scootaloo squealed in a foalish voice, stamping her hooves down like an indignant child as their laughter doubled.  “There are trolls all over the place now!  Maybe you haven't seen them, but I have!  They're attracted to the scent in ponies' manes, and I think it's the same with goblin hair as well!”

“I've heard a lot of stupid crap in my days, glue stick,” Matthais snickered and waved a tool at her before tweaking the grappling hook for another shot.  “But this one's a winner!  What the heck would trolls care about one's hair or not?!  It's the meat off the bone that they're after.”

“Ponies' bones, most likely,” Braxx said with a smug smirk as he held the grappler up for Matthais to tinker.  “You say they keep bothering you?  Well, we haven't seen a single troll since we came down here!  If you ask me, they're on our side!  They're ridding the world of the sky-stealers!”

“Hahahaha!”

“Don't be idiots!”  Scootaloo frowned.  “Even Devo's said that you've run into these creatures before!  They've ended the lives of more than one of your kind!  There's nothing stopping them from doing it again!  They're all over the place in these ruins, now, and they're not gonna stop stalking the pit until all of us are dead!”

“You know what I think this is all about?”  Matthais glared up at her.  “Huh?!  Do ya, glue stick?”  He pointed his tool at her with a frown.  “We're not dumb!  We've seen you struggling to make a shelter across the ruins!  We know that you must be out of food, out of materials, and out of wits!  So, what happens today?!  We children of Petra are just about to get our tools back, which means we'll finally climb ourselves out of this hole-in-the-ground for good, without any of your worthless help, might I add.  And now you're suddenly having to face the fact that you'll be here alone—truly alone—without our boss' good grace to fall back on!  Well, you can stew in it all you like, sky-stealer!  I hope you slowly rot to death in this place once we're all long gone!”

The goblins laughed and chuckled as Braxx and Matthais prepared to fire the grappling hook once more across the ravine.

“Please!  You gotta cut it out!”  Scootaloo hissed, glancing every which way in a cold sweat.  “They're gonna hear—”

The grappling hook fired, filling the air with a brief thunder that echoed across the entire chasm like a gunshot.

Scootaloo winced.  “They're gonna hear this and they're gonna come and kill us all!”

“Dang it!”  Matthais hissed as the hook fell into the blackness.  Braxx and another goblin rushed over to grab their length of the rope and catch the slack of it before the hook fell too far.  “You made me miss, ya stupid manure bag!”  Matthais glared briefly over his shoulder.  “Do us all a favor and take a hike, or else, Devo or no Devo, I'll launch you over the ravine myself!”

“Yeah!  Maybe her wings will guide her faster into the ground!  Heheh!”

“Pfft—Braxx, you're an idiot.”

“Bring it on, hotshot.”

“Don't make me!”

There was more laughter.  The world was too loud, far too loud.  Scootaloo's heart was nearly beating out of her chest.  This was a bad idea.  She cursed the pegasus spirit inside of her that thought it was the right thing to warn these living creatures.  Slowly backing away, she thought she heard a rattling sound in the rubble off to her side.  Spinning, she stared with twitching eyes.





The rattling doors to the elevator car flew open with a clang.  Slowly, Scootaloo trotted out into the shadows.  She heard the muffled cacophony of the goblins' clan meeting, only now it was directly overhead.  Through a web of translucent lanternlight wafting down from the ampitheatre, the last pony shuffled down the thin corridor, flanked by the Rust-Bleeder thugs.  The hallway opened up into a boiler room, consisting of an intestinal mesh of brass pipes and steaming vent grates.

Standing off to the side, leaning against a series of rattlings valves in all her gangly, lanky glory, was a tall imp with long green hair.  “I'm a little surprised that you came, four legs.  But it makes me happy, because now I know that we are both scavengers of what the Wasteland has to offer, yes yes yesss?”

The thugs parted ways, giving Scootaloo room to stand on her own and squint curiously at their goblinette boss.  “You... Don't you work for Haman?”

“Hmmm... I work for silver strips, no matter the appendage of the boomer who gives them to me,” she muttered, gnawing on a flake of dead flesh along the back of her tan knuckles.  “After all, beggars can't be choosers in this world.  However, they can all be corpses, if they aren't careful.  Yes yess?”

Scootaloo gulped a nauseous lump down her throat.  “Uhhh... lady?  What's wrong with your skin?”

“It's that time of month,” the tall goblinette sighed.  “Though, as of late, every year of my life is full of such months.”  She hissed and kicked at an infernal vent blowing mist at her from behind.  “I freaking hate steam.  Don't you?”

“Coming from a goblin, I don't know how to respond to that.”

“A goodly notion, four legs.  Allow me to get more relaxed if you have the spit to spare.”  Miss Ryst lowered her hand and stood up straight, loosening her body muscles.  Regardless, her right eye twitched more and more under the effort of what she did next.

A nervous Scootaloo instinctually reached a hoof back to her copper rifle, but paused and watched in awe as every tan stretch of skin across the thug leader's body unfurled—like a sea of twitching butterfly wings—and soon there stood a tall body fashioned out of gnarled red scales, and half of it shedding with flimsy, snow-white blankets of dried skin.

“A naga...”  Scootaloo muttered out loud, her scarlets reflecting a reptilian figure with razor sharp claws and a barbed tail.

The once-goblin's quivering eyes opened, and they were now pale green slits.  “An itch that can never be scratched,” she muttered in an off-center voice, flicking the fingers of her left hand to shake a sheet of dead white skin off.  “We all have one somewhere.  Then there are those of us who have it everywhere.  Hmmmm... the boomers can never understand... not like you and me...”

Scootaloo blinked.  Swallowing, she stood up straight.  “You're her.  You're Razzar, the shape-shifting mercenary that the Golden Gang is looking for.”

“Darling four legs, everybody is looking for me,” the former Miss Ryst said, her voice a hissing thing.  Her jittery eyes bounced across the room as she gulped and added in a murmur, “Except for myself.  I am too busy with stale, smelly half-lings.”  Her tongue darted briefly between sharp teeth, a white sea of fangs against a crimson maw.  “But what is around us is neither here nor there.  I would very much like to speak with your ears if your ears still have the good sense of hearing, yes yes yesssss?”

“You know what I'm here to talk about,” the equine Outbleeder murmured with a suspicious frown.  “Just what do you want to get off your chest, in case you haven't already?”

“Mmmm... a ticket, four legs...”  Razzar gazed fitfully Scootaloo's way while gnawing on the dead skin hanging off her knuckles.  “A free trip to the inner pits, to get that which you so desire, with no bad boomer to shoot you.”

Scootaloo stared at her, and slowly her ears twitched.  The world was once again a desolate basin for collecting blood, and goblins and trolls both leaked it all the same.  After a lingering few seconds, the mare's lips dripped, “Okay.  I'm listening...”





While Braxx and Matthais chuckled through the air of the Cloudsdalian ruins, a young Devo marched onto the plateau's cliffside with a frown.  “Okay, Matthais.  Just what's the big problem?”

The gray goblin in question pointed up at the young pony.  “Your precious glue stick of a pet keeps bothering us in the middle of our extraction!  If you love the stupid horse so much, prime Hex-Bleeder, why don't you just put a leash on it!”

“Or do you not want us to get these tools back after all?!”  Braxx frowned.  “With all due respect, Devo, sir, I'm tired of wandering around here, scavenging for food, when we could be back on the surface manifesting Petra like we were born to!”

“All in good time, my brothers,” Devo said.  Slowly, he turned and gazed up at Scootaloo with a calm expression.  “Is there something that concerns you, pony?  My companions and I have been working towards this moment for a long, long time.”

“There are trolls everywhere,” Scootaloo said, her eyes flickering forth her breathless earnesty.  “And I do mean everywhere.”

Once more, the many goblins chuckled as they gathered around the grappling hook and its launcher.  Devo hissed at them and glanced back at the pony, his face serious and contemplative.

“I'm not making this up!  I've spent the better pat of two weeks just barely avoiding them!”  Scootaloo said.  “Sure, I may not have a whole lot of food and stuff left, but so long as I stay near the defenses of my shelter, I can outlast them just long enough to possibly survive.  The thing is, I don't think they're only after me!  I've watched their ranks shifting about through the ruins, and I think it's only a matter of time before they launch an attack on you guys!  That's why I was saying—”

Matthais' guffaws could be heard across the cliffside again.

Scootaloo frowned and spoke louder, “That's why I was saying that you should all cut your hair!  Trolls have this crazy sense of smell, and they go after the scent of one's follicles first!”

Devo glanced closely at the young equine's shaved mane and tail.  He squinted.  “You're certain of this, pony?”

“Look, I know what you're all thinking!  The truth is, I'm not doing this as a desperate plea to get help from you guys!  I don't need any of your resources, food, or whatnot!”  Scootaloo clenched her jaw.  “I just don't want anything bad to happen to you either!  Is that so hard to freakin' believe?”

“She's a real class act, Devo.  Heheheh—You got yourself an amusing pet.”

“Matthais, please...”  Devo sighed, turning to face him.  “We already know she's not the type to ask for that which she hasn't earned.”

“Yeesh!  What prime Hex-Bleeder died and made you goblin horse whisperer!”

“Matthais, we've talked about this,” Devo groaned.  “I can only tolerate your mouth so much in the company of my fellow clan-imps.”

“I'm sorry, boss, but the more you show that pony mercy, the more I fear for the state of your mind...”

All this time, Scootaloo was barely paying attention.  In the middle of the large group of half-ling engineers, she caught sight of a white object stirring out from underneath the rubble.  Her eyes followed a limping white rabbit with one ear missing.  In a frightened breath, the thing scurried away from the cliff-side, away from the group, and off into the shadows.  Scootaloo's eyes brightened, and she gasped in horror.  “Th-They're here!”

“Huh?”

“What?!”

“The heck is she going on about?”

“Who's here?”

Scootaloo stomped her hooves and shouted, “We gotta go!  We gotta go now!  Right now!”

“By Dimming's blight!”  A gruff imp stood up, waving a Cloudsdalian spear and frowning across the way.  “Devo, could you just let us put her out of her misery already?  This is getting downright pathetic—”  His breath was cut short as his windpipe was bloodily exposed to the ashen air.  A pair of pale claws had ensnared him from behind, and soon his torso was ripped to ribbons by three shrieking trolls pouncing onto his shoulders.  Already torn in half and spilling his bowels out across the plateau, the ambushed goblin nevertheless managed a long wail of sentient horror.

Braxx and Matthais spun, their eyes wide.  Devo jerked to action, whipping out an expertly constructed bow-and-arrow.  Beside the clan leader, the air sang with glinting weapons held up high, but even that was drowned out as a solid ring of leathery monstrosities poured in on the gathered crowd, bathing the rubble with blood and torn skin.

Scootaloo watched this for the first breathless second of comprehension, and then the shivers swam through her body as...





...she hid herself in a hollow of earth dug out from beneath a foalish sandbox.  Trembling into a fetal position, the orange-coated orphan bit her lip and silenced her frightful whimpers as she heard the stallions' hoofsteps getting closer and closer.

In her desperate flight, she had fled to the site of Cheerilee's schoolyard.  The playground offered many possible hiding places, and she had decided upon scrunching her petite body beneath the sandbox.  In her haste, she realized that she hadn't refilled the ditch she used to climb under the structure.  Now it was too late to amend her error, so she huddled there, trying her futile best to keep still.

The breaths of the social workers hovered directly above her impromptu shelter, vibrating the air with their murmuring voices:

“I could have sworn I saw somepony run out here.”

“Maybe it's a filly who's late for school?”

“It's a holiday, remember?  There's no reason for a kid to be out here all on her lonesome.”

“This is a nice town.  Lots of colts and fillies wander about.  They're safe.”

“Yeah, maybe for now.  Times are changing.  For such a quaint town, this was the sight of Nightmare Moon's return.”

“Wow, no way!”

“And did you hear about the dragon that blotted out the sunlight for a week?  I'm telling you, there's no place in Equestria that's safe these days.”

“Well, not like it's the end of the world.”

“True.  True—Yeesh, just where did she go?”

“Beats me, want to have a look around?”

“Let's go in opposite directions...”

“Got ya...”

Scootaloo took a deep breath, but on her next exhalation, her teeth chattered.  She gasped, clutching a hoof over her mouth as she stared, wide-eyed at the shadowed lengths of the world underneath the sandbox.

“Shhh... Did you hear something?”

“Hmm?”

“I think it was coming from over here...”

The hoofsteps grew closer and closer.  The earth around Scootaloo started to shake.

Shedding tears, the little orphan clenched her eyes shut and hugged herself like she hugged this moment, this place, this atmosphere that was hers to earn but soon would be gone, because she was about to have everything that mattered to her in her life dragged away in a blink, along with all the colors of the rainbow that framed it, that held it, that flew it beyond the realms of the impossible.

“Please, Dashie...”  She murmured against her better judgment.  The ground shook and it was the only thing she could do.  “Please... come find me...”



>  End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Eight – Something Worth Shining On






        Haman was a dry, withered leaf of an imp.  His yellow flesh was liverspotted and his bony limbs resembled scorched tree branches that had survived the Cataclysm.  As if he wasn't unsightly enough, his gangly features were offset by a protruding belly that spoke volumes of his luxurious lifestyle and yet nothing of his tenacity.  The latter was attributable only to the Rust-Bleeder's wealth, as was evident in the sparkling cane that he supported himself with.  The handle-piece of the platinum stick was a small, crystalline dome, within which several perpendicular gears ticked and rotated against each other in a perpetual mimic of Petra.  As the elder goblin rode a lone elevator monogrammed with his own name, he leaned against his cane and sighed.  Off his skull hung two leathery spokes, a pair of ears that had lost almost all of their lobes through years of rot and decay.

        “What's the matter, sir?” inquired a dark-haired goblin wearing black shades, one of four bodyguards that were flanking the wealthy clan leader.  “Is something bothering you?”

        The words that came out of Haman's dry mouth resembled crackling embers more than sentient speech, “What else, Fredden?  Nnnngh... I only hope she knows what she's doing by talking personally to that sky-stealer.”

        The dark haired goblin smiled placatingly.  “She's not let you down before, boss.  If I'd say so, she's worth every bit of the four hundred thousand strips.”

        Haman of Rust Blood mumbled, shifting his weight on the golden cane, “I'd give four million just to be able to take a piss without it hurting.”

        The other guards chuckled.  Fredden gave them a glare, adjusted his shades, and uttered, “Keep your chin up.  We're almost at the meeting.  You're always good at moving a crowd.  Pretty soon, you'll not have anything to stress about.”

        “Boy,” Haman glared aside at Fredden through faded, amber eyes.  “If I wanted you to ego-stroke me, I'd have paid you twice as much as Miss Ryst.”  He gripped tighter to the ticking globe atop his cane as the elevator car shook and rattled in its descent.  The elder goblin gazed down through the metal grates blurring by.  “Truth is, I could use without the crowd whatsoever.  There's no sense in a dead world having this many morons flocking over one giant hunk of metal like hungry ants.”

        Fredden smiled nervously.  “What else is Petra good for, sir?”

        “I've long seen Petra as a fire, Fredden,” Haman slurred, his face suddenly sleepy, exhausted.  “It excites us all, but it also consumes.  Someday, boy, that fire will go out.  What will it be like?  A whimper?  A puff of smoke?  Who will be around to earn strips from something so pathetic?”

        “I... I don't think I get you, sir.”

        “Of course you don't.”  Haman's lips curved slightly.  “You're a good imp.”  Suddenly, a  olden aura of torchlight bathed across the elevator car, followed by the roar of dozens upon dozens of disgruntled goblins.  The prime Rust-Bleeder's eyes lit up as he put on a shiny grin.  “Well, the strips are clattering away!  The show must go on.”  He gripped the cane tight as the car came to a noisy stop.  The doors rattled open, and Haman limped his patient way straight into the noise, flanked by his four yellow-banded guards.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Warden's green ears pricked upon hearing a rise of commotion.  Gazing down the rows upon rows of ampitheatre seats, he saw a yellow, hunched figure shuffling towards the center of the meeting.  All around the elder Rust-Bleeder, the families of Petra were murmuring, squabbling, and occasionally growling.  The room was full of pale expressions, both shocked and angry, as the excitement burned itself loudly and then settled into a tittering hush.





	Warden shuffled from afar, briefly wondering if the entire ampitheatre was going to pounce on Haman and rip him to shreds.  The crazy scene briefly went dark as the Outbleeder bandanna fell over his eyes.  Wincing, Warden pulled it back up over his emerald brow and re-tied the thing, all the while his aquamarine eyes were constantly and forlornly darting towards the image of a lone elevator door far to his side, leading down to the shadowed intestines of Petra, where a certain pegasus had descended.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Hmmm... We both want the same thing, four-legs.  Yes yes yesssss...”  Razzar, formerly Miss Ryst, said.  She jerked her neck to the side and scratched at a loose sheet of dying skin flaking off her red scales.  “Is it funny that there are just so many smelly boomers in the way?  I don't remember the scent of my mother.  Do you?”

        “Some things are easier than others to forget,” Scootaloo murmured, suspiciously eyeing the naga as she strolled about the far side of the cramped chamber full of steam pipes.  The goblin clan meeting roared directly overhead as she spoke to the shape-shifter, “Do forgive my one-track mind, but I think you said something earlier about a free trip to the inner pits.”

        “One spit at a time, pony,” Razzar said, waving a hand that she proceeded to gnaw the knuckles of.  “Hmmm... It's hard, isn't it?  To be working so long for an imp under a cold shower of promises.  It's like the reverse of hatching from an egg: thing gets darker and darker.  Soon you can't remember why you ever began working for him in the first place.”

        “If you're talking about my labors for Devo of Hex Blood, I'm not sure what you know... or what you think you know.”  Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  “But that imp is a creature of integrity.  Such a thing is hard to come by in the Wasteland.”

        “Integrity... yes yes yesss...”  Her left eyeslit twitched a pale green the last pony's way.  “You see this in him because he told you that it is there?  Hmm?”

        Scootaloo glared.  “He's saved my life in the past... twice...”

        “A goblin who saves a pony...”  Razzar nodded, flexing her claws while a clump of dead skin hung off her wrist.  “Hmmm... if I could see past my spit, I would write a book.”  She jerked her neck and shuffled to the side, murmuring, “Sister four legs, a boomer only saves a peace of meat to carve his name into it later.  Hmmm... Sometimes he carves an entire memoir until the meat has become stupid and tenderized.  Yes yessss?”

        “If you're such an expert on indentured servitude in the realm of imps,” Scootaloo said, narrowing her gaze on the naga, “Then what keeps you doing so much dirty work for Haman?”

        “My life is dirty work, four legs,” the lizard woman briefly hissed.  Her barbed tail flicked as she stared cockeyed at the pegasus.  “Dirtier than yours?  Hmmm... Truthfully, I cannot judge.  But I can guess.  A very fuzzy, tasty guess, like shooting steam bolts at feathers.  Do you remember crows, four legs?”

        “Uhm... What?”

        “Crows, pony.  Shrieking streaks in the sunlight, colored with the blood of trolls.”

        “Sure...”  Scootaloo shifted nervously, gawking at the twitching character.  “I remember crows.  What pegasus doesn't remember a bird, no matter the color?”

        “I was old enough to remember them, four legs, before the lights of the world went out.”  Razzar's green eyeslits briefly calmed just long enough to stare into a grand, steaming nothingness.  She flexed one arm before a cluster of pipes.  In the dim haze of filtered lanternlight, her red scales blended with the copper surface of the metal cylinders.  “I was basking on the shores of the Bay of Nebula.  The Sun was bright and wicked.  It wove hot spit into my heart, and then it exploded.”  Her razor sharp teeth chattered briefly.  The skin on her bones briefly flashed a white platinum before dulling back to crimson.  “So many dead brothers and sisters, four legs.  So many wriggling tails... yes yes yesssss.  No matter how hot the seas boiled and the sand turned to glass, the crows came.  The crows came and ate the scales off my siblings.  It was the last feast of a golden, desperate world.  And then what happened?  Hmmm?”

        Razzar shuffled about and gazed at the last pony through a twitching, right eye.

        “The crows all dropped dead.  They ate of dead flesh and they became dead flesh.  Then, when days rolled into weeks and there was no more sunrise or sunset, I ate that dead flesh, and I knew what I had been born for.”  She jerked her neck and scratched at the skin peeling from her chin.  “Hmmm... Do you not see?  We are all dead crows on the inside.  Haman and the other boomers?  They are the deadest, blackest of crows, and there's a burnt beach waiting for them... waiting for all of them.  It is all a matter of time.”

        Scootaloo blinked at Razzar.  She turned and glanced at Otto and the other goblins observing the conversation from a distance.  Raising an eyebrow, she looked back at the naga.  “Does Haman and his associates know of your... colorful opinions?”

        “That's just it, four legs,” the shape-shifter hissed and tapped the handles of her holstered pistols with nervous claws.  “Spit is spit, and silver is silver.  Hmmm... They only know the truth that they allow themselves, and all of it is paved in strips.  It may not be a noble truth, but it is a useful one.  Useful truths are the only truths that matter, which is why I'm attempting to speak to the scavenger inside you.”  She twitched and licked her teeth.  “A pack mule, you are not, pony.  These goblins are smelly boomers.  You?”  Her tongue darted out briefly.  “The Wasteland hangs off you like a mother's breath.  Yes yes yessss... You live to scavenge, not to beg.  I came here to Petra to take, not to ask.  Haman is but a vessel.  He is not my master.  Can you say the same about yourself and the prime Hex-Bleeder?”

        “Are you telling me that you're not a servant to Haman of Rust-Blood after all?”  Scootaloo remarked, squinting.  “Just what kind of a deal are the two of you making?!”

        “Stop... nnnngh... thinking like a boomer, four-legs!”  Razzar briefly snarled.  Panting, she rode down a wave of twitches and seethed, “This is not about servitude or deals or any of that spit!  This is about the one thing that matters in the Wasteland, that which is thicker than blood, that which can get you what you want much faster than Devo's poetic integrity or any other boomer's meaty promises!”

        “And just what is that?” the last pony asked.

        Razzar stared at her evenly for once.  “This is about business.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “There is a rift,” Haman said, “A fissure, a division, if you will, and it is threatening to tear this beloved imp city of ours to shreds.”  The yellow-fleshed elder balanced the firmness of his hoarse voice before launching it boldly up and down the ranks of tense, mesmerized clan leaders.  The many goblin elders hung on his every word like the floor of the chamber was made of acid.   “There are many imps who desire power, many of them within my own flock of Rust-Bleeders, and I have endeavored as of late to keep them in check.  However, even a goblin of my own polynumerous resources can’t stop the spread of vermin everywhere.  It is because of this that I have been forced to spill the blood of imps in your streets.  I assure each and every one of you good, righteous, hard-manifesting goblins of Petra that the only blood I have ever shed or plan to shed is that which has belonged to me.”

        A hushed murmur fell through the crowd.  The many colored clans hung in a cyclonic formation around the oldest and richest member of the city as the prime Rust-Bleeder cleared his throat and continued with his somber address, all the while slowly and methodically twirling the translucent cane handle of whirring gears in his claws.

        “My dear brothers, I am a very old goblin.  I have been manifesting Petra for a long time.  I wish to die with my pride for this city’s accomplishments fully deserved.  Most of all, however, I need to die with my senses intact.  This wish of mine is threatened by rebellious, young, upstart imps as of late who do not have a respect for tradition.  If I act as though there is no conspiracy transpiring beneath our very earlobes, then I am not acting as a responsible imp.  For the sake of tradition and the sanctity of the families of the Thirty-Five platforms, I have chosen for the time being to halt Rust Blood production—not as an impediment to this city’s prosperity—but to make the task of Miss Ryst and my other faithful subordinates a lot more feasible as they endeavor to squash this pathetic uprising.”

        The finality of his statement was made evident by the bevy of dead seconds that he allowed to follow the utterance of it.  Slowly, the room bled into a cacophonous assortment of hushed murmurs and anxious squabbling.  Warden fidgeted, uncertain what was going to be said next.

        Then, out from the crowd, a lone voice loudly yet rather pleasantly rang forth, “Are we not goblins?”

        The council chamber fell into a hush.  A pale sheen of exasperation washed over Haman’s liver-spotted face.  Sighing, he was already turning to glance halfway up the ring of seats when a large goblin to his side spoke.

        “The Council Recognizes Devo of Hex Blood.  Prime Hex-Bleeder, do you wish to expound upon your statement before Haman of Rust Blood?”

        The aged blue goblin with white dreadlocks smirked from his seat.  “Oh, how I do adore the chance to give a good speech.  Evidently, that is Haman’s proficiency, so I shall not endeavor to emulate his greatness.”  He cleared his throat, stood up, and spoke before the crowd, “What I mean to ask is simply this: is it or is it not within our calling to manifest Petra?”

        The crowd muttered in a cloud of numbness to Devo’s blatant rhetoric.  A few spaces away from Haman, Warden took note of a frazzled Franken of Glass Blood listening to the entire proceeding, nervously shivering as if the temperature of the place had become several degrees lower.

        “I have long believed, my dear brothers,” Devo spoke, “That Petra is but a fraction of what it can be.  We imps can be blossoming something great and beautiful across this Wasteland, whereas so far we have only managed to hammer forth a flimsy destiny at best amidst the desolation within which so many of us are born.  We have it within ourselves to be more than clans, to be more than the disparate clusters of ideas and dreams.  These many families who make up this city have it within themselves to become something fantastic, grand, and blissfully cohesive.  As it is the nature of our blood to manifest Petra, I do sincerely believe it is the nature of our spirit to achieve a singularity that can maintain the product of our blood-bound talents.”

        “Just what are you attempting to convey, old friend?” Haman finally tossed Devo’s way with a tired, amber gaze.

        “Just this, Haman,” Devo calmly replied with a grin.  “What you call a rebellion, I call the natural inclination of impkind to unify the families.  Death and chaos surrounds us in this Wasteland, and there are so few goblins joined together to face outside threats, even fewer willing to work together in such a righteous cause.”  The several clan-leaders were already murmuring in shock around him as he continued, “Instead of being a rational goblin and calmly asking your own flesh and blood why they’ve endeavored to leave your clan and branch out, you’ve taken it upon yourself to destroy any and all vaguely-labeled dissidents in a violent and unprecedented purge.  You’ve stained the streets of your own platforms and those of your allies in the name of Rust-Blood’s supremacy, but have you for once thought about Petra’s supremacy?”  The Hex-Bleeder’s copper brown eyes narrowed on the distant clan leader.  “You’ve done more than freeze your own industry, Haman.  You’ve stunted the growth of your own clan, and invariably those who would do business with you.  Has it occurred to you that your inexplicable actions have damaged more than this city’s profit, but you’ve come to threaten the very fabric of Petra itself?”


        The audience broke into a loud roar, as the council chamber literally split down the center between those who accepted Haman’s placating words and those impassioned by Devo’s audacity.  Whatever tranquility the prime Rust-Bleeder had hoped to quiet the crowd into accepting: he had lost it completely.  Frustrated, he glared across the many seats at the prime Hex-Bleeder, staring daggers into the one goblin that utterly shot down his one chance to keep the other families of Petra quiet.  Devo merely smirked back, as if evidently proud of the wrench he had thrown into the spokes of Haman’s further delay.



        Warden was leaning forward on the edge of his seat at this point.  The goblin teenager was mesmerized, so much so that he barely noticed the three impish shadows strolling up towards him until it was too late.

        “Hey.  No-Bleeder.  What's with the bandanna?”

        The green youth glanced up, blinking.  “H-Huh?”

        Three young goblins with matching brown vests glared down at the teen.  “You're too young to be anyone's intercessor.”  The tallest of the trio snickered.  “What is this, a joke or something?”

        “Look, I'm just sitting in on the meeting, acting as the ears of an Outbleeder,” Warden said, maintaining a brave frown for composure.  “If you want to get anything out of this, you'd pay attention too.”

        “Get anything out of what?!”  The tall goblin frowned.  “Haman's dragging his heels and Devo's being senile again.  This city's never gonna unify!  Especially not when we have branded bums like you trying to pass yourself off as an Intercessor!”  His companions snickered.

        Warden shifted nervously in his seat.  For the millionth time in so many anguishing stormfronts, he tried pulling the edge of his vest down over his horseshoe mark.  As always, he failed.  “Look... I don't want any trouble...”

        “Do you know the penalty of illegitimately passing yourself off as an Outbleeder?!”  The imp sneered.  “Do you know what all these bleeders will do to you?”

        “I'm telling you...”  Warden's eyes narrowed with a sudden anger.  “I am working for Hex Blood's Intercessor!  I'm practically an Outbleeder myself!  I'm wearing the freaking bandanna, aren't I?”

        The goblin's teeth glinted, as did a dagger that suddenly sang in his grasp.  “Is that all you're wearing, half-pint?”  His cohorts chuckled wickedly.

        Warden gazed at the imp, at the dagger, then back at the goblin's face again.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Business gets us what we want,” Razzar murmured against the red scale of her knuckles as she shivered before an array of rusted valves.  “Business gets us food for our bellies, and drinks to forget all the stormfronts with.”  She gulped and darted her tongue out.  “I have seen many, many stormfronts in the Wasteland, sister four legs.”

        “Jee...”  Scootaloo dryly muttered.  “I had no clue.”

        “You can get a lot done with business, pony,” the naga hissed.  “You can buy airships, bottle flames, and move mountains.”

        “Like Mount Ogreton?”  The last pony remarked, leaning her head to glance at Razzar from an angle.  “Just how many silver strips did the Mountain Ogres pay you for sabotaging their enemy, the Fire Ogres?  It couldn't have been a lot, or why else would you be in contract with Haman?”

        “Hmmm... All good questions.”  Razzar's right eye twitched towards Scootaloo.  “And when the Great Gilliam's battlecruiser went down in the Northern Heights, was it nearly as profitable?”

        Otto and the goblins exchanged mute glances.

        The last pony merely stared at the naga.  “What does that have to do with anything?” she bluffed in a monotonous voice.

        “Hmmm... Only that I am not the most wanted creature in the Wasteland, not like sister four legs thinks,” Razzar hissed.  “Some of us are the targets of the Golden Gang, and some of us are the pets.  Hmmm... Anything and everything is just a varying degree of luck.  Yes yes yesss?”  Her razor sharp teeth showed briefly as she shivered to say, “But do not think for a second that either vessel of fortune is any more righteous than the other.  We have lived far too long to be as white as the snow that blankets us out there.”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  She gazed down at the metal bulkheads.

        “Tell me, pony.  Give me the spit,” Razzar lisped.  “When was it that you lost all color?”

        The pegasus glanced up sharply.  “I beg your pardon?”

        “I was twenty winters old and my husband had died,” Razzar said in a ghostly wheeze.  “The moonrocks had finally stopped falling, and we were starving—myself and my children, such delightful, squirming broodlings.”  Her twitching eye slowed to a pale strobe as she fed the lengths of frosty memories through chapped lips.  “I went out beyond the petrified sands, hunting for something to eat, when a band of diamond dogs ambushed me.  After four days of beating, they used my orifices for that which their paws were far too dry to perform themselves.  Hmmmm... It was like parting a great black veil of feathers when they finally marched away, and when I crawled back to my nest, the world was gray and cold, like a blank slate.  Everything finally made sense, yes yes yessss.  I knew how to solve the hunger of my children: I ate all seven of them.  I can still taste their tails when I swallow something down hard today.  Do you want to know what it tastes like, four legs?”

        Scootaloo was rubbing a hoof over her furrowed face by this point.  “Nnngh... No, not really...”

        Razzar leaned forward and hissed, “It tastes like weakness.  Not for one spit, not for one belch have I let myself forget that.  It has kept me alive all this time...”  She shuddered and gazed into the pipes, gnawing on her knuckles.  “Hmmm... for what it is worth.”

        The last pony glanced up at those last words.

        Razzar gulped and then said, “Any boomer who pretends to have integrity is either lying or stupid.  Most of all, he is weak, and any pony who works for him is weak... or is allowing herself to become weak.”  A twitching eye darted back towards the pegasus.  “Do you want to be weak?  Or do you want to get into the pits?  One is achieved through spit, the other through business.  If we keep our canter the same, four legs, we can both have what we want... which is a rare thing granted us in the Wasteland.  Yes yessss...”

        “What...?”  Scootaloo winced, struggled against it, but eventually uttered, “What are you proposing, exactly?”

        “Patience, four legs,” Razzar said.  “I simply need you to wait it out.  Work by not working.  Stop being a servant and soon you can be a scavenger again, like you're used to, like the Wasteland has bred you to be.”  She tore loose a thin sheet of dead skin from her knuckle, spat it to the floor beneath Otto's twitching feet, and stood up straight.  “In a matter of days, the pits will be open to all creatures that wish to venture in, for the boomers will be out of the way for good.”

        Scootaloo gulped hard.  She felt the weight of the copper rifle in her armor.  “Just what the heck are you and Haman planning, Razzar?”

        “Do not spit so hard, four legs,” the naga calmly replied.  “What the prime boomer-bleeder wants, the boomer-bleeder will get, no matter what we do.  Business is business, and soon all the useless blood in the way will rot to black, like the crow feathers they are.  Hmmm... The pony would do herself a lot of good to try not to do a lot of good.  Honor is a noble word, but it hardly buys you zeppelin parts.”

        “What makes you think I just won't go to Devo of Hex Blood about all of this?”  Scootaloo inquired, turning to watch Razzar shuffle over to her yellow-banded lackeys.  “You've just exposed me to a jackpot of conspiratorial insanity.  If the clan leaders of Petra find out that Haman is in league with a mercenary naga shape shifter—”

        “You really think they will believe a pony's spit over the prime Rust-Bleeder's?”  Razzar calmly closed her eyes while her red scales fluttered up from her toes to her crown, painting her entire frame with the tan facade of Miss Ryst.  A pair of pointed ears once more brimmed with golden ringlets on either side of a billowing ponytail of green hair.  “Devo of Hex Blood is an important boomer, but an old one, known for his eccentricities.  Yes yes yesssss... There is more gears shifting than what hisses with the damnable steam of this impcity, four-legs.  The fall of Petra was envisioned long before either you or I had the bad fortune of walking these smelly streets.”

        “The zeppelin crash at the Valley of Jewels...”  Scootaloo thought aloud.  “That must have been a cover for something!”  She frowned across the chamber.  “How many goblins died in that fiasco just to allow Haman a chance to make some infernal plans?!  Do the ogres have anything to do with this mess?”

        “Do not think that I've brought you here to confound you, pony,” Miss Ryst pointed with a clawed, goblin finger.  “Even if you and Devo proceed to confound me, the whole spit will only give you a headache.  Think not of the many foolish things that the boomers want, when there is only one thing that the scavenger wants.  Sometimes the best business is the direct kind, the selfish kind.  Honesty is a complicated web of pretense, a very dishonest machine if you think about it.  Hmmm... I believe you've been entangled in integrity before.  Perhaps that is how your colors died...”

        Scootaloo was silent.

        “I was afraid of that,” Razzar said with a lasting hiss.  Her hands to her pistol holsters, she performed a jittery curtsey and was gone, along with all of Haman's lackeys.

        Alone with her clopping hooves, the last pony trotted over towards the abandoned elevator.  As she stepped in, the bulkheads rattled like exposed bones.  She shuddered and closed her eyes.  Her ears filled with steam, hissing like distant screams.






        At the end of her blink, her vision filled with blood.  When Scootaloo breathed, she inhaled the bubbling heat of an imp's insides.  The author of those juices was a howling, quivering mess in front of her, because three trolls were presently writhing atop the goblin's back, digging a gaping red hole straight through to the half-ling's spinal column.

        The last pony became aware of a cyclone of scraping noises, turning meatier and meatier as the leathery forms found their targets and dragged them—wailing—to the bosom of the freezing plateau.  The air of the subterranean ruins became saturated with screams, then with jagged shadows.  Half of the gathered goblins were already dead by the time the first slew of arrows flew.

        The pegasus' twitching eyes caught the rattling sight of bow-strings.  She saw Devo and two other imps in her peripheral, scampering backwards while taking potshots with their makeshift projectiles.

        “Make for the cave, brothers and sisters!”  The blue skinned clan-leader snarled through the erupting holocaust.  Bodies fell on either side of him as he loaded another arrow from his quiver and took aim.  “Hurry!  I shall cover you—!”  His last exclamation was cut short as a pair of leathery bodies plowed into him, dragging his flailing body beyond a mound of rubble.

        Scootaloo gasped.  She heard a hissing sound to her right.  Spinning, she flung her shaved neck aside in time to see a pair of beady-eyes staring at her.  Upon visual contact, a drooling troll swallowed the last of a severed goblin ear, shrieked, and bounded towards her on all fours.

        The last pony whimpered.  On numb legs, she shuffled backwards—tripping over a loose rock.  “Unngh!” she yelped and fell on her spine.  Her four limbs flailed in the air.  The troll hollered a banshee scream and leaped high, aiming its serrated pounce straight towards the soft of her belly.  Scootaloo gritted her teeth and shrugged her shoulders forward.  The two Cloudsdalian spears fused to her canvas armor met the falling body of the creature.  They merely snapped from his murderous weight.  Suddenly she was being slammed to the ground under the girth of the leathery predator.

        The violet bled away from her dilating pupils, reflecting a glistening maw slashing down to evenlope her neck.  She shot her skull to the side as the troll's teeth scraped into the granite beneath her.  Shoving against the creature, she brandished the sheathed dagger on her right forelimb and reached for it with her teeth.  A trickle of warm drool bathed her cheek as the monster reared its head back and reopened its jaws to strike at her again.  Hissing, she clamped onto the handle of the dagger with her molars and unsheathed it, swinging the length of the rusted thing across the troll's shoulder.  Black blood sprayed, but the creature merely became angrier.  Its snout furrowed like a canine's as it clamped both hands over Scootaloo's neck, choking her.

        The last pony spat the dagger loose from her mouth as she hissed and sputtered for breath.

        Just as the troll aimed its razor-sharp teeth at her temple, a pair of bodies slammed into its side.  The troll was knocked loose by two of its siblings who were fighting over the severed leg of a goblin.  Scootaloo, in the meantime, tumbled until she rolled into a fallen beam of sky marble.

        Wincing, she stood up on wobbly limbs.  Half of her canvas armor had been torn off.  To her breathless horror, she couldn't see where she had dropped the dagger.  She glanced every which way, desperately searching for it.  Instead, she caught sight of an imp being pinned to an outcropping of rock two spaces ahead of her.  The half-ling gurgled indecipherable wails as its face was being pulled off—layer by layer—in the jaws of a mutated troll.  Two meters away, another goblin was fending off an entire circle of leathery monsters with a pair of Cloudsdalian spears.  Sweating in desperation, the imp flung his weapons at the creatures, impaled one, and made a run for it.  He was swiftly chased down by four pale predators who dragged him—kicking and shrieking—towards five more trolls, and a rampaging feast.

        Scootaloo had seen enough.  She had certainly heard enough.  Her ears echoed with the deafening noise of carnage, of perpetual shrieks and bone-scrapes.  Spinning about, she clambered and clawed her way up a steep embankment of Cloudsdalian rubble.  She was only residually aware of several bipedal shadows surging past her.  The last pony wasn't sure what were goblins or trolls anymore.  Everything was chaos and screaming.  Just as she made it up to the next tier of rubble, her heart skipped a beat... and then another, for she was being tugged from behind.

        Fitfully, the last pony looked behind her.  A troll with a hideously familiar dagger scar was grabbing her by the left rear leg.  It hissed and roared at her before pulling with all its might.  Scootaloo yelped as she slid back half-a-meter.  Her front legs scraped and clawed at the powdery earth.  Her hooves slipped and slipped.  The troll tugged at her again, whooping forth a shrill cry.  She gritted her teeth and slammed her other rear hoof into his brow once, twice.  The monster snarled, unsheathed its claws, and mercilessly clutched a palm-ful of her blank flank.  Five red rivers were ripped raw from her flesh as he tugged and tugged.

        “Nnnnghh-Ahhhh-Aaaachkk!”  The last pony clenched her eyes and wailed.  Her flank was on fire.  She could feel the blood running down to her shaved tail.  Her upper limbs went numb and her hooves started to give way—

        “Back!  Back to the Dimming with you, hellions!” a random goblin shrieked.

        Scootaloo smelled freshly lit powder.  Her eyes flew open.  Piercing the walls of pain, she stared down to see a limping goblin with a missing ear.  The bleeding imp strolled backwards, lighting the grappling hook that they had been launching just a minute before.  He aimed it like a weapon at an advancing wall of trolls.

        “Stay back!”  The shivering goblin stammered.  “Stay back!  Stay—”  He wasn't watching where he was going.  He stumbled straight into the imp that was clawing into Scootaloo.  The two fell, sprawling, onto the edge of the plateau beneath the last pony.  She didn't see what happened to them next, for the little pegasus was too busy watching the grappling hook as it slid clumsily into the collective pile of all the goblins' reserve explosives.  She gasped and tried to gallop away.  She was barely in mid-canter when the spark inside the grappling hook went off, burning into the gigantic bag full of flammable mix.

        The last time the foal remembered being rocked so hard was the day when the fateful moonrock stranded her in the inner ruins of Cloudsdale.  Her entire world spun.  She saw the gray expanse of the bordering chasms twirling past her vision three whole times.  Everything stopped so suddenly that she was certain every bone in her body had broken.  Instead, upon the third blink, she found herself gliding loosely down a fresh pile of powdery sky marble.  The air was filled with an evaporated steam, through which several chunks of ivory shrapnel fell like comets.

        Scootaloo knew she was screaming.  She felt it in her vibrating chest, but she couldn't hear herself.  The last pony's existence had been bottled suddenly in an endless ringing sensation, numbing the pain receptors in her brain so that her system registered nothing more than pulsating terror. She spun around to see a goblin staring at her from the ground, his eyes wide.  Her eyes traveled down to see his torso ending in a charred rag of smoking heat.  She realized that half of the sunken landscape around her was freshly burning from the explosions.  With an indiscernible growl, she somehow climbed up onto all fours.  She slipped on something briefly.  Glancing down, she realized that it was her own blood.  The troll's claws had done their damage on her flank, but she couldn't tell how bad off she was.  All she could see was red.

        Then she heard the first sound since the powder had ignited, and it was full of desperation.  Glancing down, she saw that a fresh, smoking crater had been formed in the plateau.  The unmistakable figures of Braxx and Matthais were bumbling desperately over each other, struggling to climb their frantic way up the steep mound of shattered sky marble.  Their half-ling bodies jumped and leaped in earnest, but between the two of them, they couldn't climb the sundered bank.  A series of whooping and shrieking noises hungrily filled the air behind them.  They turned to look with twitching eyes as a solid line of bounding trolls herded their way, slobbering like wolves.

        Scootaloo looked at the trolls, then behind her shoulder at the open lengths of the ruins available to her galloping hooves.  She seethed through clenched teeth.  Her wings twitched... then twitched again.

        Without a second thought, the young pegasus ran to the edge of the sundered sky marble.  She flung her upper body down and stretched two hooves towards the goblins below.  “Here!  Up here!” she shrieked in a voice that was a lot more high-pitched than she expected.  “Grab ahold!”

        Braxx reached up for her, trembling.  Matthais brazenly shoved him out of the way and grabbed ahold of the foal's two limbs.  Not a single word or glare was passed between the goblins as the pony pulled with all her might.  Matthais slowly rose up towards the edge of the ruins, but his weight took over halfway and he barely budged.  Scootaloo quivered and strained with the effort.  She glanced over his shoulder and saw the trolls bounding closer.  Their jaws began glistening in the twilight bands from above.

        Suddenly, Matthais' body shot dramatically upwards.  Braxx was lending a hand, shoving the goblin's body up into the pony's helpful grasp.  Equine and half-ling alike briefly cooperated upon the brink of annihilation.

        “Almost... Almost...”  Scootaloo grunted.  She shifted her rear legs and swung her body back at the last second.  With a slumping motion, Matthais finally rolled up onto even granite.  He panted for breath while Scootaloo immediately flung her limbs back down towards the other imp.

        “Hurry!  Please!” Braxx seethed through his teeth, tears running down his adult face as he reached up for Scootaloo's hooves.

        The pony grasped onto him and lifted with all her might.  She was already worn out, and Braxx's feet barely came off the ground below.  “Nnnngh... Come on...”  She seethed sideways.  “Hey!  Help me out here!  Why aren't you—?”  She suddenly gasped.  The last pony's shaved neck spun as she looked.

        Matthais was already more than ten meters away, hyperventilating, running away as fast as his pale legs could carry him.

        “Hey!  C-Come back!  Come—”

        “Oh no... Blessed Petra no!”  Braxx hollered.

        Scootaloo glanced down.  Her eyes twitched.

        The trolls were there.  In one blurred motion, their pale forms overtook Braxx.  Six sets of hands stabbed and ripped at his abdomen.  Scootaloo felt their every stab and puncture from the imp's limbs tugging at her.  With a gaping mouth of anguish, he slid down from her grasp, his four fingers clasping desperately at the last length of her hooves and then scraping at the wall as he was pulled into a sea of claws and fangs.  His screams were as wet as the insides being pulled out of him, a mercilessly slow thing as the trolls dined on their wailing victim.

        The last pony scooted away from the bloodbath.  Even when Braxx was out of sight, his insufferable pleas echoed in her ears.  She had to look twice to realize that a large specimen of the leathery cretins had suddenly pounced up to her tier of rubble.  She shrieked and flinched as the monstrosity charged at her, its jaws dribbling with a length of Braxx's bowels.

        When the troll finally pounced on Scootaloo, it was a limp thing.  She shuddered under the dead weight, flinching fitfully until she realized that she could just shove the thing off of her.  She did so effortlessly, discovering that an arrow had pierced the creature's quivering skull.  With a gasp, the last pony looked behind her.

        Half of his torso covered in blood, Devo stood on a hill of rubble and loaded one of three last arrows from his quiver.  “Run, pony!” he shouted, spat crimson from his lips, and aimed at another pouncing group of monsters chasing after the last few goblins.  “Save yourself!  We are all dead here!”

        Scootaloo panted and panted.  She blinked, and she saw a streak of color flying over a long dead world of warmth.  After another blink, Scootaloo realized that she must have obeyed the clan leader's command, for she was suddenly galloping as fast as her limping body could take her, barreling over mounds of sky marble, leaping over chunks of crushed moonrock, and ducking beneath leaning columns of ivory.  Only halfway through the sprint was she aware of the stabbing pain in her flank.  With each straightaway of the ruins that she navigated, the agony spread from her lower half up along her spine to her shoulders.  Her throbbing world was peppered by the distant screams and desperate hollers of goblins on either side of her.  She couldn't see where all the other imps were running.  The whole subterranean hovel echoed with their disparate flights of terror.  Some of those wailing voices were cut off, and as a rising cacophony of beastly howls took up the rear, Scootaloo began to understand why.

        Glancing behind her wounded self, she saw a trail of splattered blood.  Far beyond that—forming a pale sea of death—were the rampaging bodies of trolls.  How many straggling imps they must have killed along the path towards pursuing her, she didn't know... nor did she care.  The pain in her flank dissipated like a stormfront, and soon she was bounding her way forward on pins and needles.  She shrugged her limbs every chance she got, flinging the weight of the canvas armor off her body in a desperate bid for weightlessness and flexibility.

        Her agonized sprint tripled in severity the moment she broke past a cluster of dangling wreckage.  A huge gaping space of twilight opened before her, and far away—at an impossibly long distance—was the murderously steep incline that led to her hovel.  As she limped and trotted towards it, at the end of her breaths, she felt the scraping limbs of the many trolls getting closer and closer.  Their hot breaths tickled the pink stubble on the back of her neck.

        She had to run to the crest of the hill, climb a mountain of debris, and somehow make it past her tiny fort to crawl into the deathly thin crevice beyond.  It was impossible; she knew it was impossible.  Stifling a whimper, the pegasus leaped at the peak of each galloping bound and twitched her wings in desperation.

        “Come on... Come on...”  She shrieked, her voice cracking.

        The wings twitched.  The feathers caught air, ruffled, and did nothing.

        “Work!  You stupid, useless stubs!  Work!”  She choked back a sob and hyperventilated.  “Why won't you—?!”

        Her entire world flipped.  A troll had slammed into her from behind.  She screamed.  The creature screamed.  The two rolled like rattling dice into the thick wall of crushed marble.  Dust and soot flew.  Scootaloo shot up, and in a gasping breath she realized she had beat the troll to it.  In a single bound, she hopped onto the hilltop and began climbing it.

        With a snarling bark, the troll kipped up to its lower legs and scrambled at Scootaloo.

        The clambering pony flailed for her life, barely outcrawling the troll.  She navigated a small chunk of sky marble.  Hissing in pain, she bucked her bleeding leg down against it so that the offensively large shard flew straight into the troll's gut.  The creature exhaled all its breath through fanged teeth and fell back down the hillside, slamming into the bodies of all its comrades—all but one, which leaped after Scootaloo with a banshee cry, crawling twice as fast as she was.

        Scootaloo took advantage of her distance.  She clawed and floundered and hoofed her way up to the peak of the hilltop.  Her twitching eyes caught the razor-sharp ends of the wooden line of pikes surrounding her hovel.  The gaping cavern of Cloudsdale suddenly rang with a single troll's bloody scream, surging liquidly into her ears.

        With a breathless grunt, Scootaloo rolled onto her back, lifted all of her limbs, and caught the monster's pounce in four hooves.  For a split second, the whole weight of the drooling creature hovered over her.  “Nnnngh—Aaaaugh!”  She rolled backwards with all her might, flinging the monster so that it flew straight into the sea of pikes.  Ink-black blood bathed her as the impaled monster flailed from its new binding.  She scampered past it, limping the last few bone-chilling meters to her hole.  She glanced up and saw the heavy slab of sky marble hanging from a lone rope...

        The last pony tripped on her dried campfire.  She fell hard to the ground.  Her ears rang, and when the ringing stop she heard claws scraping against the rock directly behind her.  With a single lunge, the young filly dove, fell, and slid into the hole.  She spun and hunched herself against the wall just as a troll plunged in after her, shrieking.

        Scootaloo screamed.  Her niche had become a granite bottle and the troll was the cork, reaching in and clawing at her.  Its leathery ribs were stuck in the mouth of the tiny cave as it struggled and fought to wrangle its way deeper.  Its serrated fingers slashed at her chest and face, coming centimeters short.  Frustrated, the cretin howled, filling the claustrophobic tomb with hellish noise and the stench of freshly-chewed goblin intestines.

        The pegasus' eyes twitched as she shuffled her lower body and raised her legs, kicking and bucking mercilessly at the monster's face.

        The troll took several vicious hooves to the skull.  The angered beast snarled before clasping hard onto one of Scootaloo's limbs.  Instantly, its teeth sunk into the last pony's lower leg.

        Scootaloo tossed her head back and screamed, drowning in her own echoes.  She flailed until her upper limp banged against the taut cable suspending the marble slab above the mouth of the cave.  In the midst of her agony, the wheels in her head clicked true, and she pulled and tugged at the rope.

        The marble slab refused to give way.  The troll drooled crimson and bit harder.  Scootaloo felt the icy sensation of its teeth scraping against bone.

        Finally, snarling her way through a sob, the last pony lunged towards her mutilator with a war cry.

        The troll's beady eyes twitched.  It instantly released its grip of Scootaloo's leg and lunged for her skull instead.

        Scootaloo instantly fell back, yanking forward the taut length of rope in her skull's place.  The troll bit through it.  The cord snapped.  And the marble slab...

        It fell with the booming volume of righteous thunder.  The troll's body was instantly severed in two, its many snarling and clamoring siblings cut off outside as they howled in indignation.  Scootaloo's world was bathed in blackness.  She huddled there, shivering, baptized in her blood and the troll's, as she unwittingly prepared to spin several long, restless nights alone with the decaying torso of a demon.

        She was alive and safe... for what it was worth...





        With glittering, azure telekinesis, a bracelet of pearl-studded bands was slid over the earth pony's cream colored hoof.  Wearing a garland of flowers in her mane, Bon Bon gazed up, smiling rosily against a gust of warm, sea air.

        A turquoise unicorn stood across from her.  Lyra's horn stopped glowing, and she exhaled the last breath of nervousness out from her lungs as she let herself fall adrift in her partner's ocean-blue eyes.  She wore an identical bracelet over her right hoof, and the longer she stared at Bon Bon, the more her eyes glistened with the fragility of the moment.

        Without delay, the ceremony proceeded, and both mares were engulfed in the words of a unicorn stallion standing beside them in full captain's regalia.  As he spoke authoritatively before a crowd of gathered equines, the rolling waves of Dream Valley glittered in the golden sunset beyond the bow of the cruise ship sailing thereupon.

        Standing just a few meters from the couple, the maid of honor gazed, her amber eyes curved in a desperate attempt to engrave this scene into her retinae.  Harmony took a long breath, and her lungs tickled, as if the air had been sprinkled with an enchantment that all of her years hadn't prepared her for.  She bit her lip—not to stifle a sob—but to hold back a giggle as her insides melted upon each passing heartbeat.  Her eyes began to water, and she didn't understand why, nor did she question it, for it was a cleansing thing.

        “...then by the power invested in me by the Celestial state, I bind these two ponies in eternal matrimony...”

        Words were merely abstract brushstrokes to the beauty of this moment.  Harmony felt her heart skip a beat as the last breaths were given, and soon both mares leaned towards each other.  After the kiss, Lyra and Bon Bon nuzzled, their coats blending with a mutual warmth.  The salty air filled with cheers, and soon the deck rang with clapping hooves.

        Harmony joined the cadence, smiling painfully, as if she would never wear these heavenly liquid layers that she was discovering ever again.




        It was so cold.  It was always so cold.  When the elevator came to a rattling stop, it was hardly as jarring as the last pony could have wanted.  There was nothing to wake from anymore, just as there was nothing worth closing her eyes to.

        Scootaloo sighed.  She reached for the rusted door to the car, the one barrier between her and the rest of Petra.  For a moment, she lingered.  The last pony leaned her bare brow against the grated metal surface, feeling its cold texture kissing her, stinging her to the bone like so many painful stabs in her long life of gray loneliness.

        Even now, as her jaded scarlets flicked over the lengths of the elevator car's bulkheads, she couldn't find the colors.  She knew that they were there.  She knew that they existed, but they shrunk away from her at every glance.

        The colors in her life weren't all that had died.  She realized that her dreams had perished too, along with her ability to dream.  The only way to see colors anymore was to waltz back into the world where dreams were born, and it was no longer sleep that could take here there.  It was something far rarer, and greener, the only color that held any merit whatsoever in the scavenger's life.

        And she was a scavenger... to the bitter end...

        With a deep breath, the last pony opened the door, yet another lifeless gate in her existence, and marched boldly through.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The meeting had adjourned, or so Scootaloo assumed.  Most of the amphitheater had been emptied.  Only a few clan-leaders and family representatives straggled behind, talking with such desperate fervor that undoubtedly something dramatic had ensued during her absence.  Dazedly, the last pony glanced across the lengths of the large chamber.  Franken of Glass Blood was gone.  Devo of Hex Blood was gone.  As the empty seats rolled past Scootaloo's vision, the lone mare felt her heart skip a beat, for suddenly she could find no sign of—

        “Hey!  You're back!”  Warden piped up, bouncing over towards the pegasus.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard through her nostrils.  “Hmmm... More or less.”  She cleared her throat.  “What'd I miss?”

        “Pfft—Freaking loads, I'm telling you!  Haman of Rust Blood showed up!”

        “Oh yeah...?”

        “At first, it looked like all the goblins wanted to strangle his throat.  But then he turned the whole situation around, suggesting that the reason he slowed down all of his family's industry was to root out an uprising bunch of imp rebels attempting to take apart his clan!  Then Devo spoke up out of nowhere—heehee—and ripped Haman a new one, suggesting that the whole impcity secretly wants to unify and Haman's the one dude throwing a wrench in the whole thing!”

        “How delightful,” Scootaloo droned, running a hoof through her pink mane.  She gazed indifferently towards the far corners of the amphitheater.  “Sounds like a classical battle of rationalists versus pragmatists.”

        “Gesundheit,” Warden blurted.  He folded his arms proudly, though he winced for some painful reason.  “Nnngh... Whatever the case, things are just about as crazy as they started.  Some of the goblins are still ticked off at Haman, while some of them are curious about Devo's suggestion.  If anything, I think Devo was just buying us some time.  So long as there are less imps on the prime Rust-Bleeder's side, that means we can keep doing our little investigation thingy!  We still gotta meet with Franken tomorrow, right?”

        “Meet with Franken...”  Scootaloo repeated Warden's words without thinking.  Her scarlet eyes were distant.  “Right...”

        Warden squinted at her.  He smirked curiously.  “So... what did the Rust-Bleeders have to say?”

        “Hmmm?”

        “You freaked me out, y'know!”  Warden frowned.  “Please don't trot off like that again!  Without the Outbleeder bandanna, you were just asking for a bunch of goblins to cut a glue stick up—!”  He winced slightly, as if some of those choice words suddenly had a venomous edge to it.  “Er... you know what I mean...”

        “I... talked to... to...”  Scootaloo gazed over, then saw something that made her blink.  Squinting, she leaned towards the teenager.  “Wart?”

        “Hmm?”

        “What... What the heck happened to your shoulder?”

        “Oh... Uhm...”  Warden blushed slightly.  He pulled the upper half of his vest to conceal a fresh cut in his upper arm.  “It's... It's nothing, really.  I've had worse...”

        “Wart, this is self-inflicted,” the equine scavenger said.  She frowned with sudden ferocity.  “What happened?”

        “Look, I'm fine, okay?”  Warden said, staring up at her and folding his arms.  “I just... did what I had to do...”  As he said this, he bit his lip, for he felt a warm trickle running down his brow.  A fresh drop of blood was leaking loose from the bandanna tied three times around his head.

        Scootaloo saw it, and a breath escaped her lips.  In one swift motion, she yanked the article off his cranium and felt the fresh, moist blood staining it.  “What the heck did you do?!”

        “Yeesh!  Calm your hooves!  I was only trying to—”

        “Did someone talk you into this?!  Huh?”  She exclaimed, waving the soggy article in her grasp.

        He frowned back at her, his forehead anointed with red stains.  “They were going to gut me!  You think a Hex-Bleeder rag was gonna protect me with this stupid horseshoe burned into my butt?!  Or have you forgotten that I'm a no-bleeder, pony?”

        “Don't pretend that I'm a total idiot!  No civilized imp in his right mind could ever get away with gutting another goblin in the middle of a friggin' council!”  Scootaloo said in a shouting voice that turned many heads, including Warden's.  “You shouldn't have given into a bunch of stupid bullies!”

        “Bullies?!  They all wore matching clan vests and—”

        “Someone your age shouldn't have to freakin' mutilate himself for any reason whatsoever!”  Scootaloo hissed, her voice cracking.  “It's not right!”

        Warden jerked away from her, wincing.  His lips quivered.  “Y-You didn't give me any choice, pony...”  He gulped and added in a murmur.  “You left me.  You walked away...”

        Scootaloo steamed and steamed.  Defeatedly, she slumped to her haunches and held the stained bandanna to her forehead, sighing and closing her eyes.

        Warden stepped up behind her and nervously spoke, “It's... It's not like you can protect me forever, y'know.  I... uhm... I'm doing this for the strips, remember?”  He gulped painfully, but bravely.  “When this is all said and done, I'm going to have to deal with a bunch of crap worse than a little cut here or there.  But that's okay.  I know this.  Besides, it's all—”

        “Business,” Scootaloo grunted, opening her eyes and fumbling with the loose bandanna in her grasp.  “It's all business.”

        Warden blinked.  Her nervously smiled.  “Erm... Actually, I was gonna say 'it's all good'.”  He gnawed on his lip before courageously uttering, “No matter how much life sucks tomorrow, I've had my fair share of frostbeams to carry with me for a while.  I really should thank you for that, pony...”

        The pegasus took a deep breath.  Slowly, gracefully, she wrapped the ornamental bandanna around her forehead once more.  The warm moisture christened her flesh, tearing her briefly from the cold Wasteland.  She rode the sensation like invisible green flames, and murmured pitifully into the steamy air of Petra, “I'm not worth thanking for any of this.  Not now, not ever...”

        “Pony...?”  Warden murmured in a breath of concerned.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  Her eyelids twitched, and she leaned her head back.

        “Is...”  The teenager's voice strolled around her, lisping, “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”




        It was too late.  Scootaloo was crying.  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she counted her last breaths of freedom underneath the cramped, wooden belly of the sandbox above her.  Just beyond a sloping ditch, the shadows of the two social workers gathered closer to that part of the schoolyard playground.  She could hear the deep pitch in the stallions' voices, could smell what they had eaten for breakfast.

        “What's so special about over here?”

        “I... I dunno.  I could have sworn that... that I heard...”

        “What?”

        “Right under here.  Shhh!  Listen... Do you hear that?”

        “Hear what?”

        “It sounds like somepony crying—”

        Just then, thunder struck.  Scootaloo was rattled to her very core.  She gasped, but she couldn't hear herself, because the roar of inclement weather suddenly drowned out everything.  Even the stallions' voices were a distant titter as their pounding hooves sounded off their shock and alarm.

        “Gaaah!”

        “Dear Epona!  Where did that come from?!”

        “Beats the heck out of me.  Did you read up on Ponyville's weather schedule?”

        “You asked me to interview the local sheriff's office, remember?”

        “You could have at least told me it'd be raining cats and dogs all of the sudden!”

        Scootaloo trembled.  She felt the soil growing damp around her.  Glancing aside, she saw a thin river of mud rolling down the sloping ditch so that it pooled across her cramped hiding place beneath the sandbox.  There was not even the remote chance of drowning.  On the contrary, her heart was racing a kilometer a minute.  The mud doubled, tripled, and from the pelting noises all across the sandbox on top of her, the little pegasus could easily picture a freakish monsoon soaking everything around Cheerilee's schoolyard.

        In the meantime...

        “Dang it all, this is unbearable!”

        “My saddlebag's not water-tight.  The kid's pictures will be soaked.”

        “Oh, for the love of Nebula—Unngh!  Let's get the heck out of here and find some shelter.  I'm dying for some oats anyway.”

        “What about the—”

        “Look, there's nothing here, alright?!  We can't afford to screw around.  We've got two more days before they want us to head east to Trottingham.”

        “Could you explain it to me along the way?  The saddlebag's getting heavier.”

        “Yeah yeah.  Follow me.”

        Muddily, the two sets of hooves trotted off.  The galloping stallions faded with a series of distant sloshing sounds.  Soon, everything was blissfully quiet, save for the gentle roar of cleansing rain.

        Scootaloo breathed calmer and calmer.  Bravely, she gulped and crawled her way out from beneath the sandbox, one limb at a time, like a waterlogged spider taking a peak at sunlight.

        As soon as she emerged, the world suddenly changed, as if a golden lamp was being raised across the midday gloom of Equestria, erasing everything that was briefly gray over Ponyville.  The timing couldn't have been more unbelievably miraculous.  Caked with mud and her mane soaked into a pink rag, the orange foal shivered briefly, but was soon basking in the toasty rays of sunlight.  The speedy coming-and-going of the water was an impossible thing, and yet it had happened.

        Tilting up, Scootaloo's violet eyes found a break in the dissipating thunderclouds.  To her gasping joy, a rainbow appeared, but not just any rainbow...

        A blue pegasus hummed a rock anthem to herself as she floated up high, bunching together a cluster of dark clouds in her sapphire hooves, wringing them dry with textbook, pegasus precision.  Her mane and tail hairs were as dry as a desert, and her motions were calm, collected, and cool.

        “R-Rainbow Dash...?”  Scootaloo obligatorily mewled.

        “Hmmm.... Hmmm?”  Rainbow glanced down, her ruby eyes blinking.  “Oh, hey there, squirt—”  She performed a rather comical double-take, grimacing.  “Yeesh!  What the heck happened to you?”

        “I... I...”

        “Kiddo, I think you're supposed to play on top of the sandbox,” the pegasus said with a devilish smirk.  “Not underneath it.”

        “What are you doing?”

        “What does it look like I'm doing, Einstallion?”  The weather flier briefly grumbled, “I've got a rainstorm quota to meet by sundown.”

        “You...”  Scootaloo blinked, wrung the water out of her mane hair, and squinted harder at the flying equine.  “You mean to say that you were scheduled to create a rainstorm above the schoolyard for a measely two minutes and then end it?”

        “Pfft!  Just who died and made you weather expert?”  Rainbow Dash stuck a tongue out.  She finished fluffing a cloud so that it dissipated into thin vapors and dissolved naturally into the blue sky.  “If you must know, Cheerilee ordered this rain.  She's been complaining about the dying grass for weeks!”

        Scootaloo glanced down and gazed at the green, green lawn surrounding the schoolyard.  She blinked back up at Rainbow Dash.  “But the grass looks just fine!”

        “Well, somepony needs to get her eyes examined and it's not me!”  Rainbow Dash brushed her hooves off.  “Whew.  Well, that was fun.  Off to the edge of Everfree...”  She flapped her wings and began to take off.

        Scootaloo gazed long and hard.  Slowly, warmly, a smile graced her soaked features.  To the undying pluck of her heartrstrings, Rainbow Dash briefly paused and glanced back.

        “By the way, kid...”  The hovering pegasus squinted.  “What was up with those two stallions just now?”

        “Wh-What?”  Scootaloo remarked.  “You mean you don't know?”

        “They seemed to be having a hissy-fit over something.  They weren't... bothering you, were they?”

        The foal swallowed something down her throat.  For a heavenly brief moment, she was thankful that her face was soaked with rainwater, through to her eyelashes.  “No, Dashie,” she murmured in the warmest breath of her life.  “Nopony's bothered.  Everything is just fine...”

        Rainbow Dash looked back.  Scootaloo could hardly tell from a sudden glare of sunlight, but she could have sworn the pegasus had smiled.  “Well, go dry off.  You look like a wet, orange squirrel.”  That uttered, the chief flier of Ponyville soared off in a prismatic streak.

        The foal stayed there, staring after her, warmed by her own beating heart.  There were no more shivers.





        “Oh, it's just a delay, alright.  It's always a matter of delaying things with meetings like that,” Devo said.  The blue-skinned elder stood in the rusted, metal street before his warehouse on Strut Eighteen.  He folded his arms as he and Warden watched a slab of sky marble being loaded through the side doors of the Hex Blood headquarters.  “Rich goblins delay things in order for complicated financial arrangements to go through.  Lower-bleeder clans delay things just to show that their opinions still matter in the grand scheme of impcity business.  And I just delayed the proceedings so that you can finish your task as Intercessor.”  His sapphiric ears twitched upward as he smiled the pony's way.  “Besides, it is most exceedingly fantastic to see Haman sweating like a cornered rat.”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She was staring into the grand haze of Strut Eighteen's oxidized colors.  All of the many hues bled together to form a ruby sea in her vision, like somepony's eyes.

        Devo squinted at her.  “Have you lost sleep, pony?”

        The pegasus snapped out of it.  “Erhm... No.    I was just... uh... thinking...”  She swallowed and stared at Devo.  “Wart here said that you delivered a rather obvious plea for unification while responding to Haman.”

        “Your assistant has a good pair of ears,” Devo said while ruffling the green hair of the petite teenager.  “I'm beginning to understand why it is that you hired him from the street.”  He raised an eyebrow suddenly.  “Though it still doesn't explain why you had to back out of the meeting yourself at the last second.  I truly hoped you would have been there first-hand... er... or 'first-hoof.'  Eh heh heh...”

        “Never mind that,” Scootaloo dismissed with a grunt.  “Explain to me why you had to emphasize the whole 'unification' angle in front of the whole council?”  Scootaloo frowned.  “Aren't we attracting enough attention as it is with me wearing this bloody rag on my head?”

        “By 'we' I assume you mean to count yourself as one of the Hex-Bleeders now,” Devo said in a slightly amused tone.  He paced across the front of the warehouse while the last of the sky marble slab was being hoisted into place behind him.  “Yes, many goblins have been roused by the sight of an equine Intercessor galloping through the streets.  It was one of the reasons why the meeting took place today to begin with.  But the fact is, pony, I've been pushing for unification for a while.   There's a reason why the other clans think of me as senile.  When a goblin is persistent in anything beyond the superficial confines of steam-extraction or gear-making, then such an imp is labeled 'crazy.'  I have lived a long, long, and undeniably 'crazy' life, child.”  He finished this exclamation with a proud grin.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  “If only every goblin in this place was as 'crazy' as you.”  She lingered slightly, but ultimately said, “Maybe I'd have gotten into the pits sooner.”

        Devo held a finger up.  “All in good time, pony.  I may have helped delay things with the ever-suspicious council, but Haman is still up to something and the only potential lead is the information Franken has offered to give you in Strut Eleven tomorrow.”  He reached down and adjusted one of the spokes to his whirring leg braces.  A puff of steam cascaded up across his blue features as he said, “I shudder to think of what exactly he has to tell you, but if it ultimately explains what Haman has been freezing assets and spilling blood for, then everything will likely pay off in the end.”

        “Quite frankly, I don't care who gets silver and who gets a bullet to the head,” Scootaloo muttered.  “I just want into the pits.”

        Devo's responded to her calmly, “Always the business pony.”  He smiled.  “There's no need to hammer that lovely rivet into my skull once more, child.  I can take a hint.”  Devo squinted emphatically as he said, “But business—like hope—is something tempered by wisdom, don't you think?  Not to mention a generous modicum of patience.”

        Scootaloo blinked at that last word.  He gazed up at him.  “Right... 'patience.'”

        “Now, if you'll excuse me,” Devo spoke, gesturing towards the warehouse behind him, “I have some extraction to oversee with my daughter.”

        “Right.  My hooves were just getting tired anyways.”  Scootaloo motioned towards her assistant.  “Come on, Wart—”

        “One last thing, pony, if I may ask,” Devo exclaimed, holding a hand up.  His smile was subtle and enticing as he looked at her.  “Even though this whole investigation of yours appears to be hinging on what Franken says, I'm nevertheless curious about what Haman's lackeys had to tell you.”

        “I'm sorry?”

        “The goblins who took you aside,” Devo clarified.  “The ones who interrupted you at the council for another meeting altogether?  Surely they worked for Haman, judging by how your assistant here described their yellow armbands.”  He leaned his brow forward.  “Did they have anything useful to say?  Or were the insufferable cretins just threatening you?”

        Warden looked at Devo.  At the end of the elder's inquisition, he glanced over at Scootaloo.

        The last pony looked at Devo in the face.  In a blink, she saw a younger imp with short white hair leaning over a little filly's bruised and battered body in the inner ruins of Cloudsdale.  A second blink, and his pale blue skin took on a leathery quality, a nightmarish tone, just as bone-chilling and lifeless as the rest of the Wasteland's ash.  There were no colors to be seen in that dead flesh, just as there was no spectrum to be dredged from silver.

        “You know Haman's minions, prime Hex-Bleeder,” Scootaloo finally droned.  “All bullets and no brains.  It was a good thing I came out of that little pow-wow with my skull intact.”

        Warden blinked, squinting in a sudden, quizzical fashion.  It was with a nervous twitch that he turned to look at Devo again.

        The elder goblin was nodding, digesting Scootaloo's words.  Ultimately, he smiled.  “Very well.  Be careful who you follow down dark alleyways from here on out, pony.”  He shuffled off with a whurring of his leg-braces.  “Most want to extend a shiv rather than a hand.”

        “That's the first thing I expected since I came here,” Scootaloo said.  Only she and she alone winced at those words.  With a shuffling sigh, she trotted off down the length of the district.  Warden followed her at a distance, using the space between them to navigate a worrisome thought that was already forming hard creases in his green brow.







        “Devo of Hex Blood is a punk,” Fredden exclaimed with a frown.  The dark-haired bodyguard held two metal doors open for Haman.

        The frail, prime Rust-Bleeder shuffled into his luxurious office in the center of a palatial structure built in Strut Twenty-One.

        Fredden continued, “He may have a lot of years and a lot of strips, but that doesn't make him any less of a direspectful moron.”  The bodyguard swiftly walked ahead of Haman and examined the desk, tables, chairs, and sofas, ritualistically checking for hidden goblin assassins or life-threatening traps.  Once the coast was clear, he stood up and adjusted his shades with a smirk.  “If you ask me, boss, I'd say he's only trying to maintain the council's current distrust of you so that he can climb the ladder of Petra!”

        “I didn't ask you,” Haman grunted.  Palming the translucent globe on his cane, he shuffled over and slumped down in a leather armchair situated below a pair of framed paintings on the wall.  The canvas artpieces depicted goblin airships hovering over silver quarries.  “If you really don't mind, Fredden, I want to be alone for a while.”

        “Not too alone, I hope, sir,” Fredden remarked with a grin.  “With the way the whole impcity's been acting up, lately, I really don't think it's a good idea to keep you far from sight.”

        “I only pay you to think half of the time,” Haman said, running four fingers over his liver-spotted brow.  “The other half can be better spent staying quiet.”

        Fredden bowed.  “As you wish, sir.”  He backed out of the room, but paused briefly at the doorway.  “One last thing—I'm sorry.  Should I tell the crew that 'extraction is a go' for Strut Eleven tomorrow?”

        “I'll get back to you on that, boy,” the elder said and waved a bony hand.  “Leave.”

        The bodyguard did as he was told.  The double-doors shut to the lantern-lit room.  Haman sat, spinning his cane slowly between two fingers, rubbing his temple with the other hand as he glared lethargically into the corner of the room.

        “Devo, Devo... My old friend,” he muttered to himself.  “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

        A voice hissed from just behind him, “There's plenty of meat on the old boomer's bones to last through a Second Dimming.  I can think of a lot of succulent things that you can do with him.”

        Haman jumped in his seat.  Coasting down a throbbing wave of heartbeats, he turned and glared up at the surrounding walls, his amber eyes trailing.  “How many months have you been in my employ, Razzar?  You should know by now, there really isn't any need for you to impress me anymore.”

        “Impress you?”  One of the paintings shifted.  The front of a goblin airship crawled out of frame, distorted, and unraveled with a wave of scales.  Suddenly, Razzar stood beside Haman's seat.  “Rich boomer.  Kindly, rich, silver-scented boomer.”  Her teeth showed; it resembled a wince more than a smile.  “I was merely relaxing.”  She gulped and said in a deep voice, “Then you came in.”

        “You must be needing to catch your breath.  At the rate you've been scurrying all over the city, it's a wonder you haven't died of a heart attack faster than I have.”  The elder goblin grunted, leaned back in his chair, and sighed.  “So...”  His eyes gazed into the gears clicking inside the globed handle of his cane.  “Did you learn anything from the meeting you had with the Petra-forsaken horse that Devo was hare-brained enough to appoint as his Outbleeder?”

        “Hmmm... There is nothing more to learn from that soul than what one gets from looking at her.”  Razzar paced around Haman's office, her flakes of dead skin glistening in the lanternlight.  “She is the last of her kind.  Such specimens cling to desperation more than common sense.  Yes yes yesssss... she will be easy to mold.”

        Haman squinted at her.  “If you knew that in the first place, why'd you have to go and have a meeting with her?”  He frowned.  “I could have used Miss Ryst's support while in front of the council!”

        “Why do boomers hold so much worth in spit?”  The lizard woman remarked with a twitch of her neck.  “Each and everyone of you has claws and teeth just like naga.  It would be best to save the tongue for licking up what's been spilled after a righteous impulse.”

        “Don't be so bone-headed.”  Haman snorted and gazed beyond the walls of the office.  “There's ample enough merit to be had in rhetoric.  While you've been waltzing up and down the struts, tying up the clan's loose ends with your bloody crusade, I've used every trick in the book to keep the other families' heads in the clouds.  Though it may not be nearly as barbaric as your tasks, it's the one thing keeping this juggling act from collapsing.  Ever since Waven of South Blood died, the rate of production in Strut Eleven has slowed to a crawl.  Franken's being pushed to the breaking point.  I can see it in his eyes everytime I meet him.”

        “He does have juicy, juicy eyes,” Razzar murmured with a brief lick of her teeth.  She managed a brief sigh, then paced back in Haman's direction.  “If Franken cannot pick up the pace, then he is the most worthless boomer I've had the misfortune of knowing, and that's a lot of spit.”

        “I spoke with him before and after the meeting with the council.  If he knows what's best for him, he will get his head back in the game.”

        “Hmmm... It depends on where he's been leaning his head lately,” Razzar said, briefly gnawing on the back of her knuckles.  “I've had several goblins and gremlins from the central pits say that he was seen talking quite closely with four-legs.  Hmmm... yes yesssss...”

        Haman's amber eyes flickered.  “Franken?!  Consorting with a sky-stealer?!”  He sat forward and shook his cane while snarling.  “If this is true, Razzar, then why didn't you shoot the horse's brains out when you had the chance?”

        “Not that there isn't a boomer in this whole city that would adore the sight of a dead pony...”  Razzar scratched at her flaking neck and blinked towards the ceiling.  “But she is not the insufferable splinter here.  Hmmm... Devo is.  So long as that Hex-Bleeder has his red Outbleeder bandanna wrapped around her forehead, then killing her would mean setting off a chain-reaction of spit and explosions, and he knows it.  Remarkably smart boomer... hmmm... to have set a trap using hooves and mane hair.”

        “We're so close to the end, though.”  Haman uttered, his eyes bright.  “If we can just eliminate all obstacles immediately in our way, we'll have a clear shot at finishing the job!  I want you to kill that pony, Razzar!  If nothing else, it'll mean knocking Devo flat on his rear end!  Repercussions be damned!”

        “Hmmmm... I feel like I just got done lecturing another unsightly creature about patience,” Razzar hissed.  She leaned over and “walked” a pair of claws down the liver-spotted flesh of Haman's twitching skull.  “We must not hurry that which will fall down in a matter of seconds, dear boomer.  The pony will die, someday.  Perhaps by my guns, perhaps by her own.  I'm much more interested in the death we've been planning since our paths and pockets crossed.  Hmmm... yes yes yessssss, such a gorgeous sea of silver that we swim in.  Must we pollute it with such childish, impatient spit?”

        Haman took a deep breath.  Calming himself, he nevertheless frowned as he said, “I've always relied on your judgment and experience, Razzar.  Your wisdom is impeccable as always, but I almost feel like you're actually showing sympathy for a creature.  That's not like you.”

        “It's not sympathy,” Razzar said as she pulled a loose flake of skin off her shoulder.  “It's science.  Scavenger's science.  Hmmmm... And I currently have an experiment underway.  I told Devo's Outbleeder what she would need to do in order to get what she truly wants.  If she's a wise scavenger, we will find out, for she won't be showing her face again.  If she's a mindless idiot, and she spits into our plans, then I will take it upon myself to murder my sister before I had the chance to know her.  Hmmmm... It's not so terrible of a sin, really.  Sororicide makes for a hearty breakfast.”

        Haman gave her a cockeyed glance.  “'Sister?'”

        Razzar looked beyond both him and his words.  “Be a good boomer, Haman.  Call Fredden back.  Tell him that tomorrow's extraction in Strut Eleven is a go.”  She ripped a sheet of dead skin from her arm a little harder than normal.  The red scales bled.  Sighing, she sucked on the wound for a few seconds and then murmured, “I really, really hope she is as bright as her mane...”






        “So, just what did the Rust-Bleeders have to say to you?  Huh?”

        Scootaloo looked aside in mid-trot.  “Hmm?  What?”

        “You were gone for almost the entire length of the council meeting!” Warden said, scrambling to catch up with the last pony's four striding limbs.  The two walked briskly down a metal street clamboring with goblins as they made for a distant elevator.  “Surely you and those yellow-banded yahoos weren't just playing hop-scotch!  Spit it out!”

        The last pony groaned and glared ahead of her.  “I have no clue what you're going on about.”

        “Sure you do!”  Warden smirked wide, his sharp teeth showing.  “I can see it in your tail!  The way it flicks around like crazy means you're either happy or you got something on your mind, and knowing you it sure as heck couldn't be the former!  Heeheehee!”

        “I don't know what bothers me more: the fact that you think I'm hiding something or that you actually make a habit out of staring at my flank.”

        Warden gasped, “So you are hiding something!  I knew it!”  He stopped beaming just long enough to strut forward with his back straight.  “It's alright!  You couldn't tell Devo, and I respect that.”  His straight-lace expression craked into a childish grin.  “But you can tell me!  Are they plotting an assassination attempt?  Is Haman in league with the harpies?  Did his mines strike arcanium nodes?  I really wanna know!”

        “Kid, you don't know what you want.”  Scootaloo droned emotionlessly, though for some reason she couldn't look the petite half-ling in the face as she said that.  She gazed aside as the two passed by a saloon flooded with loitering goblins.  “Whatever the Rust-Bleeders and I had to say to one another, it's of no consequence to you or anyone.  It was all merely...”  She sighed long and hard, but ultimately produced “...business.”

        “Pfft!  I know a thing or two about business.”  Warden folded his arms, wincing slightly upon rediscovering the self-inflicted cut in his shoulder.  “When a creature goes to a meeting with a frown on her face and comes back just as unhappy, then it wasn't worth the time spent chatting to begin with!  I dunno what those Rust-Bleeders were thinking, but obviously they didn't have a clue who they were messing with.  Any goblin who thinks they can intimidate such a frostbeaming scavenger—not to mention Devo's Outbleeder—is seriously barking up the wrong—”  He paused in mid utterance, blinking, for Scootaloo was no longer by his side.  “P-Pony?”  He glanced back and finally found her.

        Scootaloo was standing in the middle of the road, staring straight at a street corner.  Her eyes were soft, a strange vulnerability that Warden wasn't used to.  The young imp strolled over, and only when he was situated shoulder-to-shoulder with the pegasus did his pointed ears begin registering a bizarre sound from beyond the metal curbs.

        “What's wrong?”

        “This... This is wrong,” Scootaloo said, pointing straight ahead of them.  In spite of her words, she was bearing the queerest and quirkiest of grins.  “This is so delightfully wrong.”

        Warden scratched his emerald head of hair.  He glanced over to see a gathering of young half-lings, most a few years older than him.  They hung in a corner around a band of imps brandishing a haphazardly-engineered assortment of lyres, flutes, and percussion instruments.  What resulted from this ensemble was a lively, upbeat melody that echoed off the nearby walls and metal shingles of the shantytown district.  Miners walked by, passing a smile at the tune.  Goblin families leaned out the windows of nearby households to listen.  Elders sat on rusted stoops and gazed silently from a distance, their withered ears subtly twitching with the beat.  In the center of it all, as alive as the Sun was now dead, no less then three impish couples danced merrily to the streetside serenade.

        “Okay, so it's a jamboree.”  Warden shrugged.  “Big whoop.”  He looked up at the pony.  “Can we get back to the airship now?  I'm starving for some mushroom stew.”

        “You don't get it...”  Scootaloo gulped down something hard and hoarsely said, “This is music.  This is music in the Wasteland...”  She slowly shook her head, her lips pursed in blank thought.  “I never... I never thought that—”

        “That what?”  Warden folded his arms and smirked.  “That goblins could carry a tune?  Ponies aren't the only creatures who can sing and prance around, y'know.”

        “I guess it's just...”  Scootaloo bit her lip, her mind flashing over the last twenty-five years of snow-drenched memories, and all of them lonesome.  “I've never been in the position to stand in one place and notice it before.”  Her smile was a bittersweet thing, pulling down at the edges of her moist eyes.  “Bruce has sold me records.  Some baboon at a trading post I frequent has been known to hum a song or two.  But this...?”  She inhaled deeply and squeaked forth, “This is life.  Even in a goddess-forsaken place like this, there is life, Wart.”

        “I... I don't understand,” Warden remarked, his voice suddenly weak as if he was truly ashamed at his own confusion.  He glanced at the little merry band with distant eyes this time.  “It's just music.  What's so special about it?”

        “Because it is a warm thing.  A magical thing,” she said.  “Maybe it doesn't mean much to you, but to me...”  She smiled placidly, even with each upbeat jolt of the melody that contrasted with Octavia's eloquent strings.  “...it speaks of hope.  Even I can't do anything for this world... even a last steward can't restore beauty to Equestria, it's hopeful to think that something... something like this can survive.”

        Warden gulped nervously.  He gazed numbly back and forth between the pegasus and the scene that she was enraptured in.  His voice was muted in the astronomical effort of attempting to bridge the gap of comprehension that she had just carved for him.

        Ignoring him, ignoring her own anxiety, ignoring everything, Scootaloo shut her eyes, leaned back, and bathed herself in the tones of that ecstatic melody.  The warmth that blossomed in her heart was a brief but healing sensation.  It almost felt like... sounded like...





        “You may not believe this, but I couldn't fly straight to save my life!” Rainbow Dash exclaimed, sitting atop a hilltop as she adjusted a pair of custom-made goggles in her hooves.  “For nearly two days, I was crashing into stuff left and right, and all on account of this poison joke stuff that I had brushed up against.”

        “Uh huh...”  Scootaloo remarked.  She sat across from Rainbow Dash.  She listened to Rainbow Dash.  She stared at Rainbow Dash, smiling, her eyes thin and her dimples showing.

        “Then both Applejack and her little sister went missing, and we all figured they both must have gone off to see the witch doctor.  So Twilight and the rest of us went to the Everfree Forest in search of them.  I only slammed into—jee, I dunno, like—a dozen stupid trees along the way.”

        “Uh huh...”  Scootaloo hummed.  Her eyes were warm.  Her cheeks were rosy.  Her chin was propped up on a pair of hooves as she stared, stared, and stared.

        “But when we got there, the evil witch doctor simply turned out to be a zebra who likes to brew potions and talk in rhyme, even if it doesn't make sense all the time.  Gaah!  She's got me doing it now!”

        “Uh huh...”  Scootaloo smiled, inhaling and exhaling dreamily.

        Rainbow Dash blinked, then glanced awkwardly aside at the little filly.  “And... uhm... and then Rarity died.”

        “Uh huh...”

        “And Fluttershy got possessed by Timber-Wolves and started to shoot lasers out of her eyes.”

        “Uh huh...”

        “Eh heh heh... uhm...”  Rainbow Dash raised an eyebrow and gave Scootaloo a nervous glance.  “Are you okay, kid?”

        “Hmm?”  Scootaloo blinked briefly, but a warm grin melted across her fame once more.  “Oh.  I'm... perfect...”  She exhaled gradually, still staring at Rainbow Dash, still smiling drunkenly.

        Rainbow Dash winced ever so slightly.  With a breathy chuckle, she waved a hoof right in front of the tiny pegasus' face.  “Are you sure?  Aren't you a little young to be hitting the joy juice?”

        “Huh?”  The filly briefly snapped out of her joyous stupor, long enough for her violets to blink with an innocent brightness.  “What do you mean?  I haven't hit anything!”

        “Not even your head after waking up, this morning?”  Rainbow Dash smiled.  “I swear, you look dazed and confused, but in the good way.  I've seen it in fillies before.  It's as if you got trapped under an avalanche of chocolate cookies and had to eat your way out.  I don't know whether to be happy or concerned for ya, kiddo.”

        “Heeheehee... Oh, I'm fine, Rainbow Dash,” Scootaloo cooed, looking up at her, staring at her.  “I couldn't be better...”

        “Yeah.  I can see that,” the blue pegasus said.  She smiled awkwardly.

        Scootaloo smiled back.

        Rainbow Dash gulped and glanced off towards the horizon.  “Yeah, so, there's still a lot of work that's gotta be done downtown,” she said, sliding the goggles up onto her brow so that the lenses rested below the prismatic bangs of her mane.  “No village in Equestria can recover from a parasprite swarm overnight.  Twilight's overseeing the restoration processes, but the silly bookworm can't get a bird's eye view.  That's where I come in.”  She smiled proudly.  “I've volunteered to act as surveyor and report on the damage from the skies.  It's a boring job, but somepony's gotta do it.”

        “If there's any task, no matter how crazy, I have no doubt you can do it, Rainbow Dash.”

        “Your confidence is always appreciated, ya little squirt,” Rainbow Dash said.  “Just don't be creepy about it.”

        “Oh?  What do you mean?”  Scootaloo's eyes were practically sparkling.

        Rainbow Dash lost an errant sweatdrop from her brow.  “Eh heh heh... Uhh...”

        “Can I ask you something, Dashie?”

        “Sure, why the heck not?”

        “When the day comes that you finally get to impress the Wonderbolts...” Scootaloo spoke while kneading her orange hooves into the soft grass beneath them.  “And they accept you and let you become their captain—”

        “Snkkkt—Heeheeheehee!”  Rainbow Dash let loose a gunshot of giggles.  “Ahem... S-Sorry, kid.  Don't get me wrong, I adore your confidence in me and stuff, but 'let me become their captain?'”  Rainbow Dash smiled, amused.  “What makes you think I'd be that lucky?”

        Scootaloo blinked, as if the very question was preposterous.  “You're the absolute best, Rainbow Dash.  Why wouldn't they let you be anything but the leader of the Wonderbolts?”  She pouted ever so slightly.  “An awesome flier like you doesn't deserve to be a mere wingpony.”

        “Erhm... heheh... Well put, kid,” Rainbow Dash uttered, her cheeks blushing slightly as she glanced off towards the sunny horizon over the green pastures.  “Er... What were you gonna say again?”

        “When you become the Wonderbolts' captain, and you go performing so many awesome airshows all throughout Equestria...”  Scootaloo's eyes curved ever so slightly.  “Will you ever come back here?”

        “Huh...?”

        “To visit, that is.”  Scootaloo shifted nervously and let her gaze fall sadly aside.  “Will you ever come back to Ponyville?”

        “Kid, how could you possibly ask that?  Heheh—I mean, for Nebula's sake!  I wouldn't leave this place hanging!  It's got weather to be kicked into shape and foals in trees to save!”

        “But you're just...”  Scootaloo breathed deeply.  “...so awesome, Rainbow Dash.  You deserve nothing less than to show off all your stuff throughout Equestria.”

        “I'm also loyal, kid,” Rainbow Dash said, but twitched upon the end of that utterance.  Her ruby eyes trailed off as the mare lost herself in the haze of the noonday spectacle.  She swallowed a lump down her throat and bore a smile that was both bitter and blissful.  A peace swam through her, almost as drunken a sensation as Scootaloo's rosy-cheeked gazing.

        “Dashie...?”

        “Ahem.”  Rainbow Dash cleared her throat.  Her eyes rediscovered the orange foal, and the connection was a warm, bubbly thing.  “Of course I would visit, pipsqueak.  Awesome ponies know a cool place that's worth returning to.  Only friggin' lame-o's fly off forever and never come back.”

        Scootaloo smiled wide.  Her pink tail hairs flicked excitedly.

        “I gotta go, squirt,” Rainbow Dash murmured as she stood up, dragged the goggles down over her blinking eyes, and flexed her blue wings.  “Twilight and the others need me.”  Her nostrils flared, and a calm smile alighted her sapphire features.  “I'm not about to let them down.”

        “Whatever you say, Rainbow Dash,” Scootaloo murmured, the intoxicated smile rediscovering its place across her lips.

        Rainbow Dash bent her legs, about to spring up into the air.  She hesitated slightly, gazing off towards an invisible thought soaring past her.  Contemplating it, she turned and smirked down at the filly.  “Tell you what... I should only take three hours to do what I have to do.  What say, in four hours I  meet you right here—on this hill—and we do a little something together this afternoon?”

        “Oh?”  Scootaloo's eyes fluttered.  “Like what?”

        “Oh, I dunno,” Rainbow Dash winked through the goggles Scootaloo had made for her and smirked.  “Maybe see if those feathers of yours are good for more than filling pillows.”

        Scootaloo stared up at the adult pegasus, a blank frozen expression across her face.

        Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes.  “I'll give you lessons on flying, ya friggin' numbskull!”

        The filly gasped as if she had just been dunked in a basin of ice water.  “Really?!”  Her eyes were wide and her mouth hung agape.  “You mean it, Dashie?!”

        “If I didn't mean it, I wouldn't have said it, now would I?!”

        “Oh!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!”  Scootaloo bounced several times in place, her pink mane and tail twirling behind her in the breeze like twin comet-trails.  “I would love to be taught by you!”

        “Jee, why am I not surprised?”  Rainbow Dash rubbed a hoof through Scootaloo's mane.  Her glistening grin could light up the dark side of the moon.  “I'll meet you in four hours, pipsqueak.”

        “Promise?”

        “Pinkie Pie Swear,” Rainbow Dash stuck a hoof to her eye, smirked, and flew skyward in a prismatic blur.

        Scootaloo watched her soar off towards town, slicing the air in a ribbon of glorious color.  She plopped down on her haunches, feeling her heart racing a kilometer-per-minute inside her tiny chest.  Her whole day—her entire life had suddenly been funneled down a burning cyclone of excitement and anticipation, and it would all come to a rapturous head in four hours.

        Four hours...

        Scootaloo could hardly sit still.  This was about to be the longest afternoon of her life.







        The last pony held time in a bottle.  Sitting on the stool beside her workbench, she gazed intently at the long cylinder of green flame that she was slowly rotating between her hooves.  The compressed bands of emerald magic surged against the glass barriers and their runestone seals.  No matter how Scootaloo positioned the container in her grasp, she couldn't feel a single drop of warmth from within.  She could only imagine it, so that she wondered—as she often did from time to time—if the past was all just a dream, including the past that had given her scars.

        “That's from snazzy stuff you've got there,” Warden uttered in between gulps of mushroom stew.  He sat on the edge of the hammock across from her, his legs dangling over the metal floor of the Harmony.  With a spoon, he slurped a few more creamy drops, gulped, and pointed with the utensil.  “I've heard about scavengers finding magical flame in the Wasteland and selling it for gonzo strips.  My Dad's a trader in the township that me and my siblings are from.  He told me once that green flame is the rarest of all the magic.”  He smiled, his aquamarine eyes twinkling.  “It's only fitting that you of all Wastelanders have gotten ahold of it.”

        “That's where you're mistaken, kid,” Scootaloo mumbled, turning the long bottle a few more times in her grasp before sliding it into a safe cubbyhole atop the workbench.  “That isn't green flame.”

        Warden made a strange face.  “It isn't?”

        “Nope,” the mare droned and reached for a copper magazine, proceeding to fill it with enchanted runestones.  “We ponies liked to call it “Dark Flame,” the Seventy-Fifth Magical Element.  It's what we once used to turn a malevolent entity of chaos named Discord into stone.”

        The goblin teenager's jaw dropped.  “No way!  But how come you call it 'Dark Flame' if it's green?”

        “Don't you know?”  Scootaloo looked up, her face as straight as a slab of sky marble.  “Ponies are color blind.”

        “Are you serious?”  Warden gawked.

        Scootaloo stared at Warden.

        Warden stared back.

        Slowly, the last pony's lips cracked.  The tiniest of breathy chuckles escaped her mouth.

        The goblin fumed.  He flailed on the edge of the hammock in a bold attempt to toss the spoon at her.  “You suck!  You know that?”

        “Heheheheh...”  She didn't even bother dodging the spoon.  The tiny utensil clattered ineffectually against her chest and landed atop the magazine.  She brushed it aside and resumed placing all of the runestones in place.  “You really gotta work on that gullibility factor of yours, ya 'lil squirt.”

        He folded his arms in protest, his cheeks red.  “I'm usually not this gullible.  I mean it.”

        “If you say so.”

        He glanced aside and squirmed awkwardly.  “It's just that... everything you say, even if it is in jest, has meaning to it.  I've never met someone with that sort of a gift before.”

        Scootaloo briefly gazed beyond the focus of her task at hoof.  After a brief pause, her nostrils fumed, and she resumed with her work.  “Don't take too much stock in words, kiddo.  Or, if you do, at least transform them into action.”

        He leaned his head curiously to the side.  “Is that a personal motto?”

        “If it wasn't, I wouldn't be alive today,” she said.  She filled the runestones and snapped them tightly in place with a whip of her limb.  “For what it's worth,” she added in a ghostly tone.

        Warden apparently let that pass.  “You know, maybe we're going about all this the wrong way.”

        “Going about all what the wrong way?”

        “That green stuff you've got,” he said while pointing at the glowing container inside the work bench's cubby hole, “It's gotta be worth a lot!  Even a lot more than my Dad used to say, considering you've got so much of it!”

        “What are you getting at, kid?”

        “Sell it to the gremlins who patrol the mining pits!”  She smiled wide.  “I bet there's someone in this whole impcity you could bribe into letting you get to your friends' remains alive if she means that much to you!”

        Scootaloo paused in the middle of picking up her copper rifle.  She blinked, then smirked across the Harmony at the teenager.  “Not a bad idea, Wart.  But I'm not getting rid of that green stuff for anyone or anything, at least not now.  Besides...”  She opened a slot in the top of the rifle and loaded the magazine of runes into place.  “We're already in contract with Devo, are we not?”

        “Well, you are.”

        “What, are you done working for me now?”

        “N-No!  Hardly!  I mean... erm...”  Warden clutched the empty container to his chest and tapped it nervously with eight claws.  “Unless we're finally d-done here.”

        “Relax, kid.  I'm sure I've got plenty of pathetically stupid exercises to put you through before all is said and done.”

        Warden smiled bashfully at that.  He scratched the back of his neck while murmuring, “For what it's worth, I think it's terrific.”

        “What is?”

        “That you would stay so committed to Devo even if you could possibly make more profit elsewhere.”  His smile shone like the flickering snow outside the porthole behind him.  “It's the mark of a good business pony.  Heeheehee...”

        Scootaloo cocked the rifle and blinked aside at Warden.  Something twitched deeply in her scarlets.  “Really?  A good business pony would forsake profit for honor?”

        “Well...”  Warden shrugged and glanced down past his dangling feet.  “Maybe it's not so much 'good business,' but it's something good.  I'm beginning to think that while everyone around here lives for silver strips, you live for something else... something else with more frostbeams.”  He smiled warmly.  “Is that true, you think?”

        “I'm not entirely sure half the time what I live for, kid,” Scootaloo murmured in a distant voice.  “I just live.”

        The silence following that statement was brief, for Warden was soon whistling like an extinct songbird.  “Wow, you sure are packing a lot of heat.”

        “Yes,” Scootaloo said, reaching for two more magazines of runestones and sliding them into a leather harness leaning against the workbench beside her stool.  “Yes, I am.”

        “May I ask what for?”

        “In a matter of hours, we're going to go speak to Franken.  With all the tension centered upon Haman and company, it doesn't hurt to be prepared.”

        “Prepared for what?”

        “For not having to ask myself that question.”  Scootaloo briefly cast him a glare as she finished stocking up on ammo.  “Strut Eleven doesn't exactly sound like a bed of roses.  I'm not taking any chances.”

        Warden made a face.  “'Roses?'”

        “Nnnngh... Forget I said anything.”

        “Any chance you could make me a really wicked, thick, armor vest while you're at it?”

        “You're small enough to dodge flying steambolts,” she said with a crooked grin.  “You'll be fine, Wart.”

        “Like the Blight, I will be!”  He raspberried.  “You think you've got goblins gunning after you?  I'm a walking pincushion in these streets!  Why not paint a bullseye on me while we're at it!”

        “Why bother?”  Scootaloo uttered without thinking, retracting her rifle and sliding it into her saddlebag.  “You've already got one.”

        “Oh... Oh yeah...”  He briefly bit his lip, his branded leg twitching on cue.  He gazed off towards the cockpit and the broad windshield of the upper gondola beyond.  “Too bad goblins aren't colorblind... or just blind-blind.  Life would be a heck of a lot easier if nobody had to look at me.”

        Scootaloo gazed off in thought.  Her ears twitched above her pink mane.  On an impulse, she reached for her pen-brace and then grabbed a sheet of paper from a shelf above her work bench.  The last pony then proceeded to sketch a couple of bold words on the sheet while she murmured across the cabin to the teenager.  “Tell me, Wart.  What are your plans?”

        “Hmm?  Plans?”

        “When all of this is said and done, when all of the nasty business with Haman is sorted out, when Devo has found a way to get me to the inner pits, when I no longer have need of your assistance,” she murmured, her lips moving as swiftly as her pen strokes, “where do you intend to go?  What do you intend to do?”

        Warden bit his lip.  “I... I try not to think about it too much.  It's so much easier to think in the here and now without having to worry about the future.”

        “But you can't risk ignoring the here and now,” Scootaloo thought out loud.  “This is the present, not the past.”

        “The heck are you talking about?”  Warden made a silly face, stifling a loose chuckle.  “Of course this isn't 'the past.'  I know that!”

        The orphan of time winced.  Something green poked her peripheral vision from the work bench's cubby hole.  “Sorry.  Lack of sleep.”

        “Ya think?!”

        “Ahem.”  Scootaloo glanced up from what she was writing.  “You've got to come grips with tomorrow sooner than later, kid.  I'm paying you right now because I need you, but with the life I live, I really can't afford to have a... sidekick.”

        “Heeheehee!”

        Scootaloo's brow furrowed.  “What?”

        “Ahem.  Nothing.”  Warden gulped and swung back and forth on the edge of the hammock, gazing into the whalebone bulkheads above him.  “I guess I could... go back home.”

        “You mean to your township?  West, beyond the Briar?”

        “He-e-ey... Good memory!”  He smirked at her.  “Heheh... I guess if anyone can accept me back in open arms, in spite of what's happened to me, it'd be my parents.”

        “I thought your parents bugged you because they were so hardcore about manifesting Petra.”

        “Yeah, well, what's a goblin to do?”  He hugged himself and managed a warm breath.  His aquamarine eyes glistened to a soft turquoise from the dangling lanternlight above.  “Dad is a shrewd enough Stock-Bleeder to know how to solve my problem with silver.  He'd pay all the neighbors to look away from my branding, or get a tattoo artist to cover it up—make the horsehoe look like a bunch of smokestacks or some crap.”

        “That's a stretch,” Scootaloo pessimistically uttered.  “But a good stretch,” she added, trying to smile.

        “Then my Mom...”  Warden tapped the lid of the empty soup container with his claws, gazing down into his knees.  His breath morphed into something warm, like his cheeks suddenly.  “She always  knows how to make me feel useful around the house.  As soon as I return, if I return, I'll immediately get to sweeping the chimney, cleaning the steam pipes, cultivating the mushrooms, polishing the roof shingles—you name it.  Sure, it means that the only way to manifest Petra would be from inside the home... but at least it's something.  If the whole world refuses to love me, I can still be glad for Mom.”  He took a deep breath, his brow softening above curved eyes.  “A goblin mother never shows her love by coddling her kids, she makes them into little engineers and housekeepers.  In this world... in this life, there's nothing more special than being a part of some newly built structure.  Mom understands that more than any other imp I've known.  It's because of her that, to this day, I try so hard to be... to be a good helper.”

        Scootaloo gazed at him intently.  “If you love your mom and your home so much, why'd you leave town to be with your uncle here?”

        Warden shrugged, tapped the can a few times, and let loose a hollow chuckle.  His next breath was sadder than his face could express it with, “Sooner than later, you gotta grow up and earn stuff in this crazy world.  Love is wonderful, but love... true love isn't earned.”

        The last pony heard those words.  She digested them.  Still, she couldn't shake the sensation that the taste of Warden's statement was familiar, as if it had once fluttered through her own life, secretly and unspoken, lost between the bands of colors that had once defined her.  Wrenching her thoughts away, she likewise tore her gaze from him and towards the cockpit.  Nonchalantly, she returned to what she was scribbling and murmured aside, “We've been in the air around Petra long enough.  The deadline with Franken is approaching.  I need to park the Harmony somewhere along Strut Eleven.”

        The goblin teenager nodded.  “What's stopping you?”

        “I think I could use some help.”

        “Yeah, okay,” he said.  He blinked.  His ears pricked and his eyes narrowed as a jolt ran up his body.  “Wait... Do you mean...?”




        “Grip the lever on the right and pull it halfway,” Scootaloo instructed.

        Warden sat in the cockpit seat, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement.  He had two thick Fillydelphian tomes positioned between his branded hindquarters and the surface of the chair.  While Scootaloo leaned over him, he grasped the lever sticking out from the floor of the cabin to his right, pulled a switch on the end of it, and tugged it a quarter of a meter towards the ship's stern.

        The gondola swayed and rocked.  Jerkily, but safely, it veered starboard under the goblin's manual command.

        “Okay... Steady now...”  Scootaloo eyed the shadowed edge of Strut Eleven looming before them.  There was a wide, hollow notch formed in the edge of the golden platform, with just enough space for the airship to dock.  “Okay, push the lever back to its original spot and release the switch.”

        “L-Like this?”  Warden murmured.  He bit his lip and gently did as was commanded him. With a groaning of steam vents located deep within the dirigible above, the ship angled directly with the open docking station straight ahead.

        “Very nice,” Scootaloo said, nodding with a smile.  She calmly added, “But we're still coming in too fast... not to mention from up high.”

        “Okay okay okay...”  Warden glanced feverishly across the many dials, meters, and rotating nodes dotting the lengths of the dashboard console curved about the seat.  “Wh-What does all of this mean and how do I know if I'm going to kill us all?”

        “Heheheh...”  Scootaloo snickered.  Smiling, she leaned in and pointed with a hoof at one panel after another.  “This is the altimeter.  This is the pressure gauge.  This measures forward momentum and this one keeps track of the integrity of the zeppelin's ballasts—”

        “What's the purple button do?”  Warden pointed at the bright sphere in question.  “Is it the 'self-destruct' mechanism or something?”

        “Jee, I dunno.  Let's find out.”  Scootaloo briskly slapped it.

        “Nnngh!”  Warden flinched dramatically in his seat.

        A row of metal shutters extended outward from beyond the windshield and covered half of the airship's bow.  Scootaloo very swiftly struck the purple button again, and the copper plates retracted from view.

        “Gah!”  Warden hissed through his teeth.  “You lousy bag of oats!”

        “Heeheeheehee...”  Scootaloo smirked.  “I've been waiting all my life to do that to someone.”

        “Hmmf!  I bet you were.”

        “In all seriousness,” Scootaloo said, gesturing up towards one of four chain-link handles hanging above the cockpit.  “Pull this to lower our descent.”

        Warden reached, stretched, and ultimately resorted to standing on the edge of the chair with his heels.  “Nnnngh... Got it!  I swear, even with these books, this seat is so freakin' weird!”

        “That's because it wasn't made for bipedal rumps,” Scootaloo said.  “Especially when they belong to petite little shrimps.  Now... pull gently and release when I tell you to.”

        He lightly tugged at the handle.  A puff of steam wafted outside of the vessel.  The Harmony lowered gradually until it was level with the docking station.

        “Now.”

        Warden let go and slumped back into the chair.  He giggled proudly as he saw the docking station looming into view, then proceeded to produce a nervous gulp at just how quickly it was looming into view.  “Uhhh... You wanna take over now?”

        “Are you going to earn all of your strips or not?”  Scootaloo remarked, gazing down at him.  “I'm going to need my assistant to know some basic piloting skills in case there's an emergency.”

        “R-Really?”

        “Sure.  Who knows?  A troll hitting me hard in the head when I was a little filly might make me suffer a spontaneous aneurysm one of these days.”

        “That's nice, and all, but how can I stop us from dying before it's our time to die?”

        Scootaloo smiled.  “Think back to five friggin' minutes ago, ya little Wart.”  She nudged his green shoulder.  “Which of the levers controls forward acceleration?  Do you remember?”

        “Uhhh... Uhhh...”  He looked and searched and looked and—“Th-This one!”  He pointed at a red handle on the undercarriage of dashboard.

        “Ahem.  That's the emergency release valve.”

        “Yeah?  What's it release?”

        “Us.”  Scootaloo said.  “From the balloon.”

        “Oh.  Yeah, well, I'm not pulling that.”  He bit his lip, glanced once more, and pointed at a second lever to his right.

        Scootaloo gently nodded with a smile.

        Warden grasped onto the switch.  Licking his lips, he pulled back ever so slightly.  Immediately, the Harmony slowed, its forward flight oozing into a liquid drift.  Softly, with the grace of clouds, the dirigible hovered into place, surrounded by the clamps of the docking station.

        Scootaloo reached in.  She expertly performed ten times as many operations as Warden did in the span of five seconds.  Soon, there was a gentle thump of the ship landing in place.  The boiler at the rear of the cabin quieted slightly, and a long, lingering hiss emanated from the copper pipes filtering into the balloon above the gondola.

        “Frostbeams...”  Warden smiled, gazing up at her.  “You make it look so simple.”

        “If you live long enough in the Wasteland,” Scootaloo murmured as she shuffled over to the port side controls for the vessel's exterior claws.  “You'll find that there's nothing in life that remains complex.”  She twirled a set of valves, positioning the metal limbs outside so that they anchored the airship in place.  “Sometimes, after a long day of pilfering resources from this dead world, when you sit and listen to the silence of it all, you wish things could be complex again.”  Her nostrils softly flared as she gazed beyond the job she was doing.  “Things are more frightening when they life is less understood, yes, but there's hope to be had in such ecstatic gaps of comprehension.”

        “What is it about the Wasteland that makes living creatures so badass and philosophical at the same time?”  Warden asked, propped up in the seat and gazing at her.

        “I'd rather you not find out for yourself, kid.”  Scootaloo wandered over to the starboard set of claw controls.  “If you ask me, I kind of like the idea of you heading back to your Mom and Dad's township.  Heck, I'm half-tempted to give you a ride myself when all is said and done.”

        “Oh really?!”  Warden exclaimed, beaming.  Soon, that smile ended twice as awkwardly as it began.  “Oh... really...?”

        “One thing at a time though, Wart.”  Scootaloo finished anchoring the Harmony in place.  “We've got a Franken-Goblin to bump heads with.”




        Strut Eleven was a dark and shadowy platform.  Unlike most of the other Struts that the Outbleeder of Hex Blood had visited, this spot on Petra was comprised mostly of opaque bulkheads, shrouding the extremities of the soot-stained and grimy place from the rest of the impcity's golden glow.  The structures on the Alpha Level were also uniquely different.  They were built out of brick, concrete, and even a hint of wood paneling.  Scootaloo's first and only assumption was that this Strut was once the topmost level of Petra—as Thirty-Five Strut was today—and in its past it had many luxurious apartments and palaces built to house only the richest of impish elite.

        Now, the goblin extravagance of yesteryear had fallen into horrible decay, so that a veritable ghost-town occupied the majority of the upper level.  Rooftops had caved in, steam pipes were bent at awkward anglels, windows were covered with tattered shingles, and all rooms or chambers of perpetual mechanization had long lost their purpose ages ago, but not their steam-powered momentum.  Though this was a dead part of the city, it was anything but devoid of life.  Scootaloo heard squawking, arguing voices bickering from within the shadowed living quarters.  Lone, limping, drunken goblins dotted distant street corners.  Homeless vagabonds clustered—half alive—in dank alleyways.  Dangling lampposts illuminated shifty-looking half-lings with their hands dug in their vest pockets as they waited for the next of several shady transactions with representatives from the upper and lower struts.

        Scootaloo took all of this in cautiously, her body armored thickly from mane to tail, her rifle feeling twice as heavy from the extra runestones that she had packed.  It occurred to her that wherever Franken of Glass Blood was coerced into doing dirty work for Haman, it would likely be in a place of ill-repute.  She didn't, however, expect to find herself crawling into a cesspool such as this.  For once, the last pony wished she had delved deeper into Warden's hyperbolic description of the place.

        The green teenager in question was currently occupied with staring at a sheet of paper that Scootaloo had hoofed him immediately after exiting the Harmony.  The homeless no-bleeder seemingly ignored the unsightly environment around them as he struggled to keep up while looking over the pegasus' hoofwriting.

        “Just what the heck do these words mean?!”  Warden scratched his head and murmured while fast-walking.  “You gotta have oats in your mouth to make these sounds!”

        “That's not too far from the truth, actually,” Scootaloo muttered, spotting the rusted doors to a rickety elevator up ahead.  A sparkling tesla-coil strobed the littered path between them and the moving passageway that led to the inner stalk of Petra, and the location she and Franken had agreed upon the day before.  “Just try and pronounce the first one, kiddo.”

        Warden's mouth contorted.  “Hooh-jeehm!”

        “Don't make the vowels long.  Try it again.”

        “Er...”  He took a breath, wheezed, then practically spat, “H'jem.”

        “There ya go.  And the second one?”

        “Uhm...”  He grimaced as it came out of his mouth.  “H'jnor?”

        “Hmmm... Not bad for a first try.  Those two go hoof-in-hoof.  Now, try the third one.  It's a doozy, I know.  But you can do it.”

        “This is the weirdest game I've ever played,” he muttered, scratching his head as they reached the elevator.

        “Concentrate,” she said, turning to face him.  “Stand still, plant your feet in the ground, take a deep breath, and give it your best shot.”

        Warden did exactly as he was told.  His eight toes wriggling in place, he put every effort into the pronunciation, ultimately producing, “W'nyhhm.”

        “Hey, look at you.  You're a regular cunning... Eh, never mind how young you are, that joke's just lame, even for me.”

        “At least you know the difference between what's serious and what isn't.”  He smirked, holding the sheet of paper up high, proud of himself.  “So, what do you think?  Did I pass this silly test with flying colors?”

        “Definitely.”

        There was a loud clanging sound immediately following that.  Warden looked up and gasped, almost dropping the paper as he ran forward.  “What the heck are you doing?!”

        “What else?”  Scootaloo calmly spoke, despite the fact that she had just erected a barrier between the two of them.  She stood inside the elevator car, locking herself in.  “I'm going to have a word with Franken.  One way or another, I'm getting to the bottom of the Rust-Bleeders and their nonsense.  Sorry, but, you're not coming with me.”

        “Don't be a stupid glue—”  He winced, seethed, and gripped the metal webbing of the elevator door as he peered up at her.  “Don't be stupid!  What if you need my help?!  You have no clue what you may be dealing with down there!”

        “Exactly, kid,” Scootaloo said.  “Take a look around you.  This is far from Devo's bright and shiny strut.  If it looks this bad up here, imagine what it's like inside the adjacent stalk.”

        “But... But...”

        “You've helped me more times than those strips I gave you were worthy of,” Scootaloo said.  “You saved my life twice and got me to witness new sights...”  She briefly smiled.  “...and sounds of your impish blood.  I'm incredibly grateful, kid.  But I'm not taking you down there.  You're safer on the outside.”

        “But I'll be alone on the outside!”  Warden rattled the metal cage like he was the one inside of it instead of her.  His eyes were bright and pleading.  “What if something happens while I'm waiting for you?”

        “That's the reason for our little test, kid.  You still holdin' onto that paper?”

        “Uh... Y-Yeah?”

        “Good.”  Scootaloo's eyes narrowed on him through the metal grate.  “The first two words open and close the door to the Harmony respectively.  But that third word is most important.  It'll enchant and disenchant the runestone mana-shield that keeps any creeps from getting in and out.”

        “But I'm not a pony!  How the heck is it supposed to work with me?”

        “With this.”  Scootaloo reached down and plucked one brightly colored horn off from the bracelet over her right hoof.  She passed it through one of the wider gapes in the porous metal.  Warden cradled it awkwardly as she spoke, “Speak into it.  It'll channel your command through a leyline into the runestones.  I want you to go to the Harmony and seal yourself inside.”

        “But... But...”  He gazed up at her with a quivering mouth.  “Why?”

        “Because...”  Scootaloo hesitated.  The dark webbing of the elevator car divided his image like black bars across a bright, smirking face.  As the tesla-coil outside flickered and briefly revealed his petite stature in a righteous strobe, she realized just how far the immutable pendulums of time had swung.  “Because you're young, your vulnerable, and you still have so much unlocked potential.  I want you to have only the best resources at your disposal in case... in case I don't come back from what I'm about to do right now.”  She smiled, a pathetically predictable thing.  It took every effort in her body not to add a wink to it.  “Who knows, maybe my little flight lesson paid off, and you can find your way back to your parents.  Worst case scenario: you can sell it all to Devo for some decent profit and get someone else to fly you there.”

        “Please!  Don't leave!”  Warden pleaded, trying to steady the pitch in his voice.  “This isn't the kind of payment I wanted—”

        “I'm not going to argue with you.”  She said and frowned briefly.  “Now promise me you'll go to the Harmony and sit your butt down like a good little assistant.”

        “But I can't just—”

        “Promise me,” she said, sternly, like the billowing edge of a stormfront.  There was no room for coddling, not in her life and subsequently not in his.  “Promise me you will make use of what I've given you if I don't come back.”

        Warden shivered, bit his lip, and nodded.  “I-I promise.”

        “There's a good little Wart.”  She clasped her hoof around a lever and pulled it.  With a groaning sound, the old rickety elevator car slid down the diagonal stalk, descending into the dark, dank recesses of the inner stalk of Petra beyond.  “Don't worry.  There's plenty of mushroom stew in the hangar's frozen hold.”  She managed a last minute smirk between the last gap of illumination spared them.  “Eat your heart out, kid.”

        All she saw was a sad, grimacing face.  It was gone in a flash.

        Alone for the first time in hours, surrounded by the groaning belly of Petra's mechanisms, Scootaloo felt immensely naked, and twice as shameful.  She let loose a heaving breath, her programmed smirk utterly obliterating itself as she pressed her head limply to the metal wall of the rattling car.

        She hated her last words to Warden, assuming that they were her last words.  It was always healthy for the last pony to assume such.  The fact was, there were no good last words, for their very nature meant cold and heartless abandonment, no matter how Scootaloo tried to paint them otherwise, with or without the same colors that were so warmly given her with the best of intentions, only to haunt the recesses of her sobbing years for as long as she could care to remember.

        Scootaloo couldn't think of Warden, even if thinking of him was another way of thinking of herself all of the sudden.  With a strong breath, she stood up, turned around, and faced the depths of Petra.  The diagonal shaft's dimness gave way to a flickering, crimson glow as a great heat wafted up to her armored body from the foundries beyond.  She took a deep breath, her mane hair billowing briefly next to the blue feather strung around her ear.





        Scootaloo hummed merrily in the brisk, autumn air.  The little pegasus sat alone on a hilltop, staring off towards the emerald stretches of the Equestrian Valley beyond Ponyville.  She played with her metal tray, bouncing it back and forth with rattling wheels between her outstretched limbs.  All the while, she stared off into the distance and grinned unceasingly while random, cool breezes kicked at her pink mane.

        Four hours.  Rainbow Dash had said that she would come back and give Scootaloo flying lessons in four hours.  Such a declaration had transpired no less than thirty minutes ago.  Scootaloo had many things she could have been doing: rolling through town, exercising her fluttering wings, earning bits from random shopowners, visiting Applejack and Big Mac.  However, she somehow couldn't remove herself from that spot.  The hilltop felt peaceful, warm, and joyous in the effluent shades of the awesome pegasus who had briefly bestowed it with her amazing presence.  A part of Scootaloo felt that the afternoon glory would fade the first moment she trotted away from that site, as if everything that had ever happened up until then had been a fanciful dream of fragile proportions.

        Whatever the case, Scootaloo didn't leave that spot, not even as the thirty minutes bled into sixty and consumed the first of four hours' of interminable waiting.  Scootaloo was unphased.  She thought of Manehattan, she thought of all those grim foster homes and doubly grim chaperones, and then she thought of a miraculous rainstorm and how all of the grim fears of the past remained locked away there, forever severed from her and her new home, her true home, her only home: Ponyville.

        Scootaloo was where she wanted to be, where she needed to be.  There was no sense in budging.  So, she didn't, instead choosing to lie back on the grass and playfully bounce her limbs atop the springy earth.  She saw clouds, and every single one of them formed into blissful imaginings.  Scootaloo giggled, gaily, as if she was several years younger than she really was.  There was something enchanted about that afternoon, and she was not about to abandon it for a single blink.





        Into the second hour, Scootaloo felt like stretching her legs.  She abandoned her metal tray momentarily and proceeded to navigate a dirt path below the hilltop.  Marching slowly in a casual trot, she took the time to observe just how luscious the landscape was.  The fields of emerald grass danced like sea waves, as did her mane hair.  She briefly anchored her hooves into the earth and leaned against a brisk gust of autumn wind, giggling at the weather's momentary ferocity.

        Closing her eyes, she tiled her face into the brisk breeze and imagined that she was not standing on a dirt road.  Instead, she was flying through rows of clouds, parting their vaporous lengths with her sharp orange wings.  A prismatic blur was flanking her side, and together the two pegasi banked past a series of sharp cliffaces, skirting over their hard surfaces with wild abandon.

        She reopened her eyes and once more absorbed the luscious sights of the landscape into her optics.  She wonder what it would be like to see all of these familiar hilltops and trees from high up in the clouds.  Then her heart skipped a beat and her wings twitched when she realized that—by that very afternoon—she may very well discover exactly what it felt like.

        Riding a blissful spark bubbling up her body, the filly trotted cheerfully around the rest of the hilltop, counting down the last trailing minutes of the second hour.




        One Hundred and eighty minutes after Rainbow Dash had taken off for downtown Ponyville, Scootaloo still hadn't left that spot.  No matter how often she contemplated it, her legs still remained anchored to that hill.  Her stomach growled with hunger, and her eyes hung heavily in want of a mid-afternoon nap.  Scootaloo gave into neither temptation, instead choosing to plop her orange haunches down atop the grassy gnoll.

        With a stick clasped between two hooves, the filly hummed to herself and drew random figures in the dirt.  After several minutes of carving into the soil, she glanced at an angle.  It was the worst looking 'werewolf' she had ever seen.  With an embarassed giggled, she kicked a sea of sand over the offensive illustration and leaned back against a dead tree stump.

        She absorbed her gaze into the sky, drowning in its pearlescent blueness.  Only one hour remained.  Scootaloo's nerves jolted happily and a rosy smile fell to her lips.  Only one hour.  The orphan closed her eyes and breathed peacefully, giving herself over to the nuzzling caress of time.





        The fourth hour descended like a velvet blanket.  Scootaloo gasped when she realized how much time had passed.  The sun was halfway towards the horizon; the sky slowly took on an orange hue along the fringes of the crisp, autumnal sky.  A young life lived predominantly outdoors had taught the versatile little filly to tell time by its natural signs, and she couldn't possibly be bursting at the seams any more ecstatically than she was right then and there, standing up and bouncing in place along the crest of the green hill.

        Scootaloo aimed a grin up high, her glistening teeth shining like a beacon as her violet orbs darted left and right, searching for a bluer-than-blue symbol of joy against the oceanic sky.  There was another gust of cool wind, and her wings twitched briefly as she imagined herself soaring off along those currents at any given moment, gliding under an older pegasus' guiding hooves, with nothing but the future to look forward to.

        She was so focused on the intensity of her heartbeat that she didn't remotely measure its constant meter until a full ten minutes had gone by.  The Sun continued sinking, the wind continued whipping, and the tall grass around her spun like a lazy cyclone before settling into a placid hush.  Another twenty minutes had passed, and for the sake of resting her bouncy limbs, Scootaloo sat on her haunches.  Thirty minutes dripped into forty, and slowly—confusedly—Scootaloo's smile was beginning to fade for the first time that day.





        Five hours after Rainbow Dash had left, Scootaloo's heart was beating, but for a different reason.  She gazed forlornly into the sky, her throat dry as she peered across the autumnal reaches of the globe with nervous eyes.  She bit her lip and fidgeted where she sat, kneading the earth with petite orange hooves.

        Every darting insect, every random songbird, every errant speck of movement against the sky shot a spark through her spine.  She glanced and glanced, her neck craning to give her a look at every opportunity the atmosphere took to excite her.  Hope clashed with anxiety, and soon each startling movement numbed Scootaloo's senses as her bubbling anticipation melted into a sullen frigidity.

        At the top of the fifth hour, Scootaloo had been sitting upright.  After another twenty minutes, her body hung in a slump.  Forty minutes later, she reclined chest-first against the earth, toying pathetically with the tips of grass blades jutting up from the dulling hilltop.  The Sun's golden brightness was being replaced with an orange haze, matching the lifeless hue that Scootaloo's coat had suddenly become.




        Six hours had passed...

        Scootaloo was pacing.  Her hooves formed an elliptical ditch in the soft earth.  Her deadpan face met a blurring horizon everytime she shifted and spun about, retracing her steps.  A quiet hush had come over the land.  The songs of birds were slowly being replaced with the chorus of crickets.  Everything that was blue in the sky melted away in reverance to a burning, crimson sunset.

        The day was dying, and it wasn't the only thing.  Scootaloo sighed.  Ultimately, she slumped against the wooden tree trunk and planted a front hoof atop her metal tray, sliding the pathetic little platform back and forth in a lethargic fashion.  The filly bit her lip, refusing to look at the wheeled object under her grasp.  Her eyes were dull specks.  Her wings were coiled tightly against her side, useless as always.






        The seventh hour came like a whisper.  The sun burned into the scarlet horizon.  The roof of Equestria was peeling away, and a cold black tarp lingered beyond, bespeckled with icy pinpricks of cosmic indifference.

        Another speck lingered in the middle of Equestria, an orange speck.  Scootaloo slowly exhaled through her nostrils, hugging her lower limbs with her upper hooves.  There was a slump to her shoulders, as if an invisible weight had materialized on her backside.  She winced with each breath, as if for the first time in days she was waking up to her senses and each of her lungs weighed several hundred kilograms each.

        Swallowing a lump down her throat, the trembling filly gazed towards the horizon.  Row up row of rolling Equestrian hills stretched to the north before her.  Under the cold kiss of settling night, they appeared distant, unearthly, and heartless.  They also were inviting.

        Scootaloo's brow furrowed.  Slowly, she stood up.  She flexed her limbs.  In a brazen gesture, she uncoiled her wings until the dinky stalks stretched her petite feathers on either side of her.  After a brave gulp, the little filly frowned and trotted briskly up to the very top of the hill.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The young pegasus felt the breeze.  She felt the tendrils of wind billowing through her soft, downy feathers.  The shivers that racketed her body were undeniable, and yet she bravely stood atop the hill, gazing at the lengths of the world beyond, like a shadowy, purple canvas rippling beneath her.

        The last sliver of sunlight slid under the horizon, so that the final veil was flung over Equestria.  There would be no witnesses, no sovereign observer to chronicle the sacred moment that was about to be Scootaloo's and Scootaloo's alone.

        The pegasus bit her lip one last time and briskly cast away the last few remaining threads of apprehension.  She broke into a trot, and that trot broke into a canter, and that canter broke into a gallop.  Hissing into the breeze, her eyes blinded under the shroud of blossoming night, she sped towards the side of the hill, spread her tiny wings up, and soared high into the sky.

        Scootaloo gasped.  Her violet eyes moistened as she found herself gliding into a mesmerizing soup of twilight.  Once again, she was an orphan.  Once again, she was her own pegasus.  She was nothing more than the sum of her own accomplishments.  Blissfully airborne, she smiled, for it was a very breathtaking and proud realization.

        However, it was also a very lonely one.  Less than a second after wisely contemplating such, time resumed its normal motion, and Scootaloo found herself sailing stupidly into the ground with the grace of a collapsing boulder.

        “Ooomf!”  Scootaloo grunted, rolled, twirled, and plowed through a muddy embankment.  “Augh—Ugh!”  Dirt splattered on either side of her as she grinded to a painful stop, covered in scuffs and bruises.  She tried getting up, but had to surrender to a throbbing wave of pain coursing through her petite body.  “Nnnnngh...”

        She gritted her teeth and shivered with the struggle it took to fight back the tears.  When she reopened her eyes, they were dry.  It was a meager victory, her only triumph of the pitiful afternoon.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The wheels of the metal tray squeaked and squeaked under the funeral dirge of soulless crickets.  A lone shadow—a slumped and shuffling thing—was gliding towards the heart of Ponyville like a gray ghost.

        Scootaloo kicked lethargically along the metal tray as if it were a gurney.  Her face was forever frozen in a painful grimace.  “Nnngh, stupid.  I can't believe you're so friggin' stupid.”  For the life of her, she couldn't tell who she was murmuring to, and that was what broke the filly's heart the most.





        The elevator doors opened with a rattling clang, and Scootaloo knew that she wasn't in Strut Eleven anymore.  The walls of the interior before her were thick, curved obsidian, a polished metal that was nothing like the flimsy, porous lattice work that formed the foundation of the decrepit goblin ghost town above, where she had split ways with Warden.  She was in the very stalk of Petra, and it was a dank, dark, grimy place.  Dim red lights lined the floors, illuminating puffs of steam that billowed out of sporadic vents carved into the black metal plates underhoof.

        Scootaloo trotted along, slowly and steadily, her armored self utterly dwarfed by the large, winding intestine of a corridor stretching before her.  Every twenty meters or so, a juncture would slice through, forming thick crossroads of intersecting tunnels.  They were all identical, and the only evidence that Scootaloo had to show she was making any progress was that the end of the passageway she was moving towards glowed brighter than the rest.  It was a crimson color, artificial and foreboding, pumping waves of heat through the corridor to meet her, riding currents of hot, dancing vapors.

        Halfway through her venture, Scootaloo's nose scrunched up.  Something was smelling horrible.  Just then, a series of shadows scuffled along the edge of one of the many crosswords.  Upon hearing an array of high-pitched grunting noises, Scootaloo froze and spun about, swiftly reaching back for her copper rifle.  Her scarlet eyes narrowed on a gaggle of stout, burly creatures that instantly waddled away from her gaze.

        Their bodies were absurdly short, almost as if their spines had been squashed from the top down.  They resembled walking tree stumps more than sentient creatures; it was ridiculous that they were even bipedal.  Still, they strolled about, practically rolling in angry little circles as they formed a line of squabbling figures, facing off against the last pony from several paces away.  They proceeded to wave their stubby little arms, shooting forth an offensive stream of short, guttural noises.  Their brown torsos were almost indistinguishable from their heads, and the follicles stemmed in their skulls blended with veritable manes of backhair, so that their chubby bodies possessed what looked like black, flowing capes that covered the length of their spines.  Around their waist and ankles, several tiny tools and bits of engineering equipment glittered in the crimson light, and permanent layers of soot stained their tanned leather skin from years of working within the stalk of Petra.

        “Why, hello there, hobs.”  The last pony relaxed in her stance.  She stood like a giant before them, glancing down at the chattering phalanx of balking creatures.  “How's the indentured servitude going?”

        In response, they mutually performed as many lewd gestures as could be afforded by their sets of eight fingers.  They chirped and hissed and spat at the pony's shadow.

        “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered and walked off towards her hot, glowing destination.  “An imp is an imp.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Scootaloo threaded through the final length of the black corridor and emerged onto a thin, silver platform.  She had to squint immediately, because she was instantly assaulted with a hideous glow of blood-red light, the brightest thing she had witnessed since before the Cataclysm.  Shuffling up to a metal railing, the last pony peered into what turned out to be the largest single interior structure she had ever witnessed.  The stalk of Petra, as it turned out, was hollow in its center.  There she stood on a platform lining the great, vertical, cylindrical throat of the impcity, and she could stare either straight up or down and be equally helpless to find an end to the great space.

        The stalk was loud, thunderous, almost deafening.  Above and below her, the inside of Petra roared and hummed with the cacophony of all thirty-five struts' worth of steam, machinery, grinding gear, foundries, factories, and bustling goblins.  Staring across the way, she could see many random platforms—much like her own—randomly dotting the grand vertical throat of the structure.  If she squinted hard, she could barely make out the distant specks of imps on the opposite catwalks moving about from one engineering task to another.  It was difficult to see beyond too great a distance, not so much because of the immensity of the place but due to the hot bursts of the impcity's combined steam that vented continuously through the central core of the stalk before being filtered upward into the various smokestacks looming above.

        The last pony exhaled long and hard, contemplating the sight before her.  She had seen the glory of Cloudsdale with her own foalish eyes.  She had walked—however briefly—atop its luminescent, ivory cloudbanks.  She had marveled at the pristine and immaculate shapes of sculpted sky marble.  All of the Equestrian pegasi's legacy, Three Ages worth of perfection, all ended up here, as polluted steam being vomited up the neck of a giant metal tower in the middle of a desolate world.  She'd later write a journal entry about it all if only she could resist the urge to throw up.

        Gladly, Scootaloo wrenched her eyes away from the majestically horrible sight.  Her gaze followed where the shiny metal steps of the platform led.  She discovered a large factory door in the side of the stalk's interior.  Flanking its side was a plaque for displaying the appropriate clan's colors.  She saw an illustration, rather haphazardly plastered, that nonetheless matched the banner that Franken of Glass Blood had been carrying on his person.

        Swiftly, Scootaloo trotted towards the door... only to find the massive thing hanging slightly ajar.  Narrowing her eyes, Scootaloo strolled slowly through the opening, her muscles tense and ready to flinch at any given surprise.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        It was hotter here than anywhere else in Petra.  Bulbs of sweat immediately formed on Scootaloo's neck and mane.  She felt her body baking under the thick layers of leather armor.  The blue feather around her right ear fluttered with the rising vapors of heat as she stood in the entrance to what turned out to be a grand metalworks facility.  The large, spacious interior had a bright orange glow to it, mostly attributable to a pair of insanely enormous vats of molten hot metal resting in the center of the room.  Above and to the side of these vats, a black metal platform stretched, flanking an assortment of metal chains and pulleys hanging from the rusted-iron ceiling.  On the other side of the vats, opposite of the suspended platform, was a long and complex series of conveyor belts.  Several copper-framed, steel-riveted mechanisms lined the currently unmoving platforms.  A complex series of steam tubes swam serpentine paths into the many hydraulically-powered limbs, gyros, and servos.

        Despite the remarkable intricacies of these engineering constructs, Scootaloo couldn't bother being impressed.  She was too overcome by how eerily still, quiet, and dead the facility was.  Nobody was there.  Not a single imp could be seen amidst the bright, orange glow of the hot interior.  She couldn't even spot Franken, no matter how hard she tried.

        The curiosity over this place's utter stillness was overwhelmed by a completely different cloud of confusion currently vexing the pegasus.  As she strolled forward and gazed closer at the conveyor belt, she spotted many tools and utensils and pieces of partially constructed mechanisms, and none of them even remotely looked like sky marble.

        “This isn't a steam processing plant,” she murmured aloud to herself.  She glanced back over her armored flank to make sure that the Glass-Bleeder colors were indeed marking the door.  She was right, this was where Franken wanted them both to meet.  “This...”  She gazed once more at the conveyor belts.  “...this is an assembly line.”  She swallowed.  “But for what?”

        It suddenly occurred to her to look for moonrocks.  Her scarlets bathed the length of the room, scouring the interior for something—anything—that was colored white.  Soon enough, something caught her eyes.  She trotted briskly over to one of the furthest conveyor belts, atop which was the half-shell to a large, spherical object.  Upon closer inspection, she found the curved slice of metal to be anything but moonrock, but the powdery substance lining the inside of it most certainly was.

        “Lunar powder...”  She murmured aloud to herself.  The last pony dipped the edge of her horsehoe into the fine soot, raised it to her mouth, and gave it a tiny lick.  She tasted the substance in her mouth.  The wheels in her head turned accordingly, and she immediately latched onto what it was.  “Mixed with fire granite.”  She spat onto the floor, then glanced once more at the spherical half-shell.  “But you can't concoct that from the dust of Consus, not even alchemically.  The only place in Equestria you can find fire granite is...”  She blinked as she made the realization.  “Mount Ogreton.”

        Her eyes followed the path of the frozen conveyor belt.  She saw several heaps of unfinished bomb-shells, each laced with the same mixture of lunar and ogre deposits, forming a terribly explosive combination that she had never witnessed before, but had certainly contemplated.  She had bartered for bottles of fire granite before, but always in ridiculously small and expensive quantities.  There was no way in her entire Wasteland existence that she ever came near to approaching Mount Ogreton to acquire fire granite personally, on account of the endless war over the Valley of Jewels.  Such a huge supply of the substance had to have arrived at the goblins' impcity by means that were beyond them—or even beyond conventional commerce for that matter.  Whatever the case, it was now in the hands of the half-lings, and just the residual traces of the mixture she was presently looking at would have been enough to blow up a quarter of the strut if properly harnessed.

        “Hmmph...”  She muttered once more to herself.  “'Boomers' indeed.”

        She frowned as she turned and gazed across the lengths of the hot, glowing room.  All the time that she was in Petra, Scootaloo had heard every imp alive talking about how Haman and many other families were engaged in a weapons trade with the ogres up until weeks before she had arrived.  However, this wasn't what she had envisioned.  The goblins of this impcity were proficient at harnessing steam, and as she understood it, the steam exports were given to the ogres only for them to build into their weaponry, far away, at the Valley of Jewels.  What she was seeing here, evidently, was an ogre weapons factory disguised as an extended branch of Haman's steam industry.  The implications of what was actually being assembled here was explosive, both figuratively and literally.  Scootaloo suddenly understood why Franken had been so hesitant to discuss the nature of his operations out in the open.  She also began to understand the lengths to which Haman would be willing to suppress such a secret, even resorting to hiring the likes of an eccentric, naga mercenary.

        What she couldn't understand, though, was the purpose of such an illicit manufacturing program.  How would either the Rust-Bleeders or the Glass-Bleeders profit from so many explosives?  Certainly, they could simply have been charged by the ogres to secretly construct them, as a publically announced shift in the manner of weapons production would have startled the rest of Petra.  Still, that many explosives in the hands of conspiring goblins was a mortifying prospect.  Scootaloo couldn't currently contemplate what in the nearby vicinity of Petra the goblins would benefit from blowing up... unless it wasn't about the goblins' profit at all.

        It wasn't hard to grasp the fact that the plant had escaped the public eye of the other thirty-four struts.  It could have been easy to disguise the vats of molten metal as a means to produce hovercraft parts.  The assembly line could have been excused as the process for making steam extraction tools.  However, the harvesting of moonrocks and the smuggling of fire granite—both amazing feats in their own right—couldn't have transpired long without the other clans of Petra knowing.  Whatever was being done here could only have been an operation that necessitated swiftness, and Scootaloo had the distinct sense that she had arrived upon the tail-end of it.  She wondered if even Franken knew that when he summoned her there.

        All the time that Scootaloo pondered and thought over this situation, her eyes were gazing ceiling-ward.  It was then that she registered movement for the first time.  She spotted a body through the slits of the metal grated platform straight above.  It was a stout and dark-gray body, replete with frazzled black hair and a somber stance as he leaned against railing of the metal floor.

        “Franken!”  Scootaloo called forth, her voice echoing hauntingly against the black shells of the twin molten vats.  He didn't bother to answer her.  Stifling a frustrated growl, she strolled briskly up the closest metal staircase she could find.

        Ascending to the platform, Scootaloo found Franken standing next to a pair of steam tanks flanking a broad series of metal control stations.  Several levers, valves, dials, and knobs blanketed the surface of the stations.  As an array of tesla coils sparked with cold, blue electricity atop the devices, the last pony figured that the stations must have controlled the hydraulics of the conveyor belts and assembly line system below.  None of that, of course, was her immediate concern.  She galloped directly towards Franken.

        “Prime Glass-Bleeder, if this what you wanted to show me, then you could very easily have saved us both the time by shoving a grenade in my face!”  She frowned.  “How could you have kept this a secret from your own flesh and blood for so long?  I don't know what Haman has against you, or why in Celestia's name you're bound to serve him, but this whole crap is beyond big.  Either he's in league with the ogres, or he's got a serious fetish for things that go...”  She stopped in mid-canter, blinking numbly.  “...boom.”

        Franken wasn't standing.  He wasn't even leaning against anything.  The elder goblin hung, twirling limply by a broken neck, with a series of metal chains wrapped tightly around his shredded throat.  The chains were attached to a complicated pulley system dangling from a long, rusted track built into the ceiling above.  The system was one of many dangling chain bits that suspended various objects to and from the bubbling, molten vats that suddenly loomed like twin, volcanic oceans below.  Beyond them, the conveyor belts looked like thin strips of leather, about as ragged and lifeless as the goblin's dry, crimson voice-box that had been exposed to the vaporous air of the factory.

        Scootaloo could briefly make out her twin reflections in the glossy surface of the dead imp's eyes.  As his body pivoted and turned, she caught sight of a wide door of metal shingles stretching along the wall of the metal platform behind her, and it was starting to rise.  She spun around just as the loud clamoring of the door met her ears.  Halfway through unsheathing her copper rifle, she found herself staring down the barrels of twelve guns just as menacing.  Emerging from a utility compartment, armed to the teeth with steam-powered weapons and grenade-studded bandoleers, a menacing line of goblins faced off against the last pony, and every single one of them was wearing a yellow armband.

        More murderous half-lings came out of the nooks and crannies of the place, some armed with daggers, others armed with brass knuckles.  She stared at them and the riflers alike, frozen in place as she found herself outnumbered nearly thirty-to-one.  The effort she took to count each and every one of these Rust-Bleeder imps was clouded by the simultaneous brainwaves speculating nearly one hundred different tricks to get herself out of this situation, and none of them promised to be successful to her mind's eye.  She was halfway through preparing to spit out a runic command to all of the explosive moonrocks in her saddlebag combined, when she realized that not a single goblin had pulled a trigger.  Just after noticing this, she witnessed one goblin marching out from the center of the group.  He was a dark-haired imp wearing even darker shades.

        “Haman was right,” Fredden spoke into a sparkling communicator wired to a backpack that hugged his shoulders.  “The stupid glue stick showed up just as scheduled.  Flights One and Two, be ready to lift us out of here once we got the dang fabric.”

        “Scrkkk—Copy that.”

        “And tell Miss Ryst 'I'm sorry,'” the bodyguard added with a smirk, his shades glinting in the orange light.  “'But we had to kill her beloved four hooves.'”

        “Scrkkks—Hah hah.  Toss her in the fire with the rest of the hobs.”

        “Yeah, yeah.”  Fredden switched off the communicator, pocketed it, and stood next to his many gun-toting companions.  He stretched a hand out in the last pony's direction.  “Alright, Outbleeder.  Cough it up.”

        “Excuse me?”  Scootaloo murmured, her words coming out like molasses from her throbbing perspective.  In between Fredden's shaded blinks, she stealthily darted her eyes across every ledge, vent, railing, precipice, and corner of the platform, looking for her escape route.  She had to find an escape route.  She ultimately settled her attention on the pair of thick metal steam tanks and the control stations situated next to them.  They were within four trots from her right flank, and she estimated a breath-taking two seconds for crossing the distance.  In the space of three heavy heartbeats, she had already made an impossible, daredevilish plan.  She looked back in time to catch the Rust-Bleeder bodyguard's gaze on her figure.  “Cough what up?”

        “Your bandanna, brick-for-brains,” Fredden said, pointing at her cranium.  “Peel it off that prissy, pink head of yours and toss it over.  Now.”

        “Why?”  Scootaloo said, delaying the inevitable mayhem as she coiled her muscles underneath her armor.  “What's it to you?”

        “I don't talk to corpses,” Fredden sneered.  “Give the bandanna to me, right now.  It's of no use to me shot up and covered in horse guts.”

        Scootaloo blinked.  A sharp breath of epiphany escaped her.  If it was the last thing her lungs would expel, she briefly didn't care.  “You're going to try and incriminate Hex Blood,” she uttered.  “Once you've done away with my body, you're going to expose this unsightly place to the light and somehow pin it on Devo.”

        “Are your ears full of wax or something, sky-stealer?”  Fredden hissed, trying his best to be even more menacing than the phalanx of angry-eyed goblins cocking their weapons on either side of him.  “This is your last chance to do things simply.  Don't make your death a long and complicated one.”

        “Like you give a crap, you Rust-Sucker,” Scootaloo grunted with a frown.  “I don't know what's worse: that Haman has the gall to use Devo as a scapegoat for whatever he's planning, or that he's actually stupid enough to think it would work.”

        “Nnnngh...”  Fredden ran a hand through his hair, chuckled, and sighed.  “Yeah, enough of this crap.”  He unholstered his own steam pistol, stepped back, and took aim alongside the thick wall of armed imps.  “Well, we tried, boys.  Just do your best to shoot her below the neck.”

        This was it.  Scootaloo's joints were already preparing to leap to her right.  Only now, as she stared at the many rows of glistening steam rifles, she was suddenly petrified by the notion that her twenty-five years of luck had run out.

        This momentary horror was suddenly interrupted by the glorious sight of a ventilation shaft's metal grate landing painfully across the top of Fredden's skull with a resonating clang.  “Augh!  Sonuva—”

        The goblin thugs' eyes flashed up to the ceiling.  Scootaloo's eyes darted up to the ceiling.  Everybody was looking up toward the ceiling.

        A little green body fell from an open shaft with the squealing facsimile of a battle-cry.  Warden landed square on Fredden's shoulders and proceeded to bite into his scalp with razor sharp teeth.  “Rghhhh!”

        “Gaaa-aaaah!”  Fredden yelped and flailed as rivulets of blood ran down, glossing over his shades.  “For the love of Petra, get this little turd off of me!”

        Warden shrieked with tearing eyes as over nine thugs immediately converged on him with an assortment of clubs, knives, and bayonets.  Just milliseconds before any single Rust-Bleeder could bother to impale him—

        “Nnngh—No!”  Fredden shouted, his pale eyes briefly exposed from behind his sliding shades.  “Pony—!” his lungs burst forth as he pointed a clawed finger directly forward.

        Every imp gazed—Warden included—to see Scootaloo practically gliding across the row of levers, dials, and knobs along the control stations.  She pushed, turned, twisted, and tugged on everything she could in a single, graceful swing of her upper limbs.

        “Nnngh—Run!”  Warden barely managed as he was held in the vice grip of a burly imp three times his size.  In the meantime, the entire firing squad of riflers pulled the triggers to their weapons.

        Just as the steambolts flew, Scootaloo was already squatting low to the floor of the platform and flinging a pocket-ful of bouncing runestones towards their clawed feet.  One bullet bloodily gazed the back of her neck, shredding a pink hole through her mane.  Two burning projectiles were absorbed into the thick leather armor just over her wings.  Another three landed deep in the steam tanks to her side.  The last six ricocheted mere centimeters between the spaces in her hooves.  Before the line of trolls could fire another, far deadlier volley, she was already spouting out a deep-throated command.  It bellowed out from her lungs in cadence with a huge burst of steam emanating directly from the compressed tanks that had been pierced behind her.

        “Y'lynwyn!”

        As soon as those words were uttered, Scootaloo's scarlet eyes clenched shut.  Before the brains of the startled imps could speculate as to why, all four runestones exploded with magical brilliance, blinding them with a hot flash of white light that burned into their eye sockets.

        Not even Warden was spared.  He winced, hissing through his teeth, as he hung in the thick-arms of the goon who was holding him.  He became aware of a large roar of noise suddenly filling the background of the room as the entire factory's worth of conveyor belts, hydraulic mechanisms, and assembly line devices came to life.  In the foreground, the air was filled with another layer of bedlam as several voices coughed and hacked and wheezed endlessly.  As soon as his vision finally returned to him, he figured out why.

        The platform was awash with thick, choking steam from the punctured steam tanks.  Any goblin who wasn't blinded by the runestones was helpless to see through this.  The roar of the distant machines only added to the confusion, so that when the brown shadow of an equine figure suddenly galloped up through the smog, the thug holding Warden could hardly take notice until the last second.

        “Nnnngh!”  The last pony swiveled, spun her legs up high, and bucked the goblin upside the chin.  The sheer force of her hooves impacting the imp's jaws popped Warden's eardrums.  The thug fell back like a braindead sack of meat.  Before Warden could fully collapse onto the ground, something was hoisting him up by his vest.  He gasped until he realized it was Scootaloo's teeth.  With the teenager dangling in her jaws, she galloped on all fours directly towards the edge of the platform, just as a floundering Fredden stumbled up, cocked his pistol, and aimed after her.

        “Kill her!  Dang it all, fill her full of holes already!”  He shouted above the discharge of his own steam pistol.  The thunderous roar of several other rifles lit the air.  The full line of goblins were shooting madly at the escaping pony... madly but blindly.

        It was just the margin of error Scootaloo needed.  Warden shrieked from the steambolts whizzing past his pointed ears.  The pony's body jolted once, twice as a pair of bolts once again embedded into her leather armor.  Not once did the last pony slow her canter; she surged straight forward like lightning.  Spinning around in her grasp, Warden discovered what they were speeding towards, and he childishly shrieked.

        Scootaloo galloped, jumped, and clasped onto the dangling chain above Franken's dead corpse.  Her forward momentum flung the entire pulley system forward along its track, so that she, Warden, and the remains of the prime Glass-Bleeder glided off the platform and over the twin vats of molten metal below.  Bullets bounced off the bulkheads, lattices, and chains above and below them.  Halfway through the dashing descent, the combined weight of all three bodies was too much, and soon they were dropping along the length of the chain as the metallic suspension gave slack.

        “Uhhh... Uhhh...!”  Warden shrieked, his dangling legs squirming as his eyes grew wider and wider.  His and Scootaloo's bodies were bathed in an orange light as they slid lower towards the bubbling, lava-hat vat below.  The edge of the basin was within sight, barely a hair's sneeze away as more bullets whizzed by them.  A foul odor filled the air as Franken's body was the first to dip into the bubbling broth, his flesh and bones instantly melting away.  Warden squeaked and clenched his eyes shut.  Scootaloo gnashed her teeth around the edge of his vest and pulled her body up at the last second.  They cleared the edge of the vat just as the very tip of her tail-hairs kissed the burning surface of the molten metal.

        Swinging beyond, the chain pulley reached the end of its ceiling track.  Scootaloo leaped, flipping in mid-fall and clasping the weight of Warden with her front hooves.  The two landed hard on the moving conveyor belt below, rolling through discarded shells of ogre bombs, sliding to a rough stop as the momentum of Scootaloo's initial gallop on the catwalk finally gave out.

        On the metal platform above, Fredden could barely be heard barking orders above the industrial noise of the suddenly electrified factory.  Unable to get a clear shot from up high, he and his two-dozen cohorts scrambled down the metal stairs and proceeded to give chase from floor level, though they had a lot of ground to cover.

        “Nnngh—Agh!”  Warden scrambled onto all fours, crab-walking half-a-meter across the surface of the rolling conveyor belt as it rolled them briskly away from their pursuers.  Gears and servos whurred on either side of the two as he spat, “Warn be next time you fling us over a big bucket of lava!”

        “I didn't even expect there to be a first time!”  Scootaloo sneered, stamping her hooves over the still-smoldering ends of her pink tail hair.  “Luna poop on a stick, kid!  What did I friggin' tell you up on the strut?!”

        “And you're friggin' welcome!”  He mimicked the angry pitch in her voice as he spat right back at her through the noise.  “For the third time in a row too, you ungrateful bag of idiot!”

        “How in all that is holy did you get down here so fast anyways?!”

        “The steam shafts!” the soot-stained teenager smirked briefly.  “I told you that I came to help my uncle chimney sweep, didn't I—?!”  A mechanical arm swiftly swatted him upside the head.  “Owie!”

        He flew into Scootaloo's forward legs.  The last pony clutched him to her chest.  Her eyes twitched.  She flung the two of them back in time to limbo-dance beneath the metal pole of a hydraulically powered assembly mechanism.  Sitting back up, the last pony and her quivering sidekick witnessed several more menacing obstructions whurring claustrophobically over the thin conveyor belt ahead.  At the speed at which they were rolling forward, it was difficult at best to leap off the contraption without slamming into some horribly brutal structure blurring by either side of them.  As a few stray steambolts bulleted past the two from behind, backtracking was hardly an option either.

        “Did you have to shove the levers to make the machines go this fast?!”  Warden shrieked as Scootaloo swung the two side-to-side to avoid deathly collisions with the swaying arms.

        Scootaloo panted and moved them both to dodge even more jutting mechanisms.  “I was under the gun, literally, Wart.  All that processed through my brain was 'speed!'”  A steambolt ricocheted off a stretch of the conveyor belt beneath them.  Seething through her teeth, she urged Warden forward and broke into a desperate trot.  “Less complaining and more running!  Let's make this quick hell a little bit quicker!”

        Warden didn't argue.  Hyperventilating, he ran alongside Scootaloo as fast as his branded limbs could carry him.  Side by side, the goblin and last pony ran and hopped past metal bomb parts, ducking and dashing when it was appropriate to avoid the many swinging contraptions that sliced deadly paths towards them.  The process became more and more difficult as the devices grew more and more complex, and soon several sparkling nodes, buzz saws, and soddering needles built for adding the finishing touches to ogre explosives were flying straight towards the pair's exposed flesh.

        “Yeah, this is fun,” Scootaloo grunted, glancing about desperately for an exit-before-an-exit.

        “Look!”  Warden shouted, suddenly pointing upward in mid-stride.

        High above, two lone goblins were navigating the lengths of a lone catwalk hanging from the ceiling.  One of them spoke into a shoulder-mounted communicator, responded obediently to the crackling command of Fredden's voice, and unsheathed a rusted machete.  His companion did the same.  Together, the two timed the the momentum of the conveyor belt, flung themselves over the railing, and fell so that both landed on either side of the two runaway targets.  Their blades sang in the orange-glowing air as they carefully navigated the waves of blurring machine-arms and closed in the distance between.

        Warden fidgeted along with Scootaloo in the center.  “Wh-What do we do?”

        Frowning, Scootaloo was already reaching for her copper rifle.  With a gasp, she had to duck a low-swinging arm and side-step another.  Gritting her teeth, she fumed over the lack of open space to aim as the two assassins marched closer and closer.

        “Oh jeez... Oh jeez... Oh jeez...”  Warden winced.  His aquamarine eyes suddenly reflected a pair of sharp objects.  His vision darted down in time to spot the last pony's horseshoes having unsheathed their tiny blades.  “Wh-What are you—?”

        “Raaaaugh!”  Scootaloo bloodily shouted, immediately bounding forward, leaping over a swinging arm, and pouncing on the goblin in front of them.  The imp jerked back and held his machete out horizontally.  Scootaloo's blades ricocheted off of his.  After a shower of sparks, both ducked low to avoid a swinging buzz-saw.  As soon as they stood up again, Scootaloo was spinning towards him with a high buck of her lower hooves.  The imp deflected her kick and jabbed low with his machete.  Scootaloo expected this and knocked the half-ling's weighted thrust down low.  The goblin stumbled, his back exposed.  She raised a blade to skewer him down the center—

        “Aaah!”  Warden's voice exclaimed from behind.

        Scootaloo spun to look, her pink mane billowing.

        The goblin to the rear was advancing on the teenager.  The petite green youngster scooted and scooted away from him as he aimed his blade towards Warden's neck.

        The last pony twitched.  She looked down low.  She saw a metal half-shell and immediately kicked it with a rear hoof.

        The metal object flew off of the goblin's skull.  He cried out in pain, stumbling back.  Scootaloo abandoned the other imp and dashed towards his partner.  By the time she hopped over Warden and reached him, the second goblin was already raising his sword to meet her horsehoe blades.  The two clashed with a ringing of metal, shoving their weight against each other.

        Warden panted.  He glanced behind him and saw the first goblin advancing again.  “Up front!”

        Scootaloo flashed a glance over her shoulder.  She spat.  “Roll towards me—!”

        Warden obeyed, just in the nick of time too.  He avoided the first goblin's slashing machete just as it sliced into the conveyor belt where he once was.  Another swinging arm whizzed by, low this time.  All four figures awkwardly leaped over the sparkling metal limb simultaneously.  When Scootaloo landed, she twisted the horsehoe on her rear left hoof.  She protruded a blade and raised it just in time to block the next lunge of the first goblin while pressing her weight against the second.  Sandwiched between the two assassins, she desperately parried and blocked their attacks with all her might.  Warden watched helplessly as the second goblin overcame her, shoving the brunt of his weight into her body so that she flew murderously off the edge of the conveyor belt.

        The green teenager shrieked and reached desperately for her.  “Pony—!”

        But Scootaloo didn't need any help.  Her veteran eyes caught the vertical support spoke of a mechanism whizzing by.  Reaching her front hooves out, she athletically caught the pole in the crook of her hooves.  Her body spun completely around the circumference of the thing, flinging her back onto the conveyor belt in less than a blink's time.

        The second goblin watched this spectacle for one dumb second too many.  As a reward, he had his jugular vein slashed open as Scootaloo's rear horseshoe blade swung across his neck.  He fell down bloodily, gasping and hissing while the last pony landed on top of him.  As her pink mane settled, she stared with pulsating eyes and charged the first goblin ahead of her and Warden.

        “Haaagh!”  She flew into the imp, blades-first.  He crossed his machete with her horsehoes as her weight flung the two of them onto the body of the conveyor belt.  Together, the two wrestled and twirled over a clattering sea of metal debris as the platform carried them into a sea of pummeling gavels.

        “Look out!”  Warden shouted.  “You're about to get hammered!”

        Scootaloo flung herself from side to side, tossing her and the the weight of the goblin she was entangled with just in time to miss the brutal impacts of the slamming limbs.  Try as she might, she couldn't get the body of her assailant to become any less lucky than she was.  Soon he got the upper hand, straddling her and preparing to slam his machete down into her face.

        Warden finished dodging the hammers, looked ahead, and widened his eyes.  “Pony!”  He pointed.  “Saw!  Up high—”

        “Nnghh-Gaaah!”  Scootaloo bucked the goblin directly upward.  His head lifted just in time.  With a buzzing snap, the machine arm swam through his neck, and his skull went flying off into the blurring madness beyond.  The pony flung the lifeless torso off of her as Warden ran to the scavenger's side.  Before any words could be exchanged, a pounding thunder filled their ears.  They both gazed forlornly ahead.

        The last ten meters of the throttling conveyor belt was a veritable sea of pounding, slicing, vertical blades.  Beyond the serrated forest of death, the doorframe to an elevator car loomed like a rusted beacon of hope.

        “Uh... Let's run back!”  Warden gulped and clung desperately to Scootaloo.  “Please, Pony!  I really, really, really wanna run back—”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath, clutched Warden tight to her chest, and galloped forward on three hooves the moment that she saw a sneeze of an opening.  The teenager's prolonged squeal reverberated off of the many cascading blades on either side of them.  They swam through the piercing thickness like a salmon hopping madly upstream, and came out miraculously unscathed on the other end.

        What wasn't so miraculous was the embarassingly hard impact that their accelerated bodies made with the door of the elevator car beyond.  “Unnngh!”  Scootaloo let loose for the both of them.  She winced and stirred on the cold floor of the factory, her every blood vessel surging from the liquids in her body coming to a stand-still.  “Mmmmf... You sliced into ribbons, kid?”

        “Uhm...” Warden hissed and rubbed his head as he sat up.  “I-I don't think so.”

        “Good, because I'm going to tear you to pieces later.”

        The dented frame of the elevator rang as two, three, four steambolts ricocheted off of it.  Warden gasped and Scootaloo looked up.

        Running down the center of the conveyor belts' aisles, Fredden and his fellow thugs were struggling to catch up.  Their bullets did a much better job than they did.

        “Gotta keep moving.”  Scootaloo slid the door open and practically flung a shrieking Warden inside.  She dove in and slammed the elevator entrance shut just in time to shield them both from more steam bolts.  “Up!  Up!  Ya little squirt, up!”

        “Okay Okay!”  Warden yelped as he desperately yanked on the lever.  With a mechanical hiss, the elevator car sharply ascended, hoisting the two towards the body of Strut Eleven just as Fredden and company stumbled up to breathlessly gawk after them.

        “Nnngh—By the Blight!”  The shaded bodyguard growled.  He motioned towards the distant metal stairs on either side of the factory.  Immediately, his fellow thugs split up and climbed the lengths to Strut Eleven the hard way.  In the meantime, an angrily pacing Fredden reached a clawed hand to his communicator and growled, “Flight One and Flight Two!  The target is a runaway!  Repeat!  The target is a runaway!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Scrkkk—The pony was last spotted taking a foundry elevator to Beta Level, North Side.  Send in reinforcements to intercept!”

        Hovering in mid-air alongside the rusted edge of Strut Eleven, the pilot of one of two hovercrafts full of imps palmed a communicator over his pointed ear.  The yellow banded half-ling signaled a cluster of armed Rust-Bleeders standing parallel to the two flying machines upon the precipice of the strut.  The many goblins nodded in accord, cocked their rifles, and ran towards the middle level of the strut to meet their target head-on.

        “Copy that.  Sending riflers inbound.  Should Flight One and Two provide cover?”

        “Scrkk!  Standby.”

        “What was that—?”

        “Scrkk—I said hold on to your Petra-forsaken hind-quarters!  Dang it all!  We've got a prancing pony on the loose and I'm about to choke on this stupid microphone!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Oh, this is not good.”  Warden fiddled his clawed thumbs, gulping as he watched the bulkheads creakily slither by the grated walls of the tiny elevator car.  “This is totally not frostbeams!  Haman's goons likely know this place like the back of their hands!  They'll have us cornered in no-time!”

        Scootaloo hadn't stopped moving for a second.  The breathless pony was in the middle of extending her copper rifle and examining its magazine of runes.  “You sure your name isn't 'Warden of Obvious-Blood'?”  She tightened her saddlebag while simultaneously loosening several pockets full of weaponized moonrocks with magical symbols etched into them.  “When I die, I wanna go out with all of my whining left behind me.”

        “How could you have gotten yourself into a trap like that?!”  Warden shrieked.

        “For the same reason you stalked me into the mouth of death,” Scootaloo uttered, eyeing the last lengths of the stalk's infrastructure blurring by.  “I just don't know when to quit.”

        “What the heck was all of that assembly line crap doing down there to begin with?!  Were they building some sort of arsenal of newfangled weapons?”  He gulped and added fitfully, “And did we just swing on Franken of Glass Blood's body?”

        “Listen, Wart,” Scootaloo spoke above the rattling of the elevator car.  Try as they might to calm themselves, a bright fate loomed at the top of the shaft above them, and their panting breaths deafened the lengths of the compartment.  “When we get up there, we'll need to move, and we'll need to move fast.”

        “You don't think I know that?”

        “No.  You don't.”  Scootaloo motioned to her flank.  “Hop on.”

        Warden blinked.  “Excuse me?”

        “Do I have to spell it out to your dinky little bat-ears?!”  She growled.  “Get your sorry butt on my back.  Now.”

        “Uhm... Okay...”  He gasped as he was forcibly hoisted up by a mouth to his vest's collar.  He landed squarely on the pony's spine.  The little imp blinked from on top of her.  “Huh.  This actually works... somehow—”

        “Yeah, whatever.  How's your eyesight?”

        “Uhm... Kind of good?”

        “Perfect.”  She tossed the copper rifle up towards the ceiling.  The imp nervously caught it on its way down.  “Cuz I can't gallop us out of here and shoot at the same time.  You're gonna have to help me.”

        “But... But... I-I've rarely ever used a gun before—”

        “Look, it's really simple!”  Scootaloo finished pulling the bracelet of horns off her hoof and tossed it up into his grip as well.  She sweated and spoke above the rattling of the ascending car.  “You remember that one word I shout all the time to fire the thing?”

        Warden blinked.  He thought out loud, “'H'rhnum?'”

        The necklace in the half-ling's grip shimmered.  The copper rifle fired at an odd angle.  Warden shrieked and Scootaloo danced in place as a manabullet madly bounced and ricocheted off the tiny, cramped space of the elevator.

        “Don't say it now!”  Scootaloo snarled over her shoulder at the petite imp.  “Only friggin' say it when you've got a Rust-Bleeder down the sights!”

        “M-My bad...”  Warden wheezed into the fumes of the weapon's smoking magazine.

        “Now cock the two levers on the side!”

        The imp did so.  The spent runestone was flung free from the clip.

        “Do that every time in between shots!”  Scootaloo exclaimed.  “Or else it'll backfire and you'll lose a hoof—er—hand.  Whatever... Just do it everytime!”

        “But what if I'm not a good shot—?!”

        “I just need you to provide cover fire while I get us the heck out of dodge!”  Scootaloo said as the bright, white entrance to the top of the shaft loomed into view.  “Rack that brilliant little brain of yours, Wart!  Can you tell what side of Strut Eleven we'll be on once this ride ends?”

        “Uhm... The... uh... the Northern edge, I think.”

        “Nnnnngh... Celestia dang it.”

        “What?!  What?!”  Warden nervously exclaimed, nervously clutching the rifle to his chest.  “Celestia dang what this time?”

        “We parked the Harmony on the Western edge of the strut, if I recall.”  Scootaloo took a deep breath as the elevator slowed, squeaking to a stop at the edge of the brightness.  “No matter, I just gotta find an edge of the platform—any edge.”

        Warden flung the bracelet of severed hooves over his head and wore it like a necklace.  “What for?”

        “So I can strip of this armor, take wing, and fly us to safety,” Scootaloo said as she grasped ahold of a lever next to the door.  “In between here and there, we're bound to run into many bullets.  I don't want to be naked until I have to.”

        “Like I'm any safer...”  Warden whimpered from where he saddled her.

        “Chillax, kiddo,” Scootaloo bravely uttered in spite of her own palpitating composure.  “Haman's lackeys are as slow as diamond dogs, I bet.  I'm sure it will be smooth sailing from here on—”

        The elevator doors rattled open.  No less than twenty, yellow-banded imps stood behind a freshly erected barrier of rusted junk, steam rifles aimed at the two.

        “There's the glue stick!”

        “Fire!”

        “Take her out!”

        Warden gasped, his face paling instantly.

        “Oh, friggin A!”  Scootaloo snarled and charged suicidally head-on.

        The air filled with surging steambolts.  Sparks flew off of bulkheads and support beams as the last pony darted left and right, clopping a desperate, serpentine pattern while a flailing imp clung loosely to her armored spine like a ragdolling rodeo clown.  Throughout the entire maddening bronco-bust, he shrieked over and over and over again while habitually pulling at the levers of the rifle in his grasp.

        “H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!”

        Manabullets pinballed against the walls of the dead-end district.  Many Rust Blood imps who had never witnessed anything magical in their lives flinched from the purple-glowing projectiles whizzing by them.  As a result, their aim was almost as terrible, so that the only thing being hit was the broad bulkheads of the street.

        A rain of smoking runestones littered the ground as Scootaloo took two more steam-bolts to her armored flank, absorbed the blows, and leaped—snarling—into the thick of the impish crowd.  Her horsehoes sharply slammed the brunt of her weight into a flailing goblin's body.  As she squashed him to the ground, his two immediate cohorts took aim at her opposite flanks.  She jumped away as quickly as she had landed, and the two Rust-Bleeders clumsily shot each other.  They fell down, clutching their shoulders as the last pony galloped straight through the line of riflers, bolting towards a cluster of shanty buildings and lean-tos beyond.  The crowd of yellow-banded thugs who were still on their feet spun around and fired at will, sailing a sea of burning bullets into the urbanscape through which the pegasus and her “rider” were fleeing.

        Scootaloo gnashed her teeth and galloped faster, navigating the thick recesses of the Strut Eleven ghetto.  Warden clung for dear life on top of her as she weaved in and around broken down shacks, homeless shelters, and abandoned wooden market stands.  All of these things didn't last long, for the sea of bullets soon reduced them to pock-marked walls of garbage.  Droves of emaciated, no-bleeder imps shrieked and ran every which way across the two's runaway path as Scootaloo endeavored to desperately out-race the carnage.

        Just as they approached a crossroads in the run-down neighborhood, a pair of yellow-banded imps ran in front of them and simultaneously drew their pistols.

        “Straight ahead!”  Warden squeaked.

        “I see them!”  Scootaloo shouted and began weaving form side-to-side in mid gallop.  “Do you?”

        Taking that as a cue, Warden raised the copper rifle once more, struggled to keep the sight steady, and managed, “H'rhnum!”

        The manabullet struck the metal street between the two Rust-Bleeders.  Once flinched.  The other fired.

        Scootaloo skidded, squatting on her haunches and ducking low.  The steambolt flew so close overhead that it ran a part through Warden's green hair.  In a flash, Scootaloo uncoiled her bent legs and leaped violently towards the two imps.  “Hnnnghh!”

        She landed with her shoulder slamming hard into the one on the left.  As he fell like a sack of meat to the ground, the imp on the right made a desperate lunge and grabbed onto the galloping pegasus' armored flank.  The brave Rust-Bleeder strained with the effort, clinging for dear life while simultaneously reaching for a dagger from his vest.

        “Get him off!”  Scootaloo hissed, not stopping her gallop for one second as more bullets whizzed past them from behind.  “Gethimoff!  Gethimoff!  Gethimoff!”

        “I'm trying!”  Warden grunted, repeatedly kicking the dangling thug in the face.  The Rust-Bleeder took several smacks to the head before finally flinging his hand up to ensnare Warden by the throat.  The teenage imp wheezed and sputtered for breath.

        Scootaloo heard it.  She saw a metal support beam stretching vertically ahead.  “Hold on!”  She darted to the right and skirted just past it.

        The beam caught the full body of the dangling thug before he could stab Warden's chest with the dagger.  Finally, he fell to the blurring street below.  Clutching his own neck with one hand, Warden breathed with relief—only to have his lungs emptied as Scootaloo's armored body jolted below him.

        “Sorry, Wart!”  She panted, suddenly descending down a rickety flight of metal stairs into the dark recesses of Strut Eleven's Ceti Level.  “We're taking a detour!”

        “Down here?!”  Warden exclaimed, his voice echoing against a hollow chamber full of Petra's perpetually grinding gears and steam-powered motors.  “But why?”  He was answered by a bullet sailing into a dim lantern that exploded above them.  Shrieking, he glanced back in time to see seven Rust-Bleeders in mad pursuit, scurrying after the two on swift limbs as they took pot-shots in mid-stride.

        Scootaloo hung a left just in time to avoid a sea of bullets ricocheting across a stretch of wall beyond them.  Vents hissed hot vapor into their faces as Warden rode her down a claustrophobic chamber full of swinging pendulums and jutting pistons.  The brass cylinders in question were jutting seemingly at random straight out of the floor, turning the hallway into a chaotic forest of steam-powered madness.  Through the obscuring field of pistoning metal, angry imps scampered after them, aiming and firing as swiftly as they could.

        Two bullets streamed straight at Scootaloo's tail-hairs, only for a piston to shoot up straight behind her and miraculously block the projectiles.

        “Uhhh, Wart?!”  Scootaloo panted through the hot, echoing room of metal.  “A little cover fire would be nice...!”

        “R-Right!”  Warden uttered, nervously spinning so that he rode Scootaloo backwards.  He braced his backside as best as he could against her neck as he squinted down the barrel of the copper rifle and hissed:  “H'rhnum!”

        The pursuing goblins flinched, moreso from the sea of randomly thrusting pistons than from the purple manabullet that utterly missed them.  One gray-skinned imp took his position atop a metal circle, knelt, and aimed, only to that same disc rise up as the piston impaled him against the ceiling with a sickening, wet snap.  A fellow cohort emotionlessly scooped the weapon from the twitching corpse and dual-wielded both rifles in the runaways' direction.

        Warden flinched, ducking the projectiles while Scootaloo dodged and weaved around the sea of pistons.  He took aim again.  “H'rhnum!”

        This time, the bullet flew but struck the stalk of a rising piston.  It bounced madly off two metal cylinders five times before finally sailing off and slicing through a random imp's ankle.  The goblin fell down, bleeding and screaming, as his partners continued their pursuit.

        Warden cocked the pony's weapon and was about to fire again when he noticed in his twitching peripheral that the magazine was empty.  “Crap!  I'm out—Aaack!”  He shrieked as he felt Scootaloo's body galloping uphill.

        Scootaloo ascended a series of metal steps and came out on the other side of the piston chamber.  She ran straight for a two-story, run-down apartment building just as a flock of gun-toting imps came up along the flank.

        “I've got more ammo in my saddlebags!  Right beneath you!”  She shouted before briefly swiveling to bucking open an aluminum door.  A cloud of bullets sparked off the buildingside around them.  She ducked inside the dimly-lit interior, galloping down a long, wooden hallway lined with age old, wealthy antiques.  “Just slap the new magazine into the clip and—”

        “I've seen you do it!”  Warden exclaimed as he popped a fresh sliver of moonrocks into place.  “Just try not to shake around so much!”

        The world screamed with crumbling madness once again as a layer of fresh steambolts swam through the walls of the hallway as if they were made of tissue paper.  Warden flattened himself against Scootaloo's mane while splinters and clumps of debris rained down all over them.

        “Tell them that!”  Scootaloo finally retorted.  One streaming-hot bullet sailed low through the wall and grazed one of her front legs.  “Augh!”  She shouted as a splash of red littered the hallway.

        “Omigosh!  Omigosh!”  Warden panted, almost dismounting her as Scootaloo briefly lurched before the aluminum exit door to the apartment.  “Are you okay?”

        “Nnngh... As good as I'll ever be.”  She hissed through her teeth and strongly stood back up.  “Did you reload the gun—?”

        Just then, the exit door burst open and a tall goblin with a yellow armband was aiming a steam-powered pistol in their faces.  His other hand reached threateningly towards a belt of grenades around his waist.  “Halt!  That's as far as you go, glue stick—”

        “H'rhnum!”

        The goblin's head jolted, for he suddenly grew a third-eye, in that it wasn't a third eye but both Scootaloo and Warden could see straight through it to the other side of his skull nonetheless.  His muscular, meaty body began its slow slump towards the dusty floor of the apartment.

        “Guess that answers that,” Scootaloo murmured, then smirked up at her rider.  “Nice shot, kid.”

        Warden bit his lip with an awkward smile.

        Just then, the goblin's body hit the floor, and out from his limp hand their rattled three loose, un-pinned grenades.

        The two runaways gazed at the ticking sight with wide-eyes.  “Then again.”  The pony glanced immediately to her left.  She saw a door, and swiftly rammed her shoulder into it once... twice.  She broke through and dove into an apartment suite layered with cobwebs just as the explosives went off.

        The room collapsed all around Scootaloo.  She coughed and sputtered, navigating a hauntingly familiar ringing noise that she hadn't experienced in decades.  A trickle of crimson rivered down from her Outbleeder bandanna as she stumbled up onto four limbs, calling for a two-syllable name, helpless to hear a response as she was wanting to hear her own voice.  Her scarlet eyes dazedly navigated a rocking, dizzy world, just as three figures blurred into focus.  One figure was Warden, his body being-yanked back and forth.  The other two figures were brawny Rust-Bleeders who had burst in from the opposite end of the room from the where the grenades had gone off.

        Scootaloo's eyes flared.  Without thinking, she shouted at them.

        The ringing noise was still drowning everything out as one of the two goblins glanced over, saw the pony, and immediately took aim.  Warden screamed something faint and indistinct.

        Scootaloo's eyes found a round, wooden table in front of her.  She slammed her front hooves down over the edge of it.  The thing flipped on its side just in time to absorb the steambolt sailing from the firing goblin's weapon.  Within a single breath, Scootaloo spun and slammed her rear legs into the thick piece of furniture.  Mercilessly, she bucked the table across the room so that it flew into the goblin.  The imp fell hard under a sea of splinters while his partner blinked dazedly with Warden in his grasp.  The narrow-sighted imp looked up in time to catch Scootaloo charging into him with a vicious head-butt.

        Stumbling across the ringing world, the imp slammed into a wall, growled, and shouted an indiscernible curse the last pony's way.  He fired at mid-range.  A flash of steam filled the air, but Scootaloo ducked it, spun, and flung her tail-hairs up so that they ensnared the imp's neck, wrapping around it three times.  Scootaloo roughly yanked down and slammed the thug to the floor of the suite.  She saw something reflected in a dusty picture frame in the corner of the room and realized that the other imp was getting up again.  Breathlessly, she rolled over onto the back of the grounded goblin, pressed her body weight into him, and bit fircely into the forearm of the wrist that was still gripping the rifle.  The imp's fingers painfully spasmed, and Scootaloo made sure he was aiming at his companion when the shot went off.

        A spray of blood filled the air, but Scootaloo could hardly notice, for the angry goblin had punched the small of her neck with the back of his other fist.  She stumbled off of him, her tail-hairs unlatching as her desperate fight for breath further adrenalized the blood flowing through her skull.  In short order, the ringing finally subsided in time for her to hear the low-pitched scream of her opponent now sailing straight into her sternum.

        “Raaaaugh!”  The goblin speared Scootaloo viciously.  The two slammed into the apartment wall.  The wooden barrier had become fragile with age, for the pair of combatants flew with a spray of wooden debris down into a rectangular factory room built directly below.  Their bodies sailed towards a floor swarming with giant, grinding, horizontal cogwheels.

        Scootaloo struck the ground first, her armored body bouncing brutally against the revolving cogs.  She barely had a chance to hop back up to her hooves when the versatile goblin was slamming her back down with a clawed foot to her chest.

        The enraged goblin spat bloodily at her and pulled out a switch-blade.  Before he could bend over and make mince-meat out of the pony's exposed flesh, a green figure hopped down straight after them, wielding the copper rifle like a club.  “Yaaaaugh!”

        The metal barrel of the gun slammed off of the goblin's skull.  He stumbled away from Scootaloo, wincing, but not down for the count.  Angrily, he spun and back-handed Warden across the cheek before the teenager could get a close-ranged shot off.

        “Oooof!”  Warden ragdolled over onto a rusted platform, away from the giant spinning cogs that filled the room with a monstrous, rhythmic ticking.

        The goblin aimed to throw the switchblade into the teenager's chest from across the way.  Scootaloo swiftly tackled the imp from behind.  The two struggled and wrestled for dominance over the flimsy dagger, all the while a bruised and trembling Warden sat and aimed as best as he could.

        “I... I...” the green youngster stammered.  “I-I can't get a clear shot!  I might hit you!”

        “Then... nnngh...”  Scootaloo hissed and sputtered against her enemy's clambering claws.  “Don't bother!  Shoot at them!”

        “Who?”  Warden exclaimed, blinking.  In answer, a bullet bounced just between his knees.  He scooted back with a shriek and gazed directly up.

        A row of goblins had rushed up to the edge of the fresh-hole in the side of the apartment above the machine room.  From up high, they took aim with their pistols, training the sights on Scootaloo and the goblin she was entangled with.

        Without a second thought, Warden pivoted and aimed up at the assailants.  “H'rhnum!”

        The manabullet sailed hotly into the space of the apartment.  The goblins ducked before firing blindly around the corner.  Bullets and steambolts ricocheted across the cogwheels as the imp suplexed himself and Scootaloo onto the giant gears, their struggling bodies slowly rotating along with them.  In the meantime, Warden swung, pivoted, and fired straight up at the room as often and as desperately as he could, keeping the other Rust-Bleeders occupied as he cast fitful, breathless glances over his shoulder.

        The seething goblin pressed his weight down on the pegasus, fiercely grinding her face cheek-first against the metal surface of the rotating cog they were on.  She winced and gazed aside with twitching eyes.  As her ears filled with the grinding of the steam-powered machines beneath her, she caught sight of the nearest cog and its adjoining teeth to the wheel they were lying on.  A glinting dagger once again flickered in her peripheral.  The imp on top of her licked his lips and victoriously stabbed the blade down.

        Scootaloo flung her neck aside at the last second.  The goblin's dagger struck pure rust.  While the imp's weight was shifted awkwardly forward, she reached in and clamped her teeth over his yellow armband, forcefully flipping his body over her by the sheer strength of her muzzle.  Bullets randomly bounced around from above as the thug of Haman found himself sprawling head-first towards a slowly-closing gap of adjoining cogs' teeth.  Gasping, he shot back up—only to be forced back down by Scootaloo shoving her armored weight into his back.  Mercilessly, the sweating, bleeding equine pushed the imp's skull deeper and deeper into the shrinking space.  He struggled and shoved back against her, slashing wildly and blindly with the dagger.  She took two shallow grazes to the chest, but nothing more.  The imp let loose a blood-curdling cry that was soon muffled by the sickening crunch of his skull caving in from the pressure of two gigantic gears coming together.

        Warden, wincing, did his best not to look, instead busying himself with two more shots aimed high up at the apartment complex.  “H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!”

        “Nnngh... W-Wart!”  Scootaloo wheezed, struggling to get up on wobbly limbs above the headless corpse beneath her.  “B-Back in the saddle!  We gotta g-get out of here...”  She coughed briefly, her joints aching all over.

        “R-Right!”  With a rattle of the horn necklace, he scurried over to join her.  The youngster had briefly turned a blind shoulder to the apartment complex above.  One goblin saw it.  He aimed a pistol towards the square of the teenager's back.

        Scootaloo gasped.  In a flash, she wrenched the dagger from the dead imp's grasp, stuck the blade into the thick of her tail-hairs, and spun a full three-sixty.  Warden watched as the glinting blade soared straight up over his head.  He heard a meaty impact from above, followed by a blood-curdling cry.  Hopping onto Scootaloo's spine, he glanced over his shoulder to see an imp falling limply out of the hole in the apartment, desperately clutching a knife that had landed through his left eye.  Soon, everything was once again a blurring madness as Scootaloo galloped the two of them back out into the blistering streets of Strut Eleven.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        A pair of elevator doors flung open.  In the middle of Alpha Level, Fredden and five other imps ran out into the golden lanternlight, finally catching up with the pursuit, or so they thought.  Everywhere they turned, no-bleeder goblins were running panicked through the ghetto streets.  The air was full of random shouts, screams, and echoing gunshots.

        Adding to the noise, Fredden's shoulder communicator crackled to life.  “Scrkkk!  This is Flight One.  It sounds like utter havoc down there!  Should we engage?”

        The shaded goblin sneered into the microphone.  “Where're the ponies last known whereabouts?”

        “Scrkkkk!  Reports are still coming in.  So far, we believe she's in the middle of Alpha Level!”

        “Alpha Level?”  Fredden exclaimed, blinking.  “Wait a second!  Aren't we in—?!”

        A galloping, equine figure barreled through them.  The goblins splashed every which way, sprawling onto the ground as the figure of the last pony and her impish rider soared due north, straight towards the faint glow of twilight beyond the webbed latticework.

        While the Rust-Bleeder bodyguard's companions stood and fired desperate shots at the distant pegasus, he sat up and roared into his communicator:  “Dang it all, that is an affirmative, Flight One and Flight Two!  Engage the target!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Scrkkk!  Do you copy?!  Engage the target now!  She is almost reaching the edge of Strut Eleven, north facing!”

        Fredden's voice echoed across the hulls of the two hovercraft floating outside the edge of the strut.  Each vehicle housed at least six imps apiece, and they glanced curiously at one another upon hearing the chief bodyguard's words.

        “Loud and clear!  Engaging!”  A tall, yellow-banded goblin shouted back in the high winds of Petra.  He holstered the communicator, pulled a semi-automatic steam rifle out, and tapped a gremlin pilot on the back.  “Time to weed out the galloping trash!  No time to waste!”

        The gremlin replied with a metallic ringing sound emanating through his cold-black mouthpiece.  Visors glinting, he cast a glance over his shoulder towards a gremlin at the rear of the tiny vessel.  Indiscernible ringing sounds flitted between the two, and soon the rear gremlin was swinging loose the sparkling double barrels of a tesla-coiled powered lightning cannon.

        The hovercraft banked sharply through the air, circling around to the north edge of Strut Eleven.  The tall imp motioned to the other craft, and it swiftly followed suit, its steam thrusters hissing loudly through the high-altitude winds.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's lungs were ragged at this point.  Between the weight of the leather armor and Warden on her back, she was finding it progressively more difficult to keep up her desperate pace.  Bravely, she embraced the sudden numbness overcoming her, running through it like she was swimming to the surface of a steep lake.  Freedom lingered beyond, laced in gray twilight and smelling of the Harmony's cabin interior.

        “We're almost out in the open!”  Warden exclaimed excitedly from where she rode her, his face beaming as it was progressively illuminated by the blinding edge of the strut in front of them.  “Oh, blessed Petra!  I never thought I'd be so happy to see the miserable ash again!”

        “You can make snow imps in it later if you want.  I don't friggin' care!”  Scootaloo gulped and gasped as she trudged the last few meters towards the edge.  “Just help me get the armor off quickly so that I can—”

        A loud, hissing hovercraft rose a column of steam and appeared directly in view.  Four goblins aimed their rifles while a gremlin pivoted about a sparkling lightning cannon.

        “—swiiiiiiiiftly turn about-flank and ohhhhh dear Epona screw THAT!”  Scootaloo wheezed, her hooves scuffling as she dashed immediately to her left and galloped towards a gray, abandoned warehouse while a shrieking Warden clung to her careening flank for dear life.

        “There she is!”

        “She's on the move!”

        “Let her have it!”

        A solid wall of steambolts flew madly at the scampering body of the last pony.  Scootaloo darted swiftly up a steep, rusted incline of steps and onto the second level of the warehouse interior, bursting through aluminum barriers and wooden panels as she navigated what turned out to be a sudden hobo-hotel full of lifeless, no-bleeder goblins.  The many drowsy goblins shifted and sat up, blinking curiously before having their bodies rained on by metal shrapnel and glass shards from the rows upon rows of exploding window panes.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Keep up with her!”  The goblin in the foremost hovercraft exclaimed.  The other vehicle hovered at a distance, ready to provide backup as the first airship flew parallel to the galloping pony inside the warehouse.  The imp turned and shouted through the whipping winds.  “Give it all you've got!”

        The rearmost gremlin nodded, ringing forth a sharp reply through his breathing mask.  He pulled a silver lever on the instrument panel of the lightning gun.  The hulking turret hummed loudly from within, then filled the earth with bright light and nose-bleeding static as twin rivulets of electricity swam monstrously through the broad side of the warehouse, smashing the windows to sandy dust.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The interior of the building filled with a horrendous thunder.  The bulkheads and support columns of the structure alternated between melting and exploding at the rear hooves of the scampering pony.  Teeth gritting, the last pony outraced the artificial lightning as it weaved violently behind her.  Several shrieking, homeless goblins shot up and dashed away too late, only to have their bodies burned to a smoking crisp in the pegasus' wake.

        A metal bridge of webbed plates bridged that warehouse with another across the edge of the strut.  Knocking aside fleeing goblins to make room, Scootaloo dashed swiftly across the precarious platform.  The metal plates wobbled and shook underneath as she made her way over.  Then the lightning beam caught up with the edge of the bridge behind her.  The structure melted on its hinges, and half of it fell behind Scootaloo in a sudden lurch.

        “Aaack!”  Warden shrieked, clinging to both her neck and the copper rifle.  The two jolted, sliding down the suddenly slumping bridge.

        Scootaloo struggled, her muscles tightening as her horseshoes scraped and grinded against the bridge's metal plates like nails against chalkboard.  Putting her weight into it, she managed to drag the two of them up just as the last lengths of the bridge fell.  Grunting, she leaped through thin air and landed in the second-floor doorway of the warehouse as the platform crashed loudly behind them under a sea of artificial sparks.

        The air roared immediately outside the grime-covered windows of this second structure.  Scootaloo slowed down as she realized that the two hovercrafts were soaring ahead to gain some distance before she and Warden could.  They would undoubtedly be waiting for the two of them on the other side of the structure.

        “What are we standing in place for?!”  The teenager panted, clinging to her hard and shivering.  “They'll shoot us at any second—”

        “Something tells me they can't maintain that sort of electrical discharge nonstop,” Scootaloo muttered under a panting breath.  She gulped and gazed towards the far end of the warehouse.  “They're likely recharging as we speak.”

        Warden bit his lip, his pointed ears drooping as he heard the throttling steam engines of the hovercraft just beyond the walls of the dark, two-story interior.  “B-But we can't just stay here!  If we remain here, we're toast.  If we try and outrun them, we're as good as dead!  They can just fly past us!  Nnngh... Wh-What's left to do?!”

        Scootaloo breathed in and out.  She gazed at the thick, mildew-stained windows stretching before the two of them.  She gulped and muttered, “W-Wart?”

        “Yes, pony?”

        “Hold on tight.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Is that thing ready again or not?!” the goblin in the foremost hovercraft shouted towards the rear of the vehicle.

        The gremlin recharged the tesla-coils, chirped something through his mask, and gave a clawed thumb's up.

        “Good.  On my mark...”

        “Scrkkk!  Flight One!  This is Fredden!  Is it the friggin' Dimming all over again or what?!  What’s your progress?”

        The tall goblin raised the communicator to his ear.  “We've got them cornered in a warehouse.  There's nowhere left for the glue stick to—”

        There was an explosion of glass shards.  The last pony sailed straight through a window and out into the open air of Petra.  With Warden in tow, her armored weight flew unabashedly towards the hovercraft.

        The goblin blanched, along with his gasping companions.  “H-Holy—!”

        The pony landed straight on the bow of the ship, upending the vehicle so that it lurched forward from her four-limbed impact.  An unstrapped goblin was flung—screaming—clear overboard so that he plummeted towards the desolate Wasteland below.

        “W-Warden!”  Scootaloo managed to shriek, her brown face knicked all over with cuts and bruises.

        “R-Right!”  The goblin on her shoulders shot up and aimed the copper rifle straight at the pilot.  “H'rhnum!”

        The gremlin looked up, and half of his visor shattered in an instant as the manabullet sailed through his cranium.  His body slumped against the controls, inadvertently jerking a row of the front thrusters to emit a burst of steam.

        “Augh!”  Scootaloo exclaimed as she and Warden were bucked through the air.  They and the remaining five imps collapsed, sprawling across the flimsy space of the loosely hovering craft.  Warden fell clear off the last pony's spine and collapsed into a leathery seat on the side of the vehicle.  Scootaloo stood in the center, surrounded by the floundering limbs of Rust-Bleeders.  With only a blink to spare, she fiddled with the straps of her bullet-riddled armor, desperate to get her wings free.

        Just then a goblin shot up and charged her, swinging the full weight of a studded club.  “Nnnngh!”

        Scootaloo briskly dodged the blow and rammed him in the side with her flank.  Another goblin leaped onto her neck and attempted a choke hold as the two wrestled and struggled across the middle of the craft.  On the other side of the teetering vessel, another imp stood up and aimed a pistol her way.

        Warden saw it from where he was lying on his back.  Using his legs like braces, he propped the length of the barrel between his thighs and swiftly shouted, “H'rhnum!”

        The imp's pistol flew off into the high winds, along with his entire arm.  The bleeding imp screamed and clutched his side as suddenly the other hovercraft hovered into view, its occupants not wasting any time.  A stream of hot bullets soared at the careening vehicle being fought over.

        Warden gasped and dodged the projectiles.  He returned fired, sending manabullets sailing desperately towards the other vessel's occupants.  “H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!”

        The imps on board the other hovercraft effortlessly dodged and fired volley after volley, pock-marking the hull of their allies' vehicle with holes.

        “Nnngh—Wart!”  Scootaloo managed a hiss while struggling to get the upper hoof of her assailant.  “The tanks!  Aim for the steam tanks!”

        Warden's eyes twitched.  He saw a pair of pressurized, brass containers at the rear of the rival aircraft.  He rolled sideways, dodged another flurry of steambolts, and laid on his chest as he performed the most expert shot of his young life.  “H'rhnum!”

        The manabullet flew straight into the attacking vessel's power source.  The vehicle's thrusters lost half of their strength.  The ship lurched violently to the side—briefly bumping into Scootaloo's and Warden's vessel.  The two hovercraft collided with a splash of sparks.  The rival ship sailed limply towards a fatal drop below while the remaining vehicle spun and spun over the great, golden lengths of Petra.

        “Nnnngh—Haugh!”  Scootaloo finally flung the weight of the goblin off her.  She clasped with numb hooves for an even grip of the floor, but found herself flailing helplessly as the winds tore into her mane.

        “Mmmmf—Aaah!”  Warden screamed, slipped, and fell into ashen nothingness—

        Scootaloo gripped tight onto him with two hooves.  She yanked him back onto the hovercraft, their surging weight evening the balance of the vessel, but not without another imp suddenly pouncing on her backside.  She struggled and strained as the imp held her in place for...

        Near the abandoned pilot's seat, another imp was aiming a shotgun straight at the last pony's chest.  “Keep the glue stick still, for Petra's sake—”

        The pegasus seethed and rear-bucked her leg into the wrestling goblin's crotch.  The imp flinched while his partner fired.  Scootaloo ducked, and the blood that flew across the shuddering gremlin at the rear of the vessel wasn't hers.

        The imp with the shotgun did a double-take.  Snarling, he grabbed a new steam cartridge from his vest pocket.  Scootaloo flashed him a look.  Angrily, she rotated her metal horsehoe and protruded a tiny carving knife.  The Rust-Bleeder slid the cartridge in, his hair billowing in the windy air as he cocked the weapon with a hiss of vapors.  Scootaloo bolted clear across the floor of the tiny vessel, charging into him.

        He aimed at her skull—only to have her plow into his body and slam him against the vehicle's dashboard.  The goblin was too dizzy to register the barrel of his own shotgun being placed underneath his chin until the last pony was already weaving the length of the butter-knife into the trigger.  After his brain matter joined the snow of the Wasteland, Scootaloo wrenched the gun from his grasp in time to slam the butt of the weapon across the face of another imp charging her.

        In the meantime, a panicked and shivering Warden watched the entire fight unfold with trepidation.  Unbeknownst to him, the blood-stained gremlin at the lightning turret was standing up, aiming a steam-powered crossbow at the offending teenager's spine.  The green youth spun at the last second, gasping in surprise before he could reach for the copper rifle.

        Scootaloo saw from afar.  She hoisted the shotgun over her head and flung the weapon desperately at the skull of the petite assailant.  The weighted rifle ricocheted off the gremlin's helmet, cracking it down the center.  Groaning, the gremlin's body fell inadvertently over the silver lever powering the lightning cannon.  The air stung with a blistering static as the sparkling weapon hummed louder and louder, its bright barrels aimed directly into the hull of the very ship it was mounted on.

        “Great Celestia—” Scootaloo bounded over her stumbling foes and literally plowed into Warden's body.  The startled teenager shrieked as the last pony sent the two of them plummeting—naked—clear over the edge of the hovercraft.  As the pair fell, the three remaining imps on board the craft stood up, glanced at the throbbing cannon, and shrieked in one collective outburst of horror before the electrical explosion overtook them.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The resulting explosion lit up Scootaloo's body even from so far away as she fell and fell, flailing like a lifeless rock as she surged towards the great black expanse of the Wasteland below.  She gazed up—in that she gazed down—in time to see a second explosion.  The other hovercraft had violently struck the earth, and as it lit up the bosom of the desolate world, she spotted the tiny shadow of Warden's helpless body in the midst of it.

        Keeping her eyes locked on the sight of him, the pegasus blindly fumbled with her armor's leather straps in free-fall.  She twirled and she spun and she spiraled along her path earth-ward, but not once did she wrench the image of him from her sight.  The stalks of Petra soared past her like golden streaks in her peripheral vision.  The air grew thicker and more rancid as the oil fires blanketing the ground beneath the impcity's stalk collected densely beneath the two sailing bodies.  The last pony's scarlet eyes teared into the freezing winds.  She fought and fought to loosen the bullet-studded leather enshrouding her.  Finally, as she could begin making out their tiny reflections in the slick, oily surface of the rock-hard plateau below, she flung the straps free.

        The leather armor ripped off of her and twirled into the ether.  Instantly her wings stretched outward, blossoming like a mahogany flower in the shadow of Petra.  Majestic feathers caught the wind and angled her body true as she flew directly after the sound of Warden's screams.

        “Hold on, Wart!  I'm coming!”

        She screamed, she roared, she throttled down into gravity and yet against it all at once.  She could hear the hissing of the oil fires by the time she swooped up for the sake of swooping up, and was enraptured to victoriously feel the light weight of a trembling young goblin in her grasp.  Her heart throbbed with each dozen of meters she safely flew the two of them higher and higher, scaling the distance that they had lost in half as many blinks.  She exhaled sharply and held his tiny body tightly to her chest during their ascent.  The last pony was only residually aware of the youngster endlessly screaming the entire time.

        “Wart....”

        “Aaaaa-aaaaa-aaah!”

        “Wart.”

        “Aaaa-aaaah!”

        “Wart!”  She finally resorted to a growling hiss straight in his twitching, green ear.  “Knock it off!  Or so help me, I'll just friggin' drop you!”

        “Aaaa-aaa-aaaaaah frostbeams!”  He ultimately exclaimed, clinging to her neck and giggling hysterically into her ear.  “That was freakin' amazing!  Can you do that again?!”  He blinked, then blushed.  “Erm... th-the last part, I mean?”

        “Hmmm...”  She took a deep breath, weathering a numb smile as she flew the two of them towards the copper shape of the Harmony along the West end of Strut Eleven above.  “For you, ya little Wart, anytime.  But for now, let's take off before we run into any more bloodlusting sons of Haman.”

        “Okay...”  He said, clinging to her and gulping.  “Uhm... Pony?”

        “Goblin?”

        “I... uhm...”  He bit his lip.  “I-I dropped your gun.”

        She took a deep breath as she brought the two of them swiftly to the aperture entrance of her dirigible.  “That's why I have spares, kiddo.  Some things in this world can't be duplicated.  Take you for instance.”

        “That's... That's nice of you to say...”  His green body flushed slightly as he set his trembling feet down onto the Harmony's door platform.  “Does this mean you're no longer mad at me for following you into the factory?”

        “No.”  She said in a guttural voice before speaking to the glowing mana-runes.  “W'nyhhm!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        The bulbous brown shape of the Harmony soared off into the collective smog of the polluted air above Petra.  Shuffling breathlessly over towards a metal railing alongside Strut Eleven, a sweating Fredden gawked.  Condensation dripped down his black shades as he flung a pistol down into a metal bulkhead with frustration and shook a fist at the image of the pony's escaping aircraft.

        “Dang it!  This is... She is...”  He snarled and spat.  “Impossible!  Absolutely flippin' impossible!”

        His yellow-banded associates caught up with him, gazing with no less shock and awe.

        The Rust-Bleeder bodyguard spun and frowned their way.  “How does one single pony learn to do all of that?!” 






        Moths flittered gray-streaking orbits around the golden lampposts of downtown Ponyville as Scootaloo shuffled through the night-drenched streets.  The squeaking wheels of her metal tray echoed against the fenches, mailboxes, and building faces passing slowly past her.  She serenaded her lurching gait with an ensemble of moody sighs.  She wasn't looking where she was going.  She hardly even cared.

        Thus it was with a belated reaction that Scootaloo's ears twitched to hear the commotion.  Pony voices doubled, tripled, and quadrupled.  An equine figure surged past her, then another, more and more—until Scootaloo realized she was no longer alone in the streets of Ponyville, for the filly was suddenly navigating a funnel of excited, murmuring ponies moving with one coordinated shuffle towards the north side of town.

        Scootaloo finally looked up, blinking curiously.  She saw a huge crowd of hoofed figures clustering around a white, two-story building.  Squinting, Scootaloo made out the structure in lanternlight.  It was Ponyville's Central Hospital, and no less than four dozen ponies were rushing up towards the front gate where Officer Silvertrot and many other uniformed stallions were forming a barricade at the front gates.  Above the bouncing, craning, and gazing heads, Scootaloo could even make out the image of Ponyville's Mayor herself.

        The voices around her stammered and gasped:

        “I can't believe it!  I could see the blazes from my front door!”

        “Did you hear?!  It took two teams of firefighters to put the flames out!”

        “What started it?  A box of matches?”

        “Who cares—We're lucky that the whole town didn't go up in smoke!”

        “Not as lucky as June Bug and her brother!  Or the Old Mister Barley, for that matter!”

        “I still can't believe she got them out all on her own!”

        “I know!  Isn't she amazing?  I swear, there's nothing that pegasus can't do!”

        “I only hope she isn't hurt that bad...”

        “I know, isn't it a shame?  And after all she did...”

        Scootaloo gawked at the passing bodies.  Her nostrils flared, and she sniffed at a frightening odor in the air.  Turning about, she gazed skyward and saw a plume of thin smoke rising through the starry night sky.  From afar, she spotted a crowd of firefighters forming a circle around an ashen heap of rubble—what used to be a three-story condominium in the center of town just the day before.  A few amber sparks crackled menacingly as a weighted building-face toppled over and fell into the center of the burnt rubble being sprayed upon with pumped water.

        The little pegasus blinked.  The puzzle pieces came coldly together in her head.  A sharp gasp escaped Scootaloo's lips as her violet pupils violently dilated. She kicked fiercely against the dirt street and blazed a trail towards the hospital on her metal tray, surging through the crowd and forcing many ponies to jump aside, gasping defiantly.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Nurse Red Heart has assured me that all the ponies admitted this afternoon are in stable condition and should recover from their injuries in a matter of days,” the Mayor of Ponyville spoke towards the gathered crowd of murmuring, concerned equines.  She stood behind a line of police officers and smiled placatingly while waving a gray hoof.  “Please, go back to your homes and enjoy your evening's rest.  Come tomorrow morning, the City Council will arrange a proper ceremony to honor today's heroics.”  Her breath took on a somber tone, “As well as an honorable way to memorialize those who have—”

        “Rainbow Dash!” A filly's voice squeaked shrilly.  The crowd gasped, bumped into each other, and broke apart as the tiny orange pegasus on her metal tray broke through a sea of limbs and emerged at the front of the gathering.  Panting, Scootaloo darted straight for the double-door entrance of the hospital on the glinting tray.  “Out of the way!  I gotta see Rainbow Dash—!”  Her breath was cut short by the burly forelimb of a police stallion lifting her clear off her tray and holding her in place.

        The Mayor adjusted her spectacles and glared at the filly.  “Young lady, this is most uncouth!  Isn't it past your bedtime?”

        “Nnnghh—Please!”  Scootaloo hissed and flailed in the officer's grip, her eyes moist.  “I gotta see her!  I gotta find out if she's okay...”

        “I'm sorry, my little pony.  But Nurse Red Heart has expressively forebidden any visitors at this hour, aside from family and close friends—”

        “But... But...!”  Scootaloo choked back a sob.

        Suddenly, a strong voice called from the double-doors.  “It's alright, Mayor.  Let 'er in.  I reckon the little darlin' won't get a wink of sleep until she gets to see her face-to-face.”

        Voices murmured curiously from the crowd.  The Mayor glanced over her shoulder.  “Are you sure about that, Miss Applejack?”

        “Heheh...”  The orange mare trotted up to the edge of the gathered crowd, adjusting the brim of her hat.  “Trust me.  I can speak for RD in this particular matter.  Let the lil filly through.  If Nurse Red Heart makes a fuss about it, I'll give her a talkin' to myself.”

        “Very well.”  The Mayor simply looked at the officer.

        The stallion nodded, and with an amused smirk he effortlessly let the orange pegasus go.  Plopping down onto her petite hooves, Scootaloo rushed over and immediately nuzzled one of Applejack's legs.

        “Oh, thank you, AJ!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!”  She nevertheless shivered and stared up at the farm-filly with quivering eyes.  “Where is she?!  I gotta see her!  Please!”

        “Relax, sugarcube,” Applejack smiled softly and patted the small of Scootaloo's back.  “Rainbow's doin' just fine.  Let's go see her together, shall we?”

        “Oh Applejack, I feel so horrible!” Scootaloo squeaked, biting her lip, not caring how pathetic her own words sounded as she trotted in a shivering gait through the doors of the hospital.  “I waited forever for her because she promised to meet me and then she didn't meet me and I almost felt angry and it's just so horrible—”

        “Shhhh... We're in a hospital, Scootaloo.  Try usin' yer inside voice.  You've got an inside voice, don'tcha?”

        Scootaloo gulped a lump down her throat and muted herself as she followed the farm filly into the chilly hallways of the Ponyville infirmary.  Her and Applejack's hooves clopped hauntingly against the tile floor, chilling the pegasus to the bone as she looked at each doorway and wondered anxiously which one would reveal a blue pegasus to her pulsating eyes...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        When Nurse Red Heart greeted them both, she didn't protest.  She led the two ponies into a long room lined with several rows of sheeted cubicles.  Scootaloo glanced left at the sound of groaning voices.  She saw three or four ponies being bandaged by orderlies.  The Ponyvillean citizens winced, their muscles twitching under singed coats.  The little pegasus looked to her right and saw a few ponies who weren't as badly burnt.  Some didn't even need to be reclining on the hospital beds; they stood and leaned against the wall as a nurse or two finished applying white wrappings to their bruised limbs.

        In one spot, a family clustered around an injured stallion.  He was obviously recovering, and yet his children clung to him, sobbing tenderly.  He leaned over and nuzzled his wife's face as the group of ponies shared a quiet moment.  A few spaces over, a stallion stood beside a bed and held an injured mare's limbs in his hooves.  The two smiled and murmured sweet nothings to one another, delighted to be alive.

        Scootaloo took all of these sights in skittishly, her eyes darting past them in search for a sapphiric hue.  With each lurching second, her heart pounded harder and harder against her chest.  Everything about the hospital ward was dull, gray, and dismal.  The place was a sterilized tomb of tension, and she could barely stand straight for want of color.  Suddenly, Applejack's body stopped trotting.  Scootaloo came to a stop with her and gazed ahead, gasping immediately.

        Four young ponies hovered around a velvet bed at the far end of the hospital ward.  A lavender unicorn was donating a pile of books with a smile.  A yellow pegasus was drying her eyes and smiling while a pink earth pony practically bounced jubilant circles around the bed.  Finally, a white fashionista was murmuring something while tying up the last length of a scarf around a reclined mare's neck, and that was when Scootaloo finally saw the colors after so many hours.

        “Rainbow Dash!”  Scootaloo loudly barked; she didn't care.  On scampering hooves, she darted straight over to the bed.

        “H-Hey there, ya little squirt,” a hoarse voice managed.

        The four adult ponies parted ways.  Scootaloo rushed up, beaming.  As soon as she propped herself against the bedside, she took a good look... and her smile faded under a pale curtain of concern.  “D-Dashie...?”

        Lying on her left side, Rainbow Dash gazed back through thin, tired rubies.  Her front right hoof was in a cast, and her wings were bandaged so thickly that hardly a single blue feather poked free.  Nevertheless, she gave the dumbstruck little pegasus a soft, tranquil smile.

        “I bet I look pretty messed up, huh?”  She hissed briefly through her teeth and navigated the crest of a passing wince.  “I certainly feel it... Heh heh heh...”

        “You... You're...”  Scootaloo bit her lip and her eyes began to water.

        “Don't ya fret, sugarcube,” Applejack said as she caught up to the filly on slowly trotting hooves.  “She's makin' a full recovery.  RD only looks worse off cuz she likes to do things all dramatic-like.”

        “Unlike some of us,” Rainbow Dash grumbled, casting a brief glare in the farm-filly's direction, “who would end up like this after taking their frustrations out on a tree.”

        “Heheh...”  Applejack shifted the hat atop her blonde mane.  “I reckon some of us are brave, and some of us are just plain stupid.”  She shook her head with a soft, but proud smirk.  “Yer somethin' else, RD.  If Equestria had a couple more dozen of you, we'd live much safer lives... but with ten times as many headaches.”

        “Yeah, well...”  Rainbow Dash stirred from where she was lying perpetually on her side.  “Too bad there's not enough of my awesomeness to go around...”

        “Well, at least she knows when she's deserving of such laudable praise for once,” Rarity uttered with a blue-shadowed wink.

        “Are you kiddin'?”  Applejack smirked.  “Today she was just lucky!  After all, she has her braggin' tongue switched on all the dang time!”

        The circle of mares giggled pleasantly, forming a ring of felicity around the recuperating pegasus.  Scootaloo glanced at them all curiously, attempting to make sense out of their discourse.

        “I'm just so glad that you're okay, Rainbow Dash,” Fluttershy murmured and leaned in to nuzzle the pony's shoulder.  “When I first heard what happened, I was so shocked, I nearly dropped Angel in the pond outside my cottage.”

        “You mean you got the little furball soaked?”  Rainbow Dash tiredly smirked.  “Well, chalk up another good deed of the day.”

        “Hee-hee-hee...”  Twilight Sparkle smiled.  “In all seriousness, Rainbow Dash, what you did was spectacular.  I'm thinking of writing a letter to the Princess all about today, because you never cease to amaze me.”

        “Heh... While you're at it...”  Rainbow winced and shifted her weight.  “Nnngh... Put in a plug for the Wonderbolts, will ya?  If flying through burning windows doesn't impress them, then I'm scared of what I'll do next.”

        “Oh, heaven forbid!”  Rarity dramatically rolled her eyes.

        Scootaloo blinked up at everypony.  “I-I don't get it.  What happened?  Why's the whole town going nuts?”

        Rarity bit her lip all of the sudden.  “Well, darling, erhm... you see...”

        “You mean you don't know?!”  Pinkie Pie chirped, her blue eyes staring Scootaloo straight in the face.  She bounced joyously about that side of the infirmary.  “Rainbow Dash was only being the most super-terrific hero ever!  The condo was burning to a crisp, and did she bat an eye?!  Nuh-uh!  Nosireeboberooni!”

        “Pinkie Pie...”  Twilight Sparkle muttered in a low voice, her gaze as sharp as nails.  “We talked about this.  Keep mum about the—”

        “Ponies were shrieking for help!  Flames were everywhere!  And ziiip!  Zoom!”  The mare from Sugarcube Corner all but pounced on the end of the bed, flailing her forelimbs dramatically.  “Ponyville's most loyal weather flier wasn't about to take any beef from fire!  Uh uh!  She shot like a bullet into the collapsing apartment and before you could say 'Luna Lumps', she—”

        “Shhh!”  Nurse Red Heart was suddenly hissing from the sidelines.  Beyond her, several rows of patients lingered, still jittery and shaken.

        Pinkie Pie blinked their way.  She winced sweatily, then shrunk out of sight with a nervous smile once her companions had finished glaring at her.

        “You...”  Scootaloo turned to look at Rainbow Dash, gazing at her in awe.  “You flew into the burning condo?”

        “Hmmm... Yeah, kind of...”  Rainbow smiled weakly.  She gulped, “Look, kiddo, I'm sorry about—”

        “Oh, Dashie!  It's alright!  It's more than okay!”  Scootaloo smiled sweetly, her violet eyes soft and warm.  “I don't care anymore!  I know you promised you would come hang out with me and stuff, but I understand now—”

        “Erm... Actually...”  Rainbow Dash bit her lip.  “I-I was gonna tell you that... uhm... I-I accidentally smashed those goggles you made for me a while back.”

        “Huh?”

        “They're in a lot worse condition than I am... Heh heh...”  She breathed slowly, shuddering from a brief wave of pain as her bandaged wings twitched.  “Guess you should have made them 'radical-proof', huh?”  She winked.

        Scootaloo grinned wide.  “I'll be sure to test goggles for 'radical-ness' the next time I make them.”  She gulped and leaned forward, “You will let me make you some replacements, won't you, Rainbow Dash?”

        “Absolutely, ya little squirt.  Where... nnngh... Where would I be without your awesome hoofwork?”

        “Besides... Hee hee...”  Scootaloo giggled, her wings fluttering happily behind her.  “If it helps you save so many ponies, then I'm happy to help!”

        Rainbow Dash suddenly blinked.  She shifted uncomfortably.  “Yeah, Uhm...”

        “You're... You're just so cool, Dashie...”  Scootaloo gazed warmly at her.  “Who else can save everypony from a burning building and call it a day?”

        Rainbow stared straight back at her, and as the seconds oozed away, any trace of a smile melted from her face.  Her lips grew taut, and her ruby eyes fell by the wayside.  After a flaring of nostrils, she murmured, “Look... Uhm... You guys?  I'm... I'm pretty tired, and... and as much as I wanna hang out n'stuff, I really think it's best I try to get some shuteye before Red Heart embarasses me by kicking all my friends out.”

        Scootaloo blinked confusedly at her.  Her heart was beating hard, though she couldn't tell why this time.  Curiously, she glanced up and saw that all the other adult mares were avoiding her gaze with just the same dispassionate malaise as was suddenly haunting the blue pegasus.

        “I... I don't understand...” the orange filly murmured.  “Can't we just hang out a little bit longer?  I wanna hear all about the heroic stuff Dashie did—”

        “You heard the pegasus of the hour, darling,” Rarity murmured in a coddling voice.  She braved a graceful smile and nudged Scootaloo towards the far end of the ward as the other ponies took turns nuzzling Rainbow Dash before trotting for the exit.  “It's been a long day, and she's endured enough bumps and bruises.  Let us not tarry here any longer.”

        “But... But...”

        “Visit time's over, sugarcube,” Applejack added.  As always, her voice hammered finality into the moment.  Under the proximity of the orange mare's shuffling movement, Scootaloo was ushered clumsily out of the sterile interior.  “Go on home to yer folks, now.  If you wanna come by Sweet Apple Acres at sunrise, I'll fix us a way to visit Rainbow together later on in the week.  Does that sound good?”

        “L-Later this week...?” was all Scootaloo could manage.  Over a twitching shoulder, she managed one last glance.  From afar, she saw Twilight sharing a few words with Rainbow Dash.  The blue pegasus' face was scrunched up, her eyes tightly shut as if she was weathering a sudden wave of pain.  Her limbs curled up to her chest as she absorbed the whispering words of the lavender unicorn before Twilight nuzzled her dearly.  

        And then Scootaloo could see no more.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo lingered outside the hospital, numb to her senses, for what had to have been the better part of an hour.  She poured through the recent images in her mind, contemplating what they all meant.  One second, Rainbow Dash and all of her friends were happy.  The next, the weather flier wanted nothing to do with any of them.  The little filly couldn't help but feel as if it was somehow her fault, and she traced the beats of her heart for an explanation as she likewise dragged a hoof through the dirt, making mindless little circles.

        At some point, two mares shuffled past her, gazing briefly at the hospital with somber expressions as they made their way home under the glow of lamplights.

        “It's so terrible... It's just so terrible,” one uttered.

        “I know,” the other remarked in a breathy voice.  “It's freaky, ain't it?  One morning you're here, the next you're gone.”

        “If our weather flier wasn't around, I shudder to think how worse it could have been...”

        “Did you personally know Miss Garden?  Forgive me for asking, but I'm still getting used to this town...”

        “No, it's okay, Lyra.  I didn't know her personally, but my mother used to go to school with her.  I... I just don't know how to break the news to Mom, or even if I have the right to.”

        “You care about your mother, don't you?  There's nothing to hold you back.”

        “You're right, I guess.  It's just that... Um...”

        “Yes, Bon Bon?”

        “I don't know... I just don't know what to say.  It's like this town is a little less colorful now and... and...”

        “Shhh... It's okay, Bon Bon...”

        The other mare leaned into her companion, weathering a wave of quiet sobs.  “I-I just don't kn-know what I would do if something happened to you, Lyra.  I don't want t-to think about it...”

        “I'm here, sweetie.  We're both okay.  Let's just be thankful for that, huh?”

        “And I am, Lyra.  Oh d-dear Celestia, I'm s-so thankful...”

        Scootaloo gazed long at the embracing couple under a glowing lamppost.  Slowly, her jaw fell agape.  She spun around and looked at the sight of the hospital building behind her.  A sour lump had formed in her throat.  Shifting about on petite hooves, she approached the doors to the place.  The pegasus stopped in mid-gait, biting her lip, for she remembered that Nurse Red Heart and the rest of her staff had locked the entrance off over an hour ago.

        Undeterred, the little filly glanced all around—until her eyes settled upon a tall oak tree flanking the western wall of the two-story hospital.  Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, she broke into a gallop and jumped for the lowest branch she could find.





        Scootaloo bit her lip, wincing slightly as she stretched the length of a final bandage over her bullet-grazed leg.  She could take dagger stabs to the chest or goblin fists to the face and bounce right back.  The little things in life somehow were the most painful.  The brown pegasus exhaled long and hard as she felt the enchanted moondust soothing her wound from beneath the tight fabric.  She leaned back against the workbench from where she sat on her stool in the center of the Harmony.  Across from her, a teenage goblin was clasping shut a metal container full of the scavenger's first aid tools.

        “There really isn't anything you're not prepared for, huh?”  Warden remarked with a proud smirk.  Pure twilight glistened gray and lifeless outside.  The last pony had piloted the airship high, so that they hovered above the smog that acted as the ceiling to Petra.  No single imp could see them from up here; it was what the pegasus had intended.  “I sometimes wonder if you're ever surprised by anything, ever.”

        “Jee, I dunno.”  She flexed her limbs, feeling the many tiny wounds and scrapes across her body.  Her wings flexed over a coat that was bruised in nearly a dozen places.  Her thick leather armor had saved her from many bullets during the entire chase, but her skin still ached from the general locations of their impacts.  “I'm sitting here and talking to a little shrimp with bat-ears.”  She momentarily rested her eyelids and exhaled long and hard through her nostrils.  “That's a bigger shocker than finding an assembly line full of ogre explosives.”

        “Yeah...”  Warden placed the first-aid container onto a shelf above the hammock and glanced over at the airship's owner.  “What's up with that?  Did Franken of Glass Blood say anything to you, or was he dead when you got there?”

        “One thing at a time, kiddo,” Scootaloo muttered, her eyes still closed.  “See the wooden contraption next to the hammock on the table?  The thing with the conical speaker and a black disc slapped onto a spindle?”

        “Uh... Yeah.  Sure.”

        “Give the lever a few cranks and place the needle on the edge of the disc once it starts spinning.  Would you mind?”

        Warden did as he was told.  With tiny fingers he spun the record player to life.  Soon, under his gentle ministrations, a melody of cello strings filled the copper bulkheads of the upper gondola.

        “Hmmmmm...”  Scootaloo managed a drunken smile as she exhaled long and hard.  Her ears filled with Octavia and her wings fluttered slightly in the claustrophobic air.  “Yeah, that hits the spot.  Thanks, kiddo.”

        “Uhm... You're welcome?”  He stifled a short giggle and hopped down from the hammock, pacing slowly about the cabin.  “I can't say I'm familiar with the stuff we're listening to.”

        “I wouldn't expect you to be,” she murmured, breathing evenly, meditating after an afternoon's worth of carnage.  “Unless your goblin ancestors ever once stumbled into the Canterlot Concert Hall during a royal symphony.”

        “Uhhh... I can't say that they ever did.”  Warden smiled awkwardly, his pointed ears twitching.  “Mom and Dad were barely old enough to manifest Petra before the Dimming.”

        “Just what is a goblin's life span anyways?”

        “Let's just say that Devo and Haman are lucky to have seen as many years as they have,” Warden said under the rhythmic tones of cello strings.  He sighed and leaned against the workbench beside her.  “The Rust-Bleeders are wanting to blow something up, aren't they?”

        “You certainly don't make a ton of explosions out of moon dust and fire granite to plant a rose garden.”  Scootaloo's head tilted his way as she blindly murmured, “The thing I wanna know is who exactly wants to blow something up?  Haman or the ogres?”

        “Does it matter?”

        “Heh.”  Scootaloo's teeth showed in her smile.  “Good point, Wart.”

        “We gotta go tell Devo!”  He exclaimed in sudden earnest.  “If Haman had Franken's imps build a bunch of ogre bombs, then who knows what could go happen?!  There's no telling where they could have taken the crap to!”

        “You're right on both counts, kiddo,” Scootaloo muttered.  “There's just no knowing or telling.”

        He blinked at her awkwardly.  “Huh...?”

        The last pony sighed.  Finally, her scarlet eyes opened, and she gazed tiredly down at the little imp.  “I have everything and yet nothing to tell Devo.  Even with what little I've learned, relating it to him is not going to make all of those illicitly manufactured explosives show themselves to the rest of Petra.  It certainly doesn't help that Haman's lackeys have done a pretty decent job of covering up for themselves down on Strut Eleven.  What evidence do I have?”

        “You found the fire granite, right?”  Warden exclaimed.  “And what about all that craziness we just survived?!  An entire strut of Petra turned into a warzone.  Surely, some goblins are gonna—”

        “What?  Ignore the gunshots, gang fights, and blood-letting that happen daily in their own districts to pay attention to what transpired on a completely different platform?”

        Warden winced at that, but nontheless said, “Still, it's all gotta amount to something!  We can't just toss it all out the window!”

        “And I'm not about to, Wart,” Scootaloo said in a low voice.  “We obviously know that all of Rust Blood wants us dead... er... or just me, the Hex Blood Outbleeder.  Whatever.  I think we should let things quiet down a bit.  I really don't want to bring the Harmony within sight of Petra at the moment if there's still a squadron of hovercraft looking to gun me down on sight.”

        “How screwed are we, really?”  Warden murmured as he walked over and ran a finger across the aged surface of the Royal Grand Biv outfit.  His bright, aquamarine eyes were briefly a pair of jaded hues.  “It's our word against all of the impcity's, huh?”

        “I have no doubt Devo can pull some strings to get goblins to conduct some sort of an investigation on Haman,” Scootaloo said.  “But I'm still not sure that's going to get us anywhere.  It seems that when all of the clan members put their heads together, all that gets done is a bunch of heel-dragging.  It's almost as if the one thing all of the families of this city can agree on is to not agree on anything.  I'm willing to bet Haman knows that, and that's what makes him think he can pull such a stunt like making ogre bombs beneath everyone's noses.”

        “It kind of makes sense why Devo wants the families to unify,” Warden murmured, turning the ruby-framed goggles in his grasp.  “If they could just work together faster, with one goal in mind, then crazy attacks from both the inside and the outside could be prevented...”

        “Yeah... without having to rely on 'glue stick intercessors' to uproot a splinter in the whole works.”

        Warden briefly smirked at her, then held up a cape of rainbow-colored daggers.  “I bet the thugs wouldn't have chased us if they saw you wearing this freaky stuff.”  He marveled at the firm density of the aged fabric in his grasp.  “Just what is this made of, anyways?”

        “Hmmm... Arcanium weave.  Ramcraft design.  Strong stuff, even after twenty-five years.”

        Warden whistled.  “Arcanium.  Frostbeams—I never knew it could be turned into a flexible material.”  He squinted over his shoulder at the pony.  “You go through so much effort making yourself flanks of armor out of what you find in the Wasteland, and yet you've got this amazing piece of work right here.  Ever thought of wearing this in a dangerous situation instead?”

        “No.”

        “Why not?”

        “Because...”  Scootaloo bit her lip, fidgeted, and ultimately sighed.  “Because some things mean too much to me.  Some things deserve to stay as the relics that they are.  I... I like having reminders that there's more to the past than just this frazzled pile of meat that you see in front of you.”

        “Yeah... I guess I can believe that...”  Warden's ears twitched to Octavia's strings as he gazed at the wall of souvenirs hanging over the workbench.  His eyes wandered from the golden lyre to the seashells to the buffalo headdress to the oddly-shaped screwdriver and more.  “Maybe I was wrong to assume that you could ever manifest Petra like a goblin.”  He dryly gulped, but his next smile was a genuine thing.  “The stuff that is most precious to you are things you couldn't possibly rebuild.”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “Some things you just can't recreate, Wart, no matter how much you try.  I can't let myself forget that...”  Her eyes twitched, catching the gray haze of twilight beyond the zeppelin's cockpit.  The grayness had a pale hue to it, like sheets of dead skin flaking off a lizard's scales somewhere.  “...that no matter what I do for this world, it won't ever resemble what it once was.”  She weathered a shuddering sigh.  “But, I'm willing to settle for what I can dredge from this Wasteland, for wh-what it's worth.  I only wished there was more color, that's all.”

        “I'd say you have enough color inside this airship alone to last a lifetime,” Warden said as he gazed at the little trinkets of the past.

        “Heh, don't I know it, kid.”  She stood up from the stool she was seated on.  “But that doesn't mean I've gotta stop looking for—”  She tripped suddenly.  “Gahh—Dang it!”

        Warden spun, blinking.  “What?”

        “Nnngh... What else?”  She snarled in frustration, bending over to pick up the horseshoe that had once again fallen off her front right leg.  “If I had a silver-strip for everytime I—”

        “Here,” Warden suddenly shuffled over.  “Allow me.”

        “Allow you to what?” she grunted.

        Warden knelt in front of her, grasping both her bandaged leg and her horseshoe in opposite hands.  “It sucks everytime watching you try and fix this with only your hooves to help you.”

        “Kid, don't worry!  I've got it—”

        “Please,” Warden said, gazing up at her with a soft expression.  “I... I-I want to help you...”

        Scootaloo's tongue lingered in the middle of a word.  Ultimately, the last pony gave in.  She closed her lips and slowly sat back down on the stool as the little imp gently examined the intricate parts of the horseshoe before using his tiny fingers to reattach the thing to the pegasus' limb.  His work was gentle and careful, employing a sincere delicateness that neither of the two souls anticipated him of having.

        “By the Blight,” he exclaimed in a low breath.  “Just look at this thing.”  Warden couldn't help but grimace as his fingers ran over the gnarled edges of the hoof during his task.  “It shows from all the times you've fiercely jammed these metal shoes onto the ends of your legs.  Don't you ever worry about hurting yourself?”

        “Hooves are tough, Wart.  They can take a beating and still work just fine,” Scootaloo murmured, absent-mindedly glancing at the branding on his thigh that bitterly matched the metal object he was affixing to her.  She suddenly felt the need to keep her voice at a soft and respectful tone.  “I've never been one to try and look pretty.  So long as my body's fit to get the job done in the Wasteland, ugliness is bearable.”

        “Did you start believing in that before or after you grew that ridiculously pink hair out?”

        Scootaloo blinked at that.  She smiled helplessly under a rosy complexion.  “Eheheh... Yeah, well... Uhm... Let's just say my philosophy has been under review the past few...” She blinked off into the far corners of her cabin.  “Dear Entropa, just how long has it been now...?”

        “How long has it been since what?”

        Scootaloo briefly saw the image of a bleeding pony in the middle of Ponyville’s ruined town square, clinging to a statue of Princess Celestia while trolls closed in from all sides.  It felt like a hundred life-times ago; she had certainly come close to dying on more occasions than she could measure.  Here she was, letting a goblin treat her hoof, and that moment could very well have been the afterlife to a dozen deaths that she had earned herself within the depths of Strut Eleven.  The orphan of time briefly pondered if she would be lucky enough to be looking back from several months from then, twice as scarred and confused, wondering how the many ridiculous effects of life were ever caused to begin with.

        “I really can't think right now,” she uttered.  It was a cop-out, and she knew that it showed in her voice.  “My ears are still ringing from all the bullets,” she nevertheless added.

        “Want me to start that music contraption over again?”  Warden smiled eagerly up to her, finishing his job on the horseshoe.  “I think it stopped.”

        Scootaloo had barely noticed.  “Oh.  Huh.  I guess it did.”

        “Is that seriously all you listen to?” The goblin sat back on his haunches in the middle of the floor.  “It all sounds so... so...”

        “Beautiful?”

        “Sad!” he exclaimed.  “Why would you of all ponies want to hear stuff so sappy-sounding?”

        “Sorrow is but a shade of precious things, Warden.  I'm sure even you could understand, in your own way.”

        “I still think it's silly that you would listen to it all the time.”

        Scootaloo smirked down at him.  “You got a better idea, DJ?”

        “The heck should I care about what ponies listen to?!”  He briefly giggled and hugged his knees to his chest, gazing up at her.  “I can't even imagine how you were able to hold string instruments in those stubs you call 'hooves', much less record them!”

        “Equestrian civilization lasted long enough to do a bunch of amazing things.  I'm sure goblins have a remarkable library of their own.  I saw the band performing up in Devo's district.  I know you imps aren’t devoid of all culture.”

        “Pffft—That was just a sideshow act.”  Warden took a deep, warm breath, smiling at a distant thought.  “Where my family's from, goblins really know how to jam it up.  The imps I grew up with could lay a beat down on anything that could ring from a wrench-strike.  The Western Townships have long had access to aluminum and copper, even before the Dimming.  It all makes for good junk-drumming.”

        Scootaloo blinked at him.  “'Junk-drumming?'”

        “Heh, that's what we all call it as kids.  When the tools of mining and constructing Petra get too old, we never just throw it all away!  Even the most useless of spare metals can be bent and curved to make percussion instruments.  There are generations of imps who know how to curve the metals just right to make these fantastic ringing tones.  When you've got another goblin to clatter brass casings in the background, it makes for an ensemble that would put all of your pony strings to shame!”

        “Did you say a clatter of brass casings?” Scootaloo asked, standing straight up all of the sudden.  “That's funny,” she murmured to herself, shuffling over towards a metal locker.

        “Pffft!  What's funny about it?”  Warden folded his arms and smirked proudly.  “So maybe I can't describe it to a pony like you so well.  So what?  As much as I try, I couldn't do it justice.  Goblin percussion is like sugar in the Wasteland!  Is that so hard to believe?  We manifested Petra to cast a gorgeous heartbeat of steam and gears, so why can't we make even greater sounds more deliberately?”

        “Uh huh...”  Scootaloo merely muttered, carrying something from the locker over to the record player.

        Warden stood up and paced over to the hammock, sighing and gazing out the porthole above it.  He stared into the twilight beyond his tired reflection.  “I wish I could have a collection of pretty and frostbeaming things like you.  It's nice enough to have one hundred silver strips, but I don't think I'm ever gonna afford myself nearly as much cool stuff as you've collected.  Wherever I go, goblins would only want to rob me blind, because the only thing I can allow myself to own is this stupid mark on my butt—”

        The cabin of the Harmony was suddenly ringing.  At first, it felt as if hailstones were pelting the outside of the vessel's hull.  Slowly—like a rising wave of pebbles—the various noises melted into a soothing cadence, and was soon punctuated by a melodic assortment of percussion sounds.  A pair of green ears instantly twitched in timing with the rhythmic tempo.  His mouth hanging ape, Warden turned from the sad reflection and gazed wide-eyed at the other end of the gondola.

        Scootaloo stood before the record player, removing a hoof from the needle.  She gazed with an alien indifference as the speaker dripped forth music that was strange to one soul but hauntingly familiar to another.  Seeing the spark glimmering in the imp's eyes, Scootaloo turned to gaze at him.  She spoke softly under the ringing tones.

        “I stumbled upon this one day while scavenging through the Royal Anthropological Archives of Canterlot.  The disc was unlabeled, and for the life of me I couldn't get a frickin' clue as to what I was listening to, but it sounded a little bit like what you described.  Tell me, Wart, is this the stuff of the Western... Townships...?”  She stopped and blinked fixedly at him.

        He had answered her with a glossy look in his eyes.  Warden drifted over and reached four-fingers up towards the distant record player, as if desperate to clasp onto a substance of the music that drifted through the naked air.  “This... This is it...”  His voice was shaking, as if recovering from a strong blow to his heart.  “How... H-How in Petra did you find this?”

        “I... I just told you,” she uttered.  “I found it while scavenging and... and...”  Once again, she didn't bother finishing her sentence.  She squinted at him.

        Warden was trembling.  His ears drooped with each progressive meter that the melodic percussions progressed.  He hugged himself and looked ready to collapse at any moment.  “This... This is 'The March of Manifestation.'  This is what my mother used to play for me when I was too small to hold a wrench.  She used to put me to sleep to this.  I remember, because her ears had this funny way of waving to the beat.  I always wanted to mimic her.  But... But when I got older and my ears grew long enough, she... she wasn't...”

        Scootaloo stared long and hard down at him.  Warden suddenly looked so far away, as if she was staring down at the youth from atop a cloud.  For some cosmic reason, she knew exactly what was about to happen next...

        The teenager hissed through clenched teeth and turned away from the record player.  “C-Could you turn that off now, pl-please...?”

        “Wart...”

        “I-I'm done listening to it.  I'm done—”

        “Wart,” she trotted over and knelt in front of him, clasping his shoulders with two hooves.  “Wart, look at me.”

        He bit his lip and gazed up at her.

        The pony's face reflected in twin pools of turquoise as she spoke, “I know that you've been trying to be strong.  I know that you feel like it makes you a better goblin to not dwell on it.  But you need to say it, Wart.  While you still have it within you to pick up the pieces that are falling apart, you need to stop... to stop running from what is the very foundation of your life.”

        “I'm... I-I'm not running.”  Warden briefly frowned, the last defense before a great fountain bursting inside of his green shell.  “I-I came to this city to help my uncle b-because he needs me more than my parents do.”

        “And why don't your parents need you, Wart?”  Scootaloo inquired, her scarlet eyes mercilessly piercing the last flimsy veil of his young soul.  “Where have they gone?”

        “My... My parents are... are...”  He shivered and trembled in his grasp.

        “Say it.”  Her frown was swift, a timely dagger.  “Say it before the truth comes out of you when it's too late to put yourself back together again, when there'll be nobody left around to give you the support that you so desperately need.  Warden, you need to say it.”

        He lowered his head, his lungs suddenly assaulted by a hiccuping tremor as he leaned his green skull against her chest.  What squeaked out of him was fragile, like the reverse of a foal's breath being sucked in at a parents' bedside on a bitterly golden morning.

        “It was a rival clan that wanted our copper deposits.  They came d-during the night.  When all the screams were over, they dragged me out into the middle of the street, covered in th-their blood.  They shouted to the rest of the township, saying that they spared me as an example of their victory, that I-I was too useless to have been a threat to them, that I was a m-mistake too stupid to bother killing.  So they left me alive to be a symbol, and that's all I am.  I'm a useless, horrible piece of filth, the only thing left of my parents, and then I get doubly branded on my way towards finding a new life.”

        Scootaloo was as little prepared for that as she was for the sharp breath that escaped her grimacing face.  Bravely, she encircled her front legs around his petite form and held him close.  “Now you listen to me and you listen close.  You are a precious and beautiful thing, Wart.”

        “I-I'm not!”  He suddenly wailed, pushing against her.  “I'm so pathetic—”

        “You are precious and you are beautiful.”  She held him tighter and murmured into his ear.  “You are strong, courageous, smart, and delightful.  Your heart and body are full of all the gorgeous things that this world has always meant for you to have.  The Wasteland has stripped you of joy, innocence, and peace of mind—as it has also stripped from me all these years.  But we can't let the Wasteland win, do you hear me?  I'm telling you right now, don't bottle it all inside of you and become the same lifeless ghoul as those who took your life from you!”

        “I-I'm just so s-sick of it...”  He suddenly clutched her, burrying his sobbing face in her brown chest.  “I'm so sick and tired of running from everything in th-this world!”  He shuddered and curled his fingers against her coat as he struggled to make sense of the words exploding out from his own mouth.  “Why d-does it have to hurt so m-much to just breathe?!  Why does anything and everything have to hurt so much...?”

        She smiled painfully and nuzzled his neck.  “It hurts because you're still a creature who has hope, Warden.  And the reason you have hope is that there's still beauty inside of you that hasn't given into the desolation.  It's okay to cry about it.”  She shuddered and rocked him there in the center of the Harmony.  “It's okay to mourn the loss of all the good things we were once anchored to.  The past may be a dead thing, but it's how we learn to harness the best of what's left of us.”

        Warden sniffed and sobbed, his breaths barely registering all the sentient patterns beneath his pent up, agonized wails.  “I miss them.  I m-miss Mommy and Daddy so m-much...”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  This was not her symphony.  Regardless, it brought tears to her face with as much grace as Octavia's strings once did.  She simply sat there, embracing Warden as he collapsed within himself, peeling loose the first of several layers that the ash of the Wasteland had long tricked him into believing was permanent.  There, in the middle of a pony's airship, another orphan had finally stopped running, and it eventually lulled him to silence under the ringing tones of the record's broadcast, like a mother's parting gift.





        Quietly, like an unfolding flower, a window lattice swung open along the top floor hallway of Ponyville Central Hospital.  An orange shadow crept into the dark-lit chamber, shaking off the last scant traces of leaves and twigs from the tree Scootaloo had ascended outside.

        Gazing down the far lengths of the hall, Scootaloo held her breath and crept stealthily across the tile floor.  She immediately descended the winding steps of a granite stairwell and made her quiet way towards the bottom floor of the building, in search of Rainbow Dash's ward.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Nurse Red Heart strolled down the line of hospital beds, gazing at the clipboard charts hanging off the posts.  Several ponies slumbered under their covers, clad in various arrays of bandages and casts.  The utter tranquility of the moment sharply contrasted whatever horrors may have transpired in the daytime.  After closely observing the multiple patients, Red Heart grasped a tray empty of supplies and pushed it through a pair of swinging doors on the far end of the ward.  She exited, and the chamber was momentarily devoid of all movement.

        Rainbow Dash was wide awake.  With glazed, ruby eyes she stared off into the dim glow of a candle sitting atop a table several meters away.  Her limbs liquidly moled into the velvety contours of the hospital bed she was lying in, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't catch a wink of sleep.  Her face was long, pale, and somberly contemplative.  After a deep breath, her blue ears started twitching.  She wasn't sure what she was hearing at first, but then a sharp shuffling noise emanated from beneath her bed.

        “Hmm...?”  The pegasus squinted across the darklit ward.  “Red Heart?”  She tilted her head.

        Just then, an orange shadow nervously popped up into view.

        Rainbow Dash's lips pursed.  “P-Pipsqueak...?”

        Scootaloo smiled bashfully.  “Seriously,” she whispered.  “...do you call me that sometimes because you forget my name?”

        Rainbow Dash gawked at her.  A few numb seconds passed, and Scootaloo wasn't sure if maybe something would randomly exploded.  What followed was a blissful relief.  Rainbow Dash laughed.
 
        “Hahahahah... Yowsers, kiddo,” the pegasus hoarsely said, keeping her voice to a low murmur beyond earshot of the sleeping patients.  “Even the Army of the Celestial Union couldn't put a friggin' leesh on you.”  She glanced up at the ceiling with a wry smirk.  “What'd you use to get in here?  The air vents?”

        “I... uhm...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “I climbed a tree.”

        “Heh, look at you.  Your wings don't work, and still you can't stop yourself from getting your head in the air.”  Rainbow Dash winced briefly from a random shot of pain.  Her ruby eyes darted towards the distant doors of the place.  “You do realize that Nurse Red Heart is gonna kill you the soonest she sees that you're here.”

        “R-Really?”

        “Never underestimate a pony who knows the worst spots of the body to get hurt,” Rainbow uttered with a dry chuckle.  Her bandaged wings twitched slightly.  “Might as well state your business while you've still got a head on your neck.”

        “I... uhm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  “I wanted to see you...”

        “Wow, what a surprise.”

        “I mean it, Dashie!”

        “And didn't I say that I needed to get some shuteye?”

        Scootaloo squinted suspiciously at the pegasus.  “You don't even look tired!”

        Rainbow Dash's eyes narrowed.  “You try sleeping when you're only allowed to lay on one side with your wings bound behind your back.”

        “Oooh, ouch,” Scootaloo said with a wince.

        “'Ouch' is right, kiddo.  I admire your guts, but I think this was totally a crazy-bad idea.”

        “But... But...”

        “Of course, I would have used a lot more style and finesse—Like a zip-line or something.”

        Scootaloo beamed suddenly.  “You enjoy zip-lining?  Me too!”

        “Scootaloo,” Rainbow Dash said, her voice suddenly pitched lower and graver.  “Really, now.  You're nose-deep into trouble.  If I were you, I'd jet.  I wouldn't want your mom and dad getting on my flank for luring you into a hospital after-hours—”

        “You're not luring me anywhere!”  Scootaloo exclaimed, shuddered, then leaned in to whisper, “Rainbow Dash, could you... could you tell me what happened today?”

        The pegasus was silent.  Her ruby eyes were jaded, ruby shards.  Her voice came out in a drone, “I can yap on about all of my awesomeness later, kiddo.  This really is a lousy time...”

        “You... You saved ponies today, Dashie.”  Scootaloo gazed earnestly into the pegasus' face.  She swallowed hard.  “But... That's not all there is to it, is there?”

        Rainbow Dash's nostrils flared.  She glared off, avoiding Scootaloo's gaze.  “Look, if you're that nosy, I'm sure that there're other ponies around town who can tell you all you need to know.”

        “I don't want to hear it from them!”  Scootaloo's eyes squinted.  “I want to hear it from you—”

        “Who are you now?!”  Rainbow Dash suddenly snapped, her eyes burning into the young foal's.  “Twilight?!”

        Scootaloo jerked back, her violets wide and hurt.  “R-Rainbow...?”

        “Take a friggin' clue, kid!  Lay off!”  The pegasus frowned, a gnarled and ugly thing.  Scootaloo suddenly felt like she was talking to a completely different pony.  “You're not deaf or dumb.  You heard me earlier and I'm sure you can hear me now!  I don't want to talk about anything that happened today!  Not to you, not to Twilight, not to the whole world!”

        “But... But...”

        “Scram!”  Rainbow's voice echoed against the walls.  A few distant patients stirred and shifted, but fell back asleep.  “I mean it!  I still have three good limbs that can kick your flank out the door if I have to, so don't make me!”

        “Dashie, this...”  Scootaloo fought to stay afloat above a rising, foalish sob.  Her heart was plummeting into a deep abyss within herself at a hundred kilometers per hour.  She was falling, and for the first time she wasn't sure if even Rainbow Dash would catch her.  “This isn't like you...”

        “Kid, you don't know me!”  Rainbow snarled.  As if shocked at her own menacing tone, she rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “Look, I'm sorry, okay?  I'm sorry I ditched you on the hilltop when I made a Pinkie Pie swear to come back and see you.  But that's life, and someday you'll find out that life isn't always a bed of roses.”

        To this, Scootaloo frowned.  “I know things about life...”

        “Sure you do,” Rainbow scoffed.  “Nnngh—Nebula!”  She suddenly rolled her eyes ceiling-ward, seething with an inward growl.  “I don't even know what I was thinking.  You're too friggin' young to fly.”

        Scootaloo glanced aside, her face sullen as her wings drooped...

        “Don't make that face!  I mean it!”  Rainbow bitterly hissed.  “A kid your age has no sense trying to fly around!  You'll just bang yourself up or worse!  It ain't worth it, squirt.”  She sighed long and hard, gazing off towards the distant shadows of the room.  “It's stupid, and it isn't awesome.”

        “But... But all the things you said—”

        “Yeah, about all the things I said—Do you remember me telling you to scram?”  The pegasus grunted.  “I just want to be alone, okay?  Please...”

        Scootaloo sighed and hung her head.  She turned around.  She walked off.

        Halfway through the trot, however, the little foal stopped in her tracks.  She gazed down at the tile floor, at her tiny hooves.  A warm wave broke through her veins, melting the shivers away.  Frowning for courage, she spun about and marched straight back to the bed.

        Rainbow Dash's angry complexion was briefly betrayed by a shocked blinking of her eyes.  “Scootaloo...?”

        “I want you to tell somepony what happened today,” Scootaloo said, planting her hooves firmly into the floor.  “And that pony should be me.”

        “Dang it, kid—Don't make me do something lame like calling for the nurse!  Ugh—I hate it when ponies call for the nurse.”

        “Rainbow Dash...”

        “You need to make like a banana and split!  I mean it!”

        “No.”  Scootaloo leaned up against the bed with two petite hooves.  She stared into Rainbow Dash's face.  “No, Rainbow Dash.  I'm not going to leave.”

        “What the heck is this?!”  Rainbow's voice cracked in disbelief.  “Seriously, if you wanted to do some intervention, Berry Punch is in the ward two doors down—”

        “Dashie... Can... erm... Can I tell you something?”

        Rainbow Dash shut her eyes.  She ultimately surrendered with a sigh.

        Scootaloo gazed down at her hooves.  She kneaded the side of the velvety bed cushion and muttered, “I... I don't know many ponies in town, Dashie.”

        Rainbow Dash gazed at her quietly, emotionlessly.

        Scootaloo went on, “I mean it.  I... I don't have any friends.  There're no ponies my age that I talk to, no ponies that I hang around with.  I only see Applejack and Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy when you're around.  I... uhm...”  She gulped a lump down her throat.  “I don't even... t-talk much with my parents...”

        “Where are you going with this, pipsqueak?”

        “What I'm trying to say is...”  Scootaloo's lip quivered as she gazed bravely up into Rainbow's eyes.  “There's no way... no possible way that anything I see or hear could turn into town gossip.”  She gulped and put on a fragile, tender smile.  “So... you can say anything to me, if you just need to say it, Dashie, and nopony will ever know, not even Twilight or Applejack.  I swear it.”

        Rainbow Dash opened her mouth to argue that, but her lips merely hung open.  She saw something sincere in Scootaloo's twitching violets, and a part of her suddenly latched onto it.  Her angry blue face melted into a pale sheen one slow breath at a time.  Her lips closed, and she swallowed a dry lump down her throat before dryly murmuring, “I saved ten ponies today.  I saw the fire burning.  I heard their screams.  I dove in as fast as I could.  I pulled them out, two by two.  And... And then the building collapsed... And I...”

        Scootaloo stared intently, her bright eyes curved as they took in as much as her ears did.

        Rainbow Dash exhaled sharply, and when she tried once more to breathe in, it was a shuddering thing.  It shook something out of her eyes that Scootaloo could never have imagined seeing: a tear, then two, then three—trickling down her cheeks and magnifying the sapphiric lengths of her grimacing face.  “I wasn't fast enough, Scootaloo.  The building fell down... and there were two ponies left inside.  I tried to g-get to them.... but...”  Her eyes curved and she hiccuped through a jaw-wrenching sob.  “I shouldn't be that slow!  What's wrong with me?!  What is all of my practicing worth if I can't outrace a stupid, friggin' fire?!”

        The orange filly weathered a painful breath.  Her eyes moistened to take in the sight of Rainbow's crying, but for the life of her the little pegasus couldn't do anything but smile.  The same rosiness that filled her cheeks earlier that afternoon returned, only it was twice as burning now.

        In the meantime, Rainbow Dash had clenched her eyes shut.  She shook her head as her limbs curled inward to her chest like a little foal.  “I've always hated losing,” she stammered.  “Today, I lost.  I lost and it cost the lives of a mother and her child.  Nebula help me, I'm such a friggin' loser...”  She hissed and squeaked as more tears spilled out her eyes.

        The tears dried instantly, for Scootaloo was reaching up and nuzzling her close.  Smiling gracefully, the pegasus murmured into the mare's ears, “Dashie, you are the best pony.  The best.  You're not a loser.  You've won the hearts of everypony in town...”  She sniffled and added in a warm breath, “Including mine.”

        If Scootaloo had any words to add, Rainbow Dash didn't give her the opportunity.  The blue pegasus encircled the child in her limbs and clutched to her dearly, hiding her sobbing face into the filly's tiny chest, releasing more than a week's worth of Ponyvillean stormclouds.  Rainbow's cries were a stuttering, quiet ensemble.  Regardless, Scootaloo weathered every single sob as if they were cannonfire, smiling and letting the adult pegasus hold her, quietly conspiring to bury the unsightly tears beyond the shadows of the room, so that when morning came and light returned to the sterile world, Rainbow Dash was found sleeping, alone and unblemished, as if the heroine hadn't let a single crack form across the azure shores of her spirit to begin with.







        Princess Celestia's golden text glistened in the Harmony's lanternlight.  Scootaloo sat in the hammock, her legs folded beneath her as she stared into the Royal Journal that had been propped onto a pillow.  As the ship briefly weaved in a gust of high Wasteland air, she turned a page with her brown hoof and read over an entry that she had poured over hundreds of times before, relishing each paragraph as if this was her first opportunity to digest it all.

        As the minutes ticked away, and the last pony's breaths rose and fell with the gentle sway of the ship, a scuffling pair of clawed feet rustled behind her.  The pegasus glanced back over her pink mane.

        Warden was frozen in place at the top of the revolving staircase, wincing—as if caught guiltily in the middle of some atrocious act.  “I'm... I-I'm sorry, am I bothering you?”

        “Hmmm... Not yet,” she said with the slightest curve of her lips.  “Everything okay?”

        “Uhm..”  He finished walking up from the hangar level below.  He wrung his eight fingers together while gazing at the bulkheads.  “I... I-I couldn't get to sleep.”

        “I can't blame you, considering we've still got Haman's crap hanging above our heads,” Scootaloo muttered.  She motioned with her head towards a nearby locker.  “Do you need another canvas sheet?  I know the blankets don’t make up much of a 'bed', but for what it's worth it was the best thing I could come up with.”

        “Actually, I-I was curious to see what you were up to,” he remarked with a shy smile, shuffling a few more steps towards the hammock.  “You're always so quiet with everything you do.  Sometimes... Sometimes it's as if you're not really here.”

        She smiled gently.  “I haven't left the airship.  I wouldn't abandon you alone in this thing.”

        “Yeah...”  He chuckled nervously.  “You just abandon me at elevators.”

        Scootaloo winced at that.

        So did Warden.  He cleared his throat and attempted to salvage the sanctity of the moment.  “So... Uhm... What are you reading?”

        “It's a journal,” Scootaloo merely said at first.  She then paused, blinked, and ultimately explained, “It was written by an alicorn goddess named Princess Celestia.”

        “'Princess Celestia'.”  Warden smiled softly.  It was a concentrated effort.  “I've heard that name before.  I'm guessing she was a special pony.”

        “Yes, Wart,” she murmured, turning another page while speaking aside, “She was a very special pony.”

        Warden clasped his hands behind his back.  He leaned forward on his clawed toes and squinted towards the pages full of golden lettering.  “Would you... Would you like to share a little bit of it?”

        “Mmm... I doubt an imp like you would be interested.”

        “Well, it's important to you, right?”

        “So?”

        He smiled softly.  “So I'm interested.”

        Scootaloo glanced at him.  Her wings twitched slightly.  She shifted a bit where she was lying on the hammock and murmured, “Well, it's an entry that the Princess wrote during a moment in the past that the ponies liked to call the 'Second Age.'  The land of Equestria was being torn about by the most devastating event before the Cataclysm.  It was called the 'Chaos Wars,' and right now I'm reading Celestia's account of the Grand Burial of Paleo-Canterlot, where she mourned over the lives of nearly ten thousand of her subjects who all tragically perished under the sneak attack of Discord's...”  Her breath jolted as the hammock suddenly shook.  “...trolls and harpies.”  She glanced aside, blinking.  “Uhm...”

        “Sounds really depressing!”  Warden made a face, suddenly perched on the side of the swaying hammock right next to her.  The petite imp craned his neck over her mane to get a better look at the entry she was referring to.  His face scrunched up with disgust.  “Do all ponies dwell on really sad stuff?  Even pony princesses?”

        “Well... Not exactly...”  Scootaloo managed to say while gazing back at the pages.  She dragged a hoof out from underneath her to point at the journal.  “I just find that Celestia's most eloquent words are contained in the pieces where she contemplates her immortal existence within a realm defined by mortal tragedy...”

        “So it's just you who likes the depressing stuff?”  Warden asked with a wry smirk.  “Didn't this Celestia-pony ever write happy entries?”

        “Well, sure...”

        “Don't you ever read them?”

        “On occasion.  I just think the somber pieces serve up prettier examples of Equestrian language...”

        “Isn't happy stuff pretty enough on its own?”  Warden asked her with suddenly soft eyes.  He gulped long and hard before adding, “I-I think the pony who hugged me earlier would think so...”

        Scootaloo glanced back at him.  After a breath, she finally droned, “You want me to find a happy entry?  Fine.  I'll read you a happy entry.”

        Warden smiled victoriously.  He swung his legs up and folded them underneath in a bipedal facsimile of the equine figure beside him.

        In the meantime, Scootaloo was flipping furiously towards the very end of the journal.  Golden bands of reflected light shimmered off the two survivors' faces like the aura of a dead sun.  She finally reached an entry that was dated a few years before utterly blank pages consumed the rest of the tome.  “Okay, this was written not too long ago, well, as an alicorn lifespan is concerned.  As a matter of fact, it was only a few winters before I was foaled.”

        “Wow...”  Warden leaned in, pricking his pointed ears upwards.  “It's hard to believe that anything's older than you.”

        “Hardy-har-har,” Scootaloo grunted with a slight smirk.  She leaned in, cleared her throat, and ran down the preserved, sacred text.  “'There were no clouds in the sky this morning, and I couldn't have asked for a better dawn to anoint with the Sun.  This is the day that the most gifted unicorn born in centuries entered my palace to dwell within these walls, and to blossom under my tutelage.  Twilight Sparkle is unlike any filly I've ever seen.  Her talent for magic is a brilliant gift, and the only thing that outshines her talent is the gentle sincerity and righteousness that I sense in her heart—'”

        “Pony?”

        Scootaloo paused in the middle of reading.  She glanced over at the imp.  “Yeah, Wart?”

        He gnawed pensively at his lip before finally inquiring, “What's your name?  I-I mean your real name.”

        The last pony squinted at him.

        He smiled nervously.  “I... I would really like to know.  I would hate to die an old imp without... without knowing what to label someone with so much frostbeams that got me there.”

        At hearing that, Scootaloo's face softened.  With a gentle breath, she let loose, “'Scootaloo.'”

        Warden stared at her.  Warden twitched.  Warden fell into a deep, snorting fit of giggles.

        The last pony rolled her scarlet eyes.  Nevertheless, she patiently smirked as his laughter ran its course.

“Whewwwww,” he exhaled, rubbing a tear from his eye and smirking.  “Do forgive me.  There's nothing wrong with it.  Just... 'Scootaloo' sounds so... so cute.  It totally isn't you.”

        “I assure you it once was.”

        “Uh huh.”  He clutched his knees to his chest and squirmed in place, playfully rocking the hammock slightly beneath them.  “If you ask me, I much rather like the name of your ship, 'Harmony.'”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared briefly.  “I... I like that name better too.”  She gulped and gazed back towards the journal.  “But it's hardly befitting me either.”

        The goblin took a deep breath, but he had no response to that.  Instead, he cleared his throat and uttered, “I'm sorry for interrupting.  Go ahead...”

        So she did.  “'Blossoming inside my new student is a love for life and all that preserves life.  I know that she is as aware of her magical gifts as I am, but I believe the precious unicorn has unwittingly blinded herself to the opportunity she has to be a good, healthy, and friendly pony.  She has surrounded herself with study when she could have been surrounding herself with companions.  The degree to which she aspires to excel in the magical arts is a diligence that befits an immortal alicorn, and in her innocent naivete I know that Twilight Sparkle cannot yet perceive the futility beyond the noble courage of her mortal efforts.  It is something that I haven't seen since the days that I mentored Starswirl, and though this should be opening painful wounds within myself, I can only feel happiness, hope, and joy.  There is something in Twilight Sparkle—something in her eagerness to learn all that this universe has to give her, something in her smile that shines with more brilliance than even I have to raise—and it makes me remember the Dawning of the First Age, when I too was young and jubilant and so blissfully naive.  All I want to do is help her to live out this glorious and adventurous life that she has before her, an existence that can only encapsulate that immeasurably pristine excitement, whereas mine has diluted it beyond tangibility... until now, now that Twilight Sparkle has humbly graced my life.'”

        Scootaloo turned the page and was about to read more, when he suddenly felt a light weight against her flank.  Blinking, she glanced over to her side.

        Warden was leaning up against her, a smile plastered against his face.  With eyes shut, the blissful goblin's body rose and fell in peaceful slumber, his unconscious ears still twitching with every word she had to give.

        She gazed at him, and her next smile was a silken thing.  If it could have lasted forever, it would have dredged the brightness back from beneath her blighted coat.  She stared at Warden and continued quoting the entry of Princess Celestia, spilling forth the sacred words of joy that the last pony hadn't realized she had memorized until now.

        “'Once again, this world is precious and beautiful.  I know that any affection, any indulgence of companionship will only hurt me in the end, but I cannot help myself.  This moment is too golden, and Twilight's felicity is too sweet.  In nearly a thousand years since Luna's plight, a single child has shown me that there is something worth shining the sunlight on once more.  I shall not tarry in my duties, not for a single day—for days are the very strings with which I weave my tapestry in honor of all I hold dear, from here until eternity, by Epona's grace.'”

        Warden stirred slightly, ultimately curling against Scootaloo's side.  A soft crown of feathers suddenly engulfed him in a warm embrace.

        Scootaloo wasn't aware of the gesture until she saw her right wing doing it.  The warm breath that had entered her lungs came out in a sudden cold gust of contemplation, and she was briefly shocked to see that the feathers were brown.  Bringing a hoof up to her ear, she felt the soft blue piece of the past fluttering in the air of the cabin.  Her next smile was something solid, built to contain her memories deep inside as she turned once more to the journal.  Celestia's texts were too sacred, too sacred for even the last pony's tears.

        As the Harmony swayed gently in the high winds, rocking the body of the imp further into slumber, she kept her wing wrapped around Warden, anchoring herself to him, for she had discovered that there were more sacred things left to scavenge from the desolate world, and unlike her souvenirs of the past these precious things could absorb tears.




        “Dang it!  This is... She is... Impossible!  Absolutly friggin' impossible!”

        Hours ago, along the edge of Strut Eleven, a disgruntled Fredden and his minions were watching as the body of the Harmony soared away from the destruction and chaos left in the wake of the last pony's scuffle with the Rust-Bleeders.

        “How does one single pony learn to do all of that?!”

        A voice behind the dark-shaded bodyguard hissed, “Exactly where a lousy boomer doesn't learn to be nearly as impressive.”

        Fredden and his fellow thugs winced.  Slowly, they turned around to see Miss Ryst, Otto, and several more elite Rust-Bleeder goblins walking up with steam rifles in tow.  The air still rang with the sound of screaming no-bleeder imps who were shaken in the wake of the disastrous chase.

        “This is no pathetic imp or harpy being paid a modicum of silver to do petty vandalism,” Ryst murmured, her right eye twitching after the distant sight of the fleeing Harmony.  “Sister four legs is a survivor, a relic of the bright past and all that spit.  She fights because she is all that she will ever be, and that means something.”  Twirling a steam-pistol free, she used it to point accusingly at Fredden.  “It has been a good long vomit of stormfronts since you’ve meant something, Fredden boomer, yes yessss?”

        “Please...”  Fredden pleaded, clasping his clawed hands together as his thugs parted ways so that he and he alone was under the shape-shifter's deadly aim.  “You d-don't really know how crazy psycho that glue stick is!  She outran an entire company of imps!  She t-took out two hovercrafts with her bare hooves!”

        “Don’t spit so fearfully.  I cannot waste a boomer simply for being a boomer.  Haman assures me when he sent us that you still have use beyond being meat,” Miss Ryst uttered hoarsely.  She stopped aiming the pistol long enough to nibble anxiously on her flaking knuckles.  “Hmmm... But it does put us in a tight bind, all of these explosions that have owned the air  It was good that Franken did the extraction before he was no longer useful.  Though we cannot expect the rest of the families to believe the spit of four hooves, Devo will, and Devo has much disastrous spit of his own to spread.  Such an itchy, itchy boomer...”

        “B-But I couldn't get the Outbleeder bandanna off of her!”  Fredden exclaimed, pointing towards the smoggy skies above Petra.  “She dashed our plans to bits right there in the factory!  How are we going to distract the families long enough for Franken's stuff to get moved into place?!”

        “Hmm...  A tough neck to snap, all this is.”  The shape-shifter scratched at her neck, staring up at a distant squadron of gremlin security hovercraft that were presently speeding towards the sight of chaos and mayhem to investigate.  “If we cannot fabricate evidence that the Hex-Bleeders were responsible for this meat-mess...”  Razzar took a deep breath, and in front of all her impish minions her body morphed from tan to red to blue.  Several snow-white dreadlocks poured down from the back of her skull as her body stretched into a muscular, old goblin with copper brown eyes.  The naga's voice took on a deep, masculine tone.  “...all the better for the prime boomer himself to be here at the scene of the crime, yes yes yessssss?”

> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 5
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Pride of the Dead







        “They said that most pegasi take twice as long to recover from a sprained wing as I did,” Rainbow Dash exclaimed in the middle of barrel-rolling her way over the green hilltops of Equestria.  “They said that leaving the hospital so healthy in less than a week was impossible.”

        Scootaloo smiled against the wild gust of wind emanating from the blue mare's flyby.  “Heehee... Well you sure showed them, Rainbow Dash.”  The foal curled her legs underneath her body and gazed up at her soaring companion.  “Nurse Red Heart would need a freaking cannon to bring you back down for a physical!”

        “Heh!  As if!”  The older pegasus spiraled up into the air, shredded her way through a low-hanging cloud, and came down in a gentle hover above the filly.  “Now that I'm out, there's no going back to that boring, smelly place!  Besides, it's barely a week until the Best Young Fliers' Competition in Cloudsdale!  I'd better catch up on my act!”

        The little foal gasped wide.  “You're going to be in the Best Young Fliers' Competition?!”

        “Pfft!”  Rainbow Dash rolled her ruby eyes.  “Does Princess Celestia wear a tiara?”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “Uhhh... I dunno, does she—?”

        “Yes.”  Rainbow Dash frowned, then smirked.  “You can bet your hooves I'll be at the Best Young Fliers Competition in Cloudsdale!  The pegasi of Equestria created that event for me to strut my stuff; they just don't know it yet!  But they will!”  She giggled in a low, devilish breath, “Eheheheheh—Yes, they will.”

        The filly smiled wide, her pink tail hairs flicking.  “What will you win for coming out on top?”

        “Hah!  Only the coolest prize ever!”  Rainbow Dash touched down, grinning so hard that her shiny teeth reflected the foal's face.  “After I make all of Cloudsdale faint from pure awesomeness, I'll get an entire day to h-hang out with the Wonderbolts!”  The end of this exclamation came out in a stammer as the mare's voice cracked.  She bit her lip, sucked in a thin breath, and then exhaled with, “Soooooo radical...”

        “I'm so happy for you, Rainbow Dash.”  Scootaloo beamed.  “No other pony deserves better—”

        “Pfft—You're cute, squirt.  But I shouldn't count my apples before they've hatched... er... or whatever it is that Strawhead says.  Ugh, am I actually quoting her?”

        “Huh?  I don't get it...”

        “Meaning...”  Rainbow Dash hovered back up and performed a few acrobatic flips in the air.  “...I still have to earn my place in awesomeness!  The Competition is less than seven days away, and if I wanna make Cloudsdalian history, then I can't afford to get rusty!  That's why I'm so freakin' glad to be out of that dang hospital bed!”

        Scootaloo stood up, stretched her muscles, and smiled up at her.  “Well, let's get started, shall we?  What moves do you wanna try out first?  I'm ready to be your volunteer judge as always...”

        Rainbow Dash screeched to a stop in mid-air.  She hung off of a wince, and then glanced down at Scootaloo with an awkward smile.  “Uhm... You see, that's just the thing, ya little squirt.  A long, long time ago—even before you showed up and began annoying me—I made a promise to another filly that she'd be my cheerleader at the Competition, and I owe it to her to help the pony practice.”

        The foal did a double-take, too confused to be insulted.  “Helping a pony practice?  Who are we talking about?”

        “Fluttershy.  Come to think of it, she's expecting me in a few hours.  I really can't leave her hanging.”

        “You're helping her practice for the Competition too?”

        “Pfft—What, have you got wood between your ears, kid?  Flutterhy's going to be my cheerleader.  I need to help her practice a few good shouts and screams if she's gonna to give me any helping hoves once it's time for me to do my stuff in Cloudsdale Colliseum!”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “So, this is all about... uh... Fluttershy practicing, now?”

        “Sure, why not?  Besides,” Rainbow Dash hovered upside down, grinning at the foal from above.  “You've given me enough awesome feedback to choose what I'm going to do for the first two phases of my act.”  She reached a hoof down and ruffled the filly's pink mane.  “I couldn't have done it without ya, squirt.”

        Scootaloo blushed under the frazzled threads of her own hair.  She blew a few strands away to gaze evenly at the upside-down pegasus.  “Is there a third phase?”

        “Yup, and I'm gonna make it a blast!”  Rainbow Dash soared straight up, spiraled, and flattened her wings against her body.  “Something that will blow the audience's minds!”  She fell down like a dead weight, all the while brandishing a drunken grin.  “Something that they will remember for as long as they live!”  At the last second, she flung her wings straight out, backflipped in the air, and landed evenly on four limbs before a wind-blown Scootaloo.  “An acrobatic feat so amazing that everypony will be lucky if the Coliseum's sky marble doesn't just explode into steam from the sheer epicness of my airshow!”

        Scootaloo leaned forward, grinning ecstatically.  “Are you gonna do the Buccaneer Blitz?!  The Nebula Noodle Streamer?!  The Carbomite Mareneuver?”

        “Pfft!  What do you think I am?”  Rainbow Dash rubbed her hoof against her chest and examined it while smirking.  “A sideshow attraction?  I'm gonna do something a heck of a lot more legendary than all three of those combined!”

        “Uhm...”  Scootaloo wracked her brain, her face scrunching in the effort.  “The Gultophine Gravity Gut Bomb?”

        “Ew—No!”  Rainbow Dash made a face.  “I wanna come out of this Competition a legend, squirt, not a corpse!”

        “S-Sorry,” Scootaloo uttered with a nervous smile.  “It was the first thing that entered my head.”

        “Why am I not surprised?”  Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes, then said with a smirk, “No, Phase Three is going to have be something sky-shattering.  I'll likely pull off the Stratospheric Star Streaker, or the Quadruple Barrel Cloud Pierce, or—heh—maybe even the Sonic Rain...”  The mare stopped in the middle of her own words.  Her face winced, as if she was being stabbed deep in the chest with the mere thought of what she was contemplating.

        Scootaloo saw it.  She squinted.  “What?  The 'Sonic What...?'”

        Rainbow Dash gulped hard.  She smiled, and her next voice was a soft, humble thing.  “Nah.  It's a stupid idea.  The Sonic Rainboom is so crazy, it's only ever been done once.”  She sighed and gazed off towards the distant hilltops with soft, ruby eyes.  “And even then it was nothing but a freak accident.”

        The foal wasn't fazed in the least by whatever was suddenly paralyzing Rainbow Dash.  She walked a half-circle around the blue mare with happy, hopping hooves.  “I used to believe in accidents, Dashie, but then I met you.”

        “Kid, it's one o'clock in the afternoon,” Rainbow Dash said, squinting down at her.  “It's too early for such sap.”

        “I mean it!”  Scootaloo hopped up and down in place, her grin twice as bouncy as her orange body.  “I don't believe that there's a single thing in this world you can't do!”

        The older pegasus merely smiled at her.  “It's not a matter of if I can do it or not.  It's a matter of if I can do it...”  She gritted her teeth.  “... on the sp-spot.”

        “Well, I can think of no better spot than in the middle of Cloudsdale, where all pegasi can see you do the impossible.”  She sat down on her haunches and drank the sight of Rainbow Dash in with soft, foalish eyes.  “So that they can see how awesome you are,” she murmured.  “Like you've shown me.”

        Rainbow Dash was about to retort, but then her breath lingered.  She gazed down at the foal, and her features slowly softened.  The color of her eyes briefly mimicked a pair of rubies that reflected Scootaloo in the quiet, sob-stained sanctum of a dimly-lit hospital room.  “How I wish I could bring you with me instead of Fluttershy,” she murmured, perhaps without wanting to do so.  It hardly mattered; there were far more fragile secrets that had flown, ever so briefly, between her and this fanatic little filly.  “But... But...”  She took a deep breath, and in a single instant the brief solemnity crumbled under the hard smirk of the devilish weather flier underneat.  “We both know that you're stuck here, don't we?”  The last utterance was more of a test than it was an inquisition.

        Scootaloo sighed at the sound of it, hanging her head.  “Yeah.  My parents are... lame,” she said in a voice that she forced to sound bitter.  “They're never going to break their silly little rule: that I have to be able to fly before anypony can take me to Cloudsdale.”  She bit her lip, shuddering with a brief anger at herself.  Still, it was a necessary lie that she had concocted long ago.  Inferring that she would be allowed to go to Cloudsdale would necessitate somepony like Rainbow Dash taking the next logical step of wanting to “speak with her parents” face to face before taking her on such an excursion.  She couldn't risk the implications of such a chain of events, no matter how tempted she was to pursue it.  “I really wish I could go with you too.”  She gazed up at her idol with a brave smile.  “But face it, Fluttershy really is your best cheerleader.  You've known her since you were a little filly at Flight Camp.  She knows all your moves in and out.  I hope she gives you the awesome backup you deserve at the Competition, Dashie.”

        “Fluttershy's certainly my oldest friend,” Rainbow Dash said with a chuckling grin.  She exhaled, then ruffled Scootaloo's mane once more.  It was a rather gentle gesture, as if it was the closest thing to a hug that the older pegasus could settle for.  “But she's anything but my best cheerleader...”

        “Heeheehee,” Scootaloo giggled, her cheeks rosy.  “Oh, I'll be cheering for you, Dashie.  I will be.  Even... Even if you can't see me.”

        “Hmm... Don't be a stick in the mud.”  Rainbow Dash flew up and stuck her tongue out.  “I see everything, remember!”  She flapped her blue wings and soared towards the far end of Ponyville and the border to the Everfree Forest beyond.  “I gotta go meet up with Flutterhy!  Stay cool, kid!  Don't go sneaking into any hospitals while I'm gone, or Celestia-help-me I'll come back in a week's time and shove my trophy up your nose!”

        Scootaloo called after her.  “Wouldn't it be easier just to shove my nose into the trophy?”

        “Hahaha—You're silly, squirt!  One of these days, I swear, you're gonna pay for being a smart aleck!”
        




        The air of the Cloudsdalian ruins was dead and still.  Just then, something twice as dead began to move.  With slow and jagged progression, the marble slab to Scootaloo's hiding place was raised one quarter of a meter at a time.  The squeaking sounds of the thick door's secondary pulley system pierced the stagnant air as the little filly inside the hovel cranked the notched wheel that gradually lifted the heavy slab, once more allowing a space between the claustrophobic cave and the crumbled world beyond.

        As the slab lifted, something that was pinned in place rolled down the decrepit hill of rubble.  The lower half of a dead troll's body tumbled to a stop against a dried-up fireplace.  The abominable guts of the creature were black and stale, the result of several days' worth of decay.  Its twin, a massacred torso, was shoved out from underneath the rising slab, followed by another deathly figure that trotted into the twilight by its own volition.

        Scootaloo's eyes blinked tiredly, taking in the wreckage of her camp site with a dull, scarlet gaze.  Her cheeks were hollow, and her skin was blanketed with dried blood and mud-stains.  Her lower right leg had several layers of canvas wrapped about it.  Her other flank was also patched over with bandages that she had to apply by her lonesome, in the dark.

        She had hidden inside the niche beyond the fallen slab for the better part of a week, during which she had subsisted on a single bottle of oats that she had long stowed away in there.  What other little supplies she had left inside that small cave, she had utterly used up, either to provide herself nourishment or to assist in the healing process of her wounded limbs.  As lucky as Scootaloo was, she certainly didn't feel fortunate.  The whole experience amounted to several days spent alone with her shivers, her fluids, and the rotting corpse of a troll's torso right under her nose.

        Now she was gazing out at the remains of her living quarters atop the hill of rubble, and the last pony's first impulse was to turn straight around and trot right back into that horrible niche of death.  The camp was utterly ransacked.  No single piece of rubble, no single shred of scavenged tools was left lying on top of the other.  There was no perceivable method to what the trolls had done to her improvised home; they had simply destroyed anything they could find for the sake of destroying it.

        The campfire had been kicked to useless ashes.  The canvas bags of supplies had been torn to shreds and spread all over.  Cloudsdalian spears were reduced to splinters and all of the little metal knick-knacks collected from the ruined city were thrown far and wide.  The most important possession that Scootaloo had, a wooden crate full of preserved edibles, was nowhere to be seen.  At first, she thought that the trolls had stolen it all in order to have something to fill their stomachs.  As soon as she trotted up to the edge of the hill, she saw splintery bits of the wooden crate spread down the incline, along with random bits of the bags, jars, and containers that had once housed food.  She imagined that the only things Trolls ate were the things that could squirm on the way down their throats.  Everything that the pony valued, the monsters had dashed to bits for the sheer thrill of dashing them to bits.

        All of this wreckage certainly explained the howling noises of carnage that they had assaulted her barricaded cavern with during the first two consecutive nights of demolition.  Trotting limpingly across her camp's desolate edge, she took notice of what gave them their reason to whoop and holler in victory as they had.  Every single wooden pike that she had engineered into a line of defense had been removed.  To the last pony's numbing horror and self-loathing, she realized that she had provided each and every one of those pale beasts a sharp weapon to wield for the next time that they would attack her.

        And they would attack her again.  It was only a matter of time.  She was starving, weak, scarred, and hopeless.  If they meant to suck out all of the energy in her to make her an easier target, they were succeeding.

        Scootaloo knew this.  She understood the victory that the trolls were about to have at hand.  Regardless, she did not run back into the niche.  She did not collect all of the various scraps of belongings around her and try to find a new place to hide out.

        The last pony sat there, on the edge of her destroyed hovel, and stared blankly out onto the gray, twilight-soaked ruins of Cloudsdale.  Her breaths were as slow as her heartbeat, and the only things that moved were the muscles just above her bandanged limbs, twitching with a throbbing pain that never left her for one second ever.  Just sitting there and doing nothing, she could have risked getting infected.  She could have risked losing a leg, or maybe two.

        Scootaloo was suddenly finding it very hard to care.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Braxx's eyes were bright and green.  Scootaloo never had a chance to notice before, for he had almost always been wearing goggles during the few slim moments that he and the other goblins ran into her, scoffing and tossing insults the last pony's way.  Now, she could see his wide eyes with full detail, as she was standing over the severed half of his skull which had been torn off at the jawbone.

        Gazing away from the partially decayed cranium, Scootaloo could see the scattered bits of Braxx all around her, forming a dried pool of crimson streaks and half-solid intestinal masses.  Limping beyond the remains of the one goblin, she trotted through the puddles of his ill-fated companions.  Scootaloo surveyed the scene of the trollish ambush, studying with solemn clarity the same place she was too paralyzed by fright to observe with any logical detail a week prior.  From her estimation, the bodies of twelve goblins—maybe thirteen—were spread out all throughout the plateau, their limbs torn and carried as far from each other as the trolls' amusement would afford.  Across the great black chasm, the much-desired tools of the goblins glittered like a dream that could never be realized.  Here, the many half-lings had met a hellish faith upon the precipice of achieving their singular goal.

        Scootaloo imagined that this tragedy had succinctly sliced the numbers of her impish neighbors   in half.  That was, of course, assuming that the many goblins who had run off like she did were nearly as successful as the last pony, given the tangibility of the word “successful.”  The half-lings were intelligent, resourceful, and tactful, but even in their combined numbers the pegasus couldn't help but wonder if they had any greater tenacity to deal with the pale monstrosities than she did.  What was more, as she searched through the long-dried carnage of the scene, she was at a loss to find evidence—any evidence—that Devo of Hex Blood had survived.  It was the first time since raising the slab to her niche that the pony came close to feeling something.

        This faded just as soon as it flickered across her mind.  Soon, the last pony was fishing through the dried guts of the goblin, shoving aside the meatier masses of their remains to find what little shreds of tools, leather bandoleers, shivs, and canvas straps that she could.  There was no energy to her task, no excitement or vigor.  She had been reduced to a thought, a ritualistic process, a dull spirit of scavenging that had no extra breath to gasp or sob with.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo limped and limped towards the top of a hill of rubble where a tiny pond of aged water had gathered.  She had come here on multiple occasions before to collect the liquid in her canteen.  Those were moments when she had the ability to make a fire and boil what there was to contain.  Now, struggling to stay upright on two battered rear limbs, fighting to move her thin body with two forelegs, the last pony could hardly be in the position to rejoice or complain at what was at her disposal.

        The filly's mouth was parched, a desert of desperation.  She could barely feel her own tongue amidst the dryness between her cheeks, as if there was still a need to use such a muscle.  She dropped a bundle of blood-stained, useless tools salvaged from the scene of the trollish massacre.  The pegasus fell to her knees—wincing—and dipped her quivering skull towards the murky waters.

        She could barely make out her dull brown reflection from the grime that had collected at the water's surface.  Narrowing her vision, she could spot flecks of ash floating in the tiny stream.  The pond had been christened with the dead flesh of all of Equestria's ponies.  Suddenly, however, this was no longer a deterrent.

        Scootaloo bent over.  She closed her eyes and kiss her lips through the icy layer of the pool.  She opened her mouth and sucked in what she could.  It immediately tasted like rust.

        The filly couldn't help it.  She sputtered.  She gasped and wretched and grimaced.  Gnashing her teeth, she let the first wave of disgust course through her body.  She shivered and spasmed, and yet her mouth was slightly less dry.  Stifling a dull whimper, she closed her eyes—harder this time—and leaned her mouth down into the dead pool again.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo could barely climb back up the hill of rubble to her niche, whatever was left of it.  During the effort, she had to pause and catch her breath over five times.  Her body heathed and her muscles throbbed.  At several points, she realized that she would have no energy to gallop anywhere if the trolls were to see her and chase her down.  This mortifying comprehension didn't quicken her pace much.  She sauntered up the rubble as icily as she had come back down several hours before.  The canvas bundle of desperately-scavenged junk felt like an anvil on her back.

        Finally, the last pony made it back up to her camp.  She laid the canvas bundle out in front of her niche.  One at a time, she lethargically examined the many random items she had pried from the dead bodies of the eviscerated goblins.  In the glinting twilight, they suddenly seemed twice as useless as they were when she first stumbled upon them.

        The filly's nostrils flared.  Halfway through the examination, she dropped all that she was doing and slumped down to her haunches.  She exhaled long and hard, as if a sudden weight was being pressed into the bottom of her lungs, pushing up, expelling all strength that had remained in her body.  A great drowsiness was curtaining over her, resonating with the same deep ache that accentuated the growing pit in her stomach.

        Before the filly's scarlet eyes could close for good, her vision was pierced at a distance by a pale object.  Blinking, she glanced over, her shaved neck tilting to give her a better view.  Curious, the last pony attempted standing up on four legs.  It was an embarassingly difficult process, and it took the filly the better part of a minute before she could summon the strength to trot over towards the pale item in question.

        Bending over, the pegasus hoofed through a pile of ashen debris.  In the trolls' wrecklessness and chaos, they had neglected to see where one miraculous object had rattled to a stop beneath their rampant destruction.  It balanced now in Scootaloo's trembling grasp, a tiny box of sky marble, shimmering immaculately with its glossy, ivory surface.

        The last pony's brown lips trembled as she opened the clasped container.  A breath escaped her lips, squeaking with the first sign of emotion since she had stumbled out of her cave.

        Three blue feathers fluttered in the cold breeze of the Wasteland.  They were just as bright and pristine as the day when Scootaloo had placed them into the salvaged container.

        The pegasus bit her lip. Snapping the item shut, she clutched it to her chest and sat there, haloed by her lonesome breaths.  Her ears twitched, and she looked up, glancing over towards the niche and the granite slab hanging halfway over it.  The filly's jaw clenched, and with a refound determination, she limped over to the freshly scavenged tools.  Placing the container down, she produced a tiny metal shiv stripped from a dead goblin and then marched over to the decaying torso of the troll.  With careful precision, she raised the shiv to the monster's gaping mouth and began chiseling away at its black, razor-sharp teeth.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Hours later, Scootaloo had formed a serrated dagger out of a chunk of wood with several severed troll teeth sewn into the length of it with Cloudsdalian twine.  She clutched this to herself along with the white container as she nested herself once more within the claustrophobic hollow of the tiny cave.  Having lowered the slab back into place with the secondary pulley system, the last pony had lit a tiny fire.  One torch burned dimly, courtsey of her last and only bit of flint and tinder.  Once the fire consumed itself, she would have to find another way to keep herself warm and illuminated.  She would also have to find a way to keep herself nourished, as nothing she had scavenged that day presented itself as edible in any fashion.  This could very well have been the last night she had to be alive, and she hardly cared.

        She had the feathers of Rainbow Dash.  Everytime she tried to build herself a home or salvage all of the decrepit treasures of Cloudsdale, one thing or another would simply tear it back down again.  Regardless, she had the feathers of Rainbow Dash, and all three flimsy threads felt infinitely more valuable than the sum of the young filly's battered parts.  Glancing at the ivory container in the flickering amber light, Scootaloo weathered a soreness in her throat.  She hugged the box to her chest and curled deeper into the corner of the place.  Her eyes ached—twitching under brown lids—for they didn't have enough moisture to produce tears.  Scootaloo huddled in the belly of desolation, allowing unconsciousness to claim her.  She was uncertain if she would wake up from it, but she was not anticipating it either.







        “Hey, uhm, Scootaloo?”

        “Yes, Wart?”

        “Is it just me, or is it really empty around here?”

        The last pony shuffled to a stop, squinting at the lengths of Strut Eighteen as she and her green companion emerged from the elevator car.  The pegasus had resorted to packing a reserve set of armor, one that exposed her twitching brown wings as she stood in the middle of the desolate metal street with a backup rifle retracted along her spine.

        “Come to think of it, you're right,” Scootaloo murmured as she scanned the practically abandoned sights of warehouses, saloons, blacksmiths, shops, and shanty apartments of the Hex Blood neighborhood.  “Then again, there weren't many imps around where we docked the Harmony three platforms below.”  She adjusted her goggles and glanced down at the teenager.  “The Wasteland's due for a stormfront in a few hours.  Maybe they have a reason to clear the streets of Petra.”

        Warden shook his head.  “An imp city this big can withstand an artillery barrage from dirigible dogs, much less your average stormfront.  I may be new around here, but I've never known goblins to clear the streets for a simple lightning storm, especially since this isn't even the topmost strut.”  He gulped in a sudden nervousness as his green ears tilted back.  “Maybe there's a clan meeting we don't know about?”

        “Something...” Scootaloo thought aloud.  “Something has happened.”  She took a shuddering breath as a pulsating adrenaline shot through her blood vessels.  “I didn't bring the Harmony down from the clouds earlier because I thought goblins might be looking for us since what happened at Strut Eleven.  But now...”  Scootaloo glanced once more up and down the abandoned alleyways.  “This isn't right.  It's almost as if...”

        Both figures flinched as a loud shot rang through the metallic streets, echoing off the plated bulkheads.  Warden gasped and leaned nervously against the last pony, his branded skin quivering in the flickering light of a nearby tesla coil.  “Wh-What was that?”

        “Sounded like a steam rifle to me.”

        “But it doesn't sound like any of the Rust-Bleeders' that were firing at us yesterday!”

        “That's because it's a different model,” Scootaloo said, her brow furrowing.  “I remember it from the battle with the trolls outside the mines.”  She took a deep breath.  “It's the Hex-Bleeders' design.”

        “How can your ears be that good and not be pointed?”

        Just after he said that, another shot rang out, echoing louder this time.  Both the pony and the goblin spun to face a direction that was closer towards the imp city's stalk.

        “That last one came from... from...” Warden stammered.

        “Devo's warehouse,” Scootaloo declared.  “Hop on, Wart.  We gotta find out what the heck's going on.”

        The anxious teenager climbed on top of Scootaloo and held on for dear life as the pegasus dashed down an alleyway of bursting steam and towards the far end of the district.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Just as soon as they both rounded a street corner a block from Devo's headquarters, they nearly tripped over a dead goblin's corpse.  Warden gasped and Scootaloo slowed to a firm trot, gazing left and right at the steambolt-riddled bodies of half-lings on either side of them.  There were bulletholes in the walls and floor of the street, scattered here and there with tiny fires that blanketed the riotous disarray.  As she made her way towards the distant structure of the Hex Blood warehouse, she carefully observed the colors on the imps she was passing by.  The collective corpses—nearly two dozen total—matched the symbols of two clans and two clans only:  Glass Blood and Hex Blood.

        “It... It was a gang fight!”  Warden murmured, his aquamarine eyes twitching in comprehension as they passed body after body.  “But... But why would the Glass-Bleeders and Hex-Bleeders turn on each other?!  They're like partners!  They extract steam from the same mines!”

        “Franken of Glass Blood is dead, Wart,” Scootaloo murmured as she navigated a cluster of burning debris in the middle of the rampaged street.  “I can't imagine many of his fellow brothers and sisters are all too happy about the fact.”

        “But we know who killed off Franken!”  Warden exclaimed breathily, his heart racing so hard that even the pony underneath him could feel it.  “It was all of Haman's thugs!”

        “From the looks of things, a fabricated truth traveled faster than ours did,” Scootaloo remarked.  A paleness spread briefly over her brown features.  “This is all my fault.  I should have brought us to Devo immediately after all that mess in Strut Eleven.”

        “But... But Haman's goons could have tracked us down by hovercraft!”  Warden leaned down to murmur in her ears.  “You were looking after yourself.”  He gulped.  “You were looking after us...”

        Scootaloo opened her mouth to respond to that, but for the moment she had no way to justify Warden's knee-jerk defense, and it hurt suddenly to dash his words away to the ash of the Wasteland.  Over the last several hours, she had done what she had always done.  She had tried her best to survive, and suddenly there was blood shed—the blood of her client.  In being responsible for herself, she had been irresponsible as an Outbleeder.  She had done the proper thing to survive, but for once in her life it had been bad for business.

        She was a bad business pony.

        Two hooftrots into the comprehension of this, Scootaloo jerked to a stop, for a burning steambolt ricocheted off the metal street below her.  Wart shrieked and clutched her pink mane, trembling.  The last pony raised a hoof up to the edge of her copper rifle and glared at the front of the warehouse.

        A line of soot-stained Hex-Bleeders were squatting behind a row of overturned hovercraft parts and chunks of skymarble, using them as a makeshift barricade as they trained a line of steaming rifles at her figure.

        “Stay where you are, pony!”

        “Not another step, or we'll blow your brains out!”

        “Speaking of brains...”  Scootaloo spat back over the sound of venting pipes on either side of the street.  “...are they still attached to your eyeballs?  Cuz if you look down the sight of those guns a second time, then you might see a certain red bandanna on my skull!  It should appear familiar to you!”

        “Can it, glue stick!”

        “Nobody gets through to the boss' headquarters!”

        “Until the council of families sends a gremlin defense squad to police this district, all non Hex-Bleeders are to remain off limits, or else you'll get a bullet shoved through you!”

        “I'm trying to tell you!”  Scootaloo exclaimed with a rising growl.  “I've been working for your boss these last few days!  I need to see Devo as soon as possible or whatever's happened here will merely be a prelude to something way worse!”

        “Not on your life!”

        “Even if the boss had recovered already, we're not sending a sky-stealer in to see him!  Not in his condition!”

        “C-Condition?!”  Warden gasped, raising his startled face over the last pony's mane.  “What happened to Devo?!  What's he recovering from?!”

        “None of your business, no-bleeder!”

        “Now the two of you, turn around now—”

        Suddenly, a blue figure rushed out of the warehouse, waving a double-barreled rifle in her grasp.  “Oh, for the love of Petra, let them through, you morons!”

        “But... B-But Miss Raimony—!”

        “Don't you see she's the friggin' Outbleeder?!”  The brown-haired goblinette slapped one of the guards' upside the head.  “Do us all a favor and shoot at imps who aren't wearing the family's bandanna!”

        “I'm sorry, ma'am.  But with all that's happened, we couldn't afford to take chances.”

        “Right, right.  I get it.  Still, kudos for not shooting the pony on sight with those hair-trigger fingers of yours.”  Raimony stood at the edge of the barricade, sighed exasperatingly, and motioned the two souls forward with a muscular arm.  “Hop on over, pony.  It's about dang time you showed up.”

        Scootaloo swiftly trotted up and leaped over the barricade with equine grace.  When she landed on the other side, she heard Warden's gasping sharply.  Glancing over at Raimony, the last pony saw why.

        The brown-haired imp's vest was stained in dried splotches of blood.  Her bangs were in disarray, and the edges of her limbs were bandanged from having sustained several bullet grazes.  “About ten hours ago, the steam really hit the fan,” Raimony murmured in a shuddering breath.  Her thin green eyes were glazed over with lack of sleep and sanity.  As strong and proud as she stood, there was an undeniable wave of jittery shivers running through her extremities.  “Out of nowhere, legions of Glass-Bleeders charged my father's warehouse.  They didn't give a warning.  They didn't even say why they were here.  Franken's imps simply charged into the building, pummeling or shooting any goblin who resisted them, until they got to my father's office and... and...”  Raimony quivered suddenly, a wave of strength being mercilessly peeled off her features as she briefly wilted in front of the two.

        Warden's soft eyes matched the goblinette's vulnerability.  Scootaloo didn't waste a moment being gentle.  “Is Devo dead?”  Her scarlets pierced the prime Hex-Bleeder's daughter.  “Did they kill your father off?”

        Raimony gulped hard.  A frown resurfaced on her face, summoning the strength back into her voice.  “Follow me.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “We summoned the local militia of Strut Eighteen as swiftly as we could.  They ran into the warehouse and swiftly suppressed the attacking Glass-Bleeders.  However, a lot of our industrial equipment got caught up in the crossfire,” Raimony exclaimed as she and a pair of armed guards led the two through the hazy interior of the clan's building.  The air was thick with death and smoke.  Glancing aside, Warden and Scootaloo saw laborers struggling to put out fires and salvage the family's steam-powered machines.  In the far corners of the place, goblins twitched and groaned in agony as medics struggled to patch their leaking bellies back together.

        Warden clung tightly to Scootaloo during the entire forlorn trek.  For the past twelve hours alone, the teenager had displayed increasing levels of intimate trust and physical attachments.  Here, upon the thresshold of the Hex Blood family's collapse, Scootaloo felt immeasureably guilty for something that just hours ago felt like the most sincere thing she had ever done for a creature in decades.  She suddenly feared more for Warden's well-being than she did for all of the bleeding, stumbling Hex-Bleeders.

        Raimony continued speaking as she led the two of them to her father's office, “We're doing what we can to recover from the sudden attack.  In the meantime, most of the women and children from the neighborhood have been moved to our facilities within the stalk adjacent to Strut Eighteen.  It's safe and secure there.  So long as our steam factories within the stalk are properly barricaded, it will take ten platforms' worth of goblin thugs to break through to them.  They should be safe for the moment.  I only wished that the streets of the district faired better.”

        “How many Glass-Bleeders attacked you in total?”

        “Pfft—All of them, if I had to say!”  Raimony exclaimed, running a nervous hand through her hair as she nevertheless marched boldly up the steps to Devo's loft office above the smoldering warehouse interior.  “I really don't know what could have pissed them off so badly.  Considering all of the work you've been doing for my father as of late, maybe one or both of you can shed some light on this craptacular nonsense.  I'm at my wit's end between trying to get us to recover and trying to fend off the attacks of Glass Blood stragglers.  It's next to impossible to get a word to the other thirty-four platforms, and I get the deep feeling somebody out there wants that to be the case.”

        “Just let me speak with Devo,” Scootaloo said as she marched up the steps after her with Warden in tow.  “If anything, I know what happened to Franken of Glass Blood.”  She suddenly jolted in her place, for she had a double-barreled steam rifle pointed at her skull.

        Raimony's eyes narrowed harshly on her.  “You know?!  Was this all part of the Outbleeder intercession that my father forced you into doing?!  Couldn't you have at least brought this to our attention before the very Blight of the Dimming coursed through my family's very streets?!”

        “At least give her a chance to respond, lady!”  Warden frowned—then cowered as she threatened to slam the length of her gun across his skull.

        “Shut it, scamp!”  Raimony growled.  “I've been up to my armpits with my own clan's blood and I need answers!  The least you can do—The least you both can do is pay us back for the invulnerability my father granted you when he made this pony the Hex Blood Outbleeder!”

        “Franken is dead, Raimony.”

        Raimony twitched.  She gazed numbly at Scootaloo, and her pale shock outwashed all shades of anger.  “D-Dead?  But... But how would he be able to launch such an attack on us?”

        “From the looks of things,” Scootaloo said as she gazed down from the steps at the wrecked warehouse interior, “The attack was swift, passionate, and impulsive.  As horrible as things have been, I don't think you've dealt so much with a coordinated invasion as it was an act of anger and revenge.”

        “But... But my father was always a strong ally to the Glass-Bleeders,” Raimony said in a suddenly weak voice.  “It was his one and only link of trust with Rust Blood.  He would never do anything to destroy that.  Why would Glass Blood attack us so angrily out of nowhere?  I don't understand...”

        Before the goblinette's face could register any more emotion, Scootaloo leaned forward and emphatically said, “Let me speak to your father.  Let me see if either of us can figure this out.”

        Raimony took a deep breath.  She gazed at her bodyguards and nodded.  The bandanna-bearing goblins shuffled up the last few steps and opened the door for Scootaloo.  The last pony marched up, then stopped briefly at the entrance.

        “Hop off, Wart.”

        “Huh?”  The petite goblin squirmed on her backside.  “But Scootaloo—”

        “I need to speak to Devo alone,” the last pony said.  After a deep breath, she added, “As I've always had to.”

        Warden trembled.  Nevertheless, he complied, slowly climbing off her spine and standing on the catwalk.  Scootaloo gave him a last, reassuring gaze before marching into the office.  The green teenager wrung his hands together, suddenly twice as affected by the dismal sounds of the wrecked place now that she was absent.

        Raimony stepped up to his side and leaned against her rifle, squinting curious at the office doorway.  “'Scootaloo'?”

        “Erm... Uh huh,” he stammered with a nervous smile.  “Trust me, she's a lot more gruff than her name sounds.”

        “Yeah, no crap.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo couldn't see Devo's legs from the cluster of metal spokes acting as a desperate pair of tourniquets to his battered limbs.  The elder, blue goblin was lying on his back, positioned upon an improvised cot of wood and canvas lying beside his rusted desk.  The far corner of the room was stained in dry blood and highlighted by claw marks, marking the area where the prime Hex-Bleeder was likely cornered and pummeled mercilessly by a group of riotous imps.

        As the last pony entered the room, two hovering medics parted ways to reveal the slowly-stirring elder.  His bruised jaw was encased in a steam-powered breathing apparatus.  With thin, copper eyes he turned his head to gaze up at her.  She saw half of his balding head covered in whelts and scrapes.  His snow-white dreadlocks were stained crimson.

        Tiredly, the clan leader lifted a trembling hand and gave the medics a four-fingered wave.  After exchanging nervous glances, the two subordinates complied by leaving the room.  Scootaloo and the old goblin were alone, like they always were in a way.

        The last pony stared down at the imp, dredging the familiarity of his person up from the sea of life support with her exhausted scarlet eyes.  He gazed back, and in spite of his battered self, he managed a smile.

        “It's hard to 'give a pony her colors' when all I'm seeing are stars.”

        “You look like crap,” Scootaloo bluntly said.  “If I were in your shape, I'd not worry about heavenly bodies that the sky couldn't afford us anyway.”

        He chuckled at that, a wincing thing at best.  “Do you truly believe your own words?  Or is all of your hope gone already, pony?”

        She blinked at that statement.  Spike's words about the Observatory of Nebula were like distant shadows to a forgotten dream.  Everything in Petra had gotten so bloody, so complicated, so chaotic.  Still, they didn't feel painful to Scootaloo, not even now as she stood over the body of her battered employer.  The only thing that remotely pierced her heart was the probable fact that she was the one responsible for his condition, and even the sharp sensation of that was fading with each second that ticked away in that awkwardly quiet office, lulled into obscurity by the steamy hiss of his life support.

        “I'm alive still for two reasons,” Devo said breathily.  “One of them is luck.  The other is that I still believe that in spite of all that's happened today, in spite of all I've endured, there's still a blossoming of Petra to be had.  Life is only gets ugly because it's trying to escape something beautiful that it doesn't think it can handle.”

        “Devo, if you're ever going to die of anything someday, it'll be from living life like an incorrigible sap,” Scootaloo said.  She swallowed and muttered in a serious voice, “Just tell me what happened to you.”

        “Hmmm... Children.  Such angry, desperate, passionate children,” he said, seething through his teeth as a wave of pain soared up his body.  He stroked a hand down over his thigh, where the leg braces had been brutally torn apart under his waist.  “They came here in a berserker's spirit of vengeance, bitterly embroiled for reasons even they hardly understood.  As they were reducing me to a piece of meat, I couldn't help but wish that there may have been a way to salvage something intelligent from their rampaging figures.  Alas, my guards caught up with them, and they rightfully did what I paid them to do.  I am alive here and now by the blood of others.  A life this pathetically long is marked by such red stains.”  He gazed up at her in earnest.  “Imps kill each other on a daily basis, pony.  I hope you realize that it has always been my last resort...”

        “I'm not asking you to assure me of your righteousness, Devo,” Scootaloo said in a dry sigh.  “I have no doubt whatsoever that you're better than most of the creeps who make up Petra.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Still, I need to know what they wanted with you—why they attacked you.”

        “Hmmm... It goes without saying that I was in the eye of the storm that's wrecked my district,” Devo said.  “My darling daughter—strong to the end—is endeavoring to deal with the gravity of things, but even she wasn't here to bear witness to the mayhem when it was at its strongest.”  He swallowed and stirred painfully where he was lying.  “Those attackers wanted me to suffer, wanted me to bleed, wanted me to die in place of their prime Glass-Bleeder.”

        “You're sure of this?”

        “Yes, pony,” Devo murmured.  “They... They said things... Impossible things.”  He winced and shuddered.  “They said that I had murdered Franken, an absurd notion at best.  And yet, the hatred for me was most evident in their eyes.  Whatever the truth is, I doubt very much that they could be convinced I wasn't responsible for some horrible massacre.”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  She gazed off towards the metal lockers of the red-lit office.  “Devo, Franken of Glass Blood is dead.”

        He blinked.  He gazed sickly up at her.  “Then I take it that he wasn't there to meet you at Strut Eleven yesterday...”

        “Oh, his corpse was, alright,” Scootaloo murmured, gulped, then added.  “So were a legion of Rust-Bleeders.  They tore the platform to pieces in their attempt to kill me off.”

        Devo's copper eyes narrowed.  He shifted where he lay, winced, and bravely sat up, propping himself with quivering arms.  “So that was transpired in such an ill-fated district yesterday...”

        “Why?” Scootaloo looked back down at him.  “What has the rest of Petra heard?”

        “The chaos that broke out in Strut Eleven was hardly a minor thing,” Devo spoke, struggling to stay upright.  He emphatically spoke, “Platforms have had their fair share of skirmishes throughout the years, of course, but hardly an all-out conflict.  Several gremlin security ships flocked to the site after reports of explosions and gunfire of an unprecedented nature in that area.  It wasn't as though any clans of importance lived in that run-down district anymore, but—”

        “It's where the Glass-Bleeders had expanded,” Scootaloo finished for him with a nod.  “Under Haman's guidance, Franken occupied a factory along the stalk there.”

        “Don't you mean an extraction plant?”

        “A factory, Devo.  I was there.  I expected to meet with Franken so that he could tell me some important secrets about Haman.  As I could tell from his slit throat and strangled body, he never got the chance to meet with your Outbleeder.”  She took a deep breath.  “Still, I found enough crap there that made the visit to Strut Eleven infinitely worth it, from an investigative stance.  The foundry within the stalk had been converted to an assembly line, replete with metal-works.”

        “What were they assembling, pray-tell?” Devo nervously inquired.

        Scootaloo's brow furrowed.  “Bombs, Devo.  They were making bombs out of mixture of moondust and fire granite.  I saw only the residual leftovers of some grand and foreboding operation.  I have every reason to believe that the Glass-Bleeders were secretly building tons of ordinance for some reason, and now all of those explosives have been relocated somewhere, but I have no idea where.”

        Devo blinked.  Slowly, he laid himself back down with a breathy glow.  His pained eyes danced across the metal bulkheads of his tiny office's ceiling.  “Fire granite... explosives...”  He gulped hard.  “It all screams of ogres...”

        “There's nothing concrete to provide, but everything points to Haman being in league with one or both of the factions from Mount Ogreton,” Scootaloo said.  “What he could gain from such an alliance, I have no clue.  But he was there in the Valley of Jewels along with Franken of Glass Blood and Waven of South Blood.  Now, Franken is just as dead as Waven, and a bunch of bombs are missing.”

        “Did you... manage to procure a sample of such explosives?”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  Her eyes fell to the floor.  “No.  I had the opportunity, but not the spare time.  Rust-Bleeders used Franken's corpse as a means to spring a trap on me.  They must have found out that I was meeting with him.  The next thing I knew, I was galloping away as fast as I could just to keep myself alive.”

        “And a precious life that is, quite worthy of preserving,” Devo uttered.  “As there are little to no other ponies in this world, one cannot blame you for such flight.  Still, if what you say is true, then it is a shame that we do not have something physical to show for it.”

        “If I can make a guess,” Scootaloo said, “Then Haman's thugs have likely scoured Strut Eleven for all remaining evidence as soon as they chased me out.”

        “Even if you or any of my brothers could get there to perform a search, the place is crawling with gremlin security now,” Devo said.  “Rumors are flying around the whole impcity that nearly a hundred goblins have died, mostly no-bleeders.”

        “That sounds exagerrated,” Scootaloo said.  “But it hardly matters.  Damage was done.  Haman's goons were desperate to make sure I didn't get out of there alive.  They failed only because I made many of them suffer for the attempt.”  After a breath, she inquired, “Were any yellow armbands fished out from the destruction, I wonder?”

        “If the Rust-Bleeders are as careful to cover their tracks as you postulate, then I'm sure they've pried the clan colors off of their fallen.”  Devo shifted, wincing briefly as the steam-powered breathing apparatus rattled against his chin.  He sighed and murmured, “Haman's deviance is far more startling than I had originally imagined, in light of all this.  It begs the question: just what does he intend to do with so many explosives?  If he was coerced by the ogres to sell them through a black market all of the sudden, then that might make some sense, but it's not like he'd be making any greater profit than he used to months ago when the weapons trade transpired officially.  Also, the speed and desperation of the Glass-Bleeders' production at Strut Eleven is alarming, assuming they've managed to convert a foundry into an aseembly line without any other clan knowing.”

        “I can think of a far more pressing question at the moment,” Scootaloo murmured, pacing about the room briefly, for a part of her was dreading the fact that she probably knew the answer to this:  “Why did the Glass-Bleeders impulsively attack your clan of all families?  If they had any lick of sense, they'd have assaulted the front doors of Haman's palace.”

        “That vexes me as well.  But now my facilities are stripped bare and my defenses are thin.  I'm hardly in the place to investigate, pony.  And I regret that I put you in the position to nearly get yourself slaughtered at the hands of enemies I only half-suspected I had,” the elder said in a low tone.  “It was irresponsible of me.”

        For some reason, that statement hurt Scootaloo more than any of the other sights and sounds of that startling day combined.  She gulped hard and murmured, “Devo, please, you don't need to—”

        “It's funny,” Devo dryly said.  Then, after a wincing hiss, he added, “After all I've endured, after all that the young warriors of Glass Blood did to my home and body, what stings the worst is the words they had to assault me with during the whole ordeal.”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  She turned to look at him.  “And just what words were those?”

        He shuddered.  “They said that they wished to rip my hands off, to burn the blood off of them that I had personally spilled.”

        “'Personally?'”

        He glanced over at her, his eyes painfully thin.  “They said I was heartless and proud... a fool and a butcher all the same, for having been at the scene of the crime...”

        Scootaloo's scarlet eyes narrowed.  Slowly, she paced closer to his cot-side.  “What... What do you mean...?”

        “It sounds as ludicrous as it is startling,” he murmured.  “But they were all of one accord; they believed whole-heartedly that I was there, pony, that I was there at Strut Eleven, and that I had not only been stained with the blood of their clan leader, but that I had been boasting of it... as a statement of Hex Blood supremacy.”

        Scootaloo's features tightened.  A deep heat was resonating up through her body and burning out through her solid eyes.

        “I did not believe a single word they had to say,” Devo rambled on.  “They were poor, mad goblins, driven to violence first and logic last.”  He exhaled long and hard.  “And then, you come and confess that you yourself found Franken dead.  Still, I am not relieved.  I can't fathom for the life of me why any imp would think I was actually there at the site of such an atrocious massacre...”

        Scootaloo seethed.  “I can,” she growled.  Spinning around with a flicker of her red bandanna, she marched boldly out of the room before Devo could protest in confusion.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The door to the prime Hex-Bleeder's office burst open.  Warden and Raimony looked up, along with two guards.

        Scootaloo marched angrily across the catwalk and down the steps leading towards the lower floor of the warehouse.

        “Where in Dimming's Blight are you off to?!”  Raimony exclaimed.

        “Twenty-One Strut,” Scootaloo grunted.

        “Wh-What?!”  Raimony did a double-take.  “Pony, maybe horses are just slow to get a clue, but it isn't exactly a picnic outside those doors right now!  Strut Eleven became a battlefield and the whole impcity is going nuts.  If anybody approaches Haman in this time of unrest—no matter how many legs she has—she's likely to get shot!”

        “Let me worry about when or how I die,” Scootaloo grumbled.

        Warden was scrambling to keep up with her, panting.  “Scootaloo!  At least don't go alone!  Whatever you're going to see him about, maybe I can help—”

        “No.  Stay here with Devo and Raimony.”

        “B-But it's dangerous!”  The teenager exclaimed, hobbling down the steps after her.  “Don't go alone!  I hate it when you go places alone—”

        “Look, will you just friggin' do what I say?!”  She flashed an angry look over her shoulder, wings fluttering and losing a feather or two, like dead skin.  “I'll be back.  Celestia help me, I'll be back and I'll be in one piece.  Now sit your butt down until I'm back, ya little Wart!”  She galloped away at a full canter.  Sveral Hex-Bleeders spun curiously as her lone figure sped off.

        Warden bit his lip, clinging limply to the metal staircase railing.  He then sat down on a step and hugged his knees to his chest, his ears twitching anxiously, confusedly.





        “You can't afford to sleep in!”  Rainbow Dash stood in downtown Ponyville, shouting up at a pale gray pegasus with a mohawk.  “I mean it, Wyndi!  You're in charge of the team while I'm gone, and that means you've gotta be awake at all times in case there's a horrible hailstorm or some other cruddy stormfront that you'll need to break apart!”



        “Hey!  I earn my shuteye!”  Rainbow Dash growled back, squinting in the sunlight as Wyndi shoved a cloud or two away before bucking them to steamy bits like a dutiful weather flier.  “Do I need to remind you how I got this job?!  How about you try taking down three tornadoes single-hoofedly in one night and maybe then you can earn the right to be chief weather flier of your own town!”

        “Everypony around here knows how awesome you are, Dashie,” Wyndi smirked while kicking a few more clouds into mere vapor.  “For Phase Three of your act at the Coliseum, try not to fall asleep!”  She briefly giggled.

        “And you try to keep Ponyville in one piece!”  Rainbow Dash barked while an orange filly glided up from the edge of town.  “I mean it, Wyndi!  You're in charge of the team because I trust your gut instinct as a leader!  Keep an eye on everypony!  Don't let Stu Leaves fly blindly into any trees and try and keepWhurring Streak's head in the game!”

        “I'll make Stu my wingpony for the night patrol,” Wyndi said with a nod.  “As for Worsty, don't worry.  All that stallion needs is some positive reinforcement.”

        “Dear Epona, I hope I don't sound that silly when I'm giving the team a speech,” Rainbow Dash grumbled to herself.  Her colorful tail was tugged from behind.  She spun around.  “Yeah, what?!”  She blinked, then bit her lip nervously.  “Oh.  Eheh—Hey, squirt.  What's up?”

        Scootaloo blushed.  She humbly held a pair of goggles dangling over her hoof.  “Sorry to bug you, Dashie.  I-I know that you're leaving for the Competition soon and all.  So, I fixed these up for you at the last second.  All the cracks and burn marks should be gone from the day that you saved the... the...”  She winced at the memories she was forcing to see the light of day again.  With a brave gulp, she smiled and offered the article up for the older pegasus to take.  “Anyways, I bet you could make good use of these when you leave all the other young fliers in your dust.”

        Rainbow Dash blinked.  “Eheheh... Oh, squirt.  I'd love to be wearing these things.  For real.  Ahem.”  She sat on her haunches, leaned over, and planted her hooves on either side of Scootaloo's, lowering the goggles back into the filly's chest.  “But they've got these really stuffy rules at the Competition.  Pegasi participants aren't allowed to wear anything more than a contestant number.  It's all on account of some bullcrap about 'performance enhancing' or whatnot.”

        “Oh... Uh... Well, I guess that's okay,” Scootaloo shamefully murmured.  She glanced aside, shifting where she stood.  “I wouldn't want to do anything that could get you disqualified.”

        “The only reason they'd boot me out of the Coliseum would be for sucking in all the awesome from everpony else,” Rainbow Dash said with a wink.

        “Or sleeping in the locker-room!”  Wyndi exclaimed from up high.

        “Hey!”  Rainbow Dash glared up at her subordinate weather teammate.  “Hailstorm patrol!  That means you should be flying a lot higher right now!”

        “Yeah, yeah, Captain.  Do the whole team a favor and bring back a tall bottle of Cloudsdalian Ale when you return in three days' time.  Everypony in Equestria knows that Spitfire hordes the stuff somewhere beneath her uniform!”  That uttered, the mohawked pegasus flew skyward and was gone.

        “Ugh... She's going to let a cyclone hit the local pound just to rain cats and dogs across Ponyville,” Rainbow Dash grumbled as she stared off over the many thatched rooftops of the town.  “I just know it.”  Her next breath was a limp, shuddering thing.

        Scootaloo gazed curiously at the older pegasus.  “Uhm, Dashie?  Are... Are you nervous?”

        The blue mare blinked.  She turned to look at the filly, immediately flashing a smirk.  “Are you kidding?  I'm ready as ever to spin circles around Cloudsdale!  It's Ponyville that I'm worried about!  Ugh... The weather team is a total klutzfest without me being here to act as their awe-inspiring captain.”

        “Don't you think about them!”  Scootaloo grinned wide.  “In a day or two, you're gonna be hanging out with another team!  The best team that there is!”

        “I am?”  Rainbow Dash blinked, the wheels in her head briefly turning slower than those of the foal in front of her.  She snapped out of it.  “Of course!  I am!”  She smirked.  “I may be captain of the working pegasi around here, but the Wonderbolts are bound to make me a frickin' admiral once they get a load of my tricks!”

        Scootaloo nodded furiously.  “And who better for them to induct than the Best Young Flier, huh?”

        “Y-You bet!”  Rainbow Dash stood tall and proud, her blue wings stretching.  “After this weekend, every pony in Equestria is gonna be cheering my name!  The Wonderbolts would be losers not to make me a member of their team!  Especially after I perform the Sonic—”

        “Rainbow!” a voice rang out from above.

        “Nnngh!”  The blue mare jolted where she stood.  Her wings snapped tight to her ribs in a pathetically pensive gesture.  She exhaled, relaxed, and frowned upwards.  “Now you say my name loud!”

        “I'm sorry,” Fluttershy murmured, hovering limply towards the two ponies. “I wasn't sure if you would hear me if I wasn't assertive with my volume.”

        “Where was that gusto earlier when you were practicing your cheers?”

        “Uhm... You told me to work on 'lots of control' and 'passion.'  You said nothing about 'gusto'.”

        “Nnnngh...”  Rainbow Dash ran a hoof over her face.  “Fluttershy, you forgot 'screaming and hollering.'”

        “Mmmm... I was hoping you'd forget that,” Fluttershy bit her lip and rubbed her forelimbs together demurely.

        Rainbow gazed down at Scootaloo with a tired grin.  “You see the kind of fluff I have to put up with?”

        “I don't think it's all that bad,” Scootaloo uttered.

        “Why, hello there, Scootaloo,” Fluttershy said, smiling warmly from above.  “My, your mane is looking cute and sparkly this afternoon—”

        “Fluttershy, for real.  You've got—like—a billion pets in your cottage,” Rainbow Dash droned.  “Don't crowd in on mine.”

        “Oh, I apologize.”  Fluttershy shrunk into herself and hovered a little higher.  “I really don't like crowds.  I'll be waiting for you at the edge of town.”

        “Yeah, uh, I'll be with you in a minute.”  Rainbow Dash gulped, kneading the ground with her hooves as she gazed slowly and forlornly towards the edges of Ponyville.

        Scootaloo blinked.  She raised an eyebrow.  “Dashie?  Aren't you... Aren't you gonna be late to the admittance process if you don't fly to Cloudsdale soon?”

        “Oh.  Eheheh... I'm leaving, alright.  I'm just being chillaxed about it, y'know?”  She took a deep breath and flapped the last bit of dust off her wings.  “Besides, the only pony who gets herself worked up over being late is Twilight, and she's not gonna be there.”  She exhaled again, gazing numbly towards the northern horizon and the hazy shape of the pegasus' city looming in the distance.  “It's just gonna be me and Fluttershy... after all...”

        The little filly blinked at her.  She smiled gently.  “Your friends know how loyal you are, Rainbow Dash.  I'm sure they all want to be loyal right back at ya.”

        “Hmmm... Too bad not all ponies can make the impossible happen,” Rainbow Dash said.  She bit her lip, then added, “Easily, I mean.”  She glanced down and gazed at Scootaloo.  It was a look of pride.  “Some ponies have got it made from the start, even when they're alone.”

        Scootaloo felt her heart skip a beat.  Her tail flicked as a warmth flushed over her upper body.

        Rainbow Dash smiled in the sunlight.  Her expression melted as she cleared her throat, flapped her wings, and bolted straight for the northern horizon.  “Enough standing around.  I better hurry and knock the horsehoes off of all Cloudsdale so I can get back in time to stop my weather team from leveling Ponyville to rubble.  Kick their butts for me if they get out of line, squirt!”

        “I'll try—”

        “Uh uh!”  Rainbow Dash cawed from the heavens like a blue falcon.  “Either kick butt, or kick no butt!  There is no try!”

        “Heeheehee—I'll keep that in mind!”

        “I don't care if you keep that in stomach!  Just stay frosty!”  The blue pegasus was gone.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, leaning against the body of her metal tray.  She fumbled with the goggles in her grasp before gazing down at them.  The foal saw her reflection, her two bored eyes, and then—with far less approval—she angled the lenses so that she saw the image of her two stubby, useless wings.  Sorrowfully, she cast a gaze back up towards the northern horizon where the bodies of Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy had disappeared.  Cloudsdale was a distant shadow, a heavenly silhouette of awesomeness that the filly could only dream about, that she was doomed to miss out on during that weekend of all weekends.

        Sighing, she strapped the goggles loosely over her head like a canvas crown.  Turning about-face, she kicked at the earth and glided herself and the tray beyond the edge of Ponyville.






        Scootaloo's metal tray slid to a stop against a brown wall of the barn.  With a creaking of wood, the little filly climbed the ladder up to the upstairs loft.  She ascended and trotted over to her little sleeping corner.  Lethargically, she grasped her hooves onto a suitcase and opened the thing.  Scootaloo dropped the goggles inside, burying the thing from sight until its rightful owner returned to the suddenly colorless village.

        The orphan was about to close the suitcase back up when her violet eyes were caught on something.  Reaching in, she clasped a tiny paperback novel in her grasp.  Opening the book on werewolves, she flipped to the middle of the tome.  The faded image of her parents appeared once more before her.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  Life, for all of its hardships, wasn't too terrible of a thing.  It was the tendency for things to be sapped from life—warm, happy, and glorious things—that made existence occasionally too painful to bear.  Scootaloo's scant seven and a half years were littered with the abysmal gaps left behind in the absence of ponies, prosperity, and opportunities—all things that the filly knew she would miss forever.

        The orange foal shut the novel and hugged the book to her chest.  With a deep breath, Scootaloo gazed skyward.  The ceiling of the world was painted with the same color as Rainbow Dash's coat.  Everytime she gazed upwards on a cloudless day, she was blessed with a reminder of the coolest equine in existence.  Still, even there, alone under the shanty roof of the dilapidated barn, she suddenly couldn't settle for a tropospheric facade of the real thing.  The skies of Equestria were about to shimmer with the awesome glory of the Best Young Fliers Competition.  For Scootaloo, it only meant another grand opportunity that she was going to miss.  It meant another abysmal hole in her life.

        The little filly still didn't know when her foalday was.  Suddenly, that didn't matter.  She had it within herself to seize new opportunities worth marking anniversaries for.

        With a devilish smirk, Scootaloo dropped the novel back into the suitcase, closed the thing up, and bounded over towards the rest of her meager belongings in the corner of the barn's loft.




        An hour and a half later, Scootaloo had finished with her preparations.  She had a tiny saddlebag hanging over her body, filled with a compass, an old map of Equestria, a sleeping bag, and several sweets from Sugarcube Corner.  After tightening the canvas material over her blank flank, she kicked the metal tray out of from underneath the barn and immediately hopped onto it.

        Smiling bravely into the dimming afternoon air, Scootaloo glided her way north, passing through the trees until the wide green fields of Equestria stretched before her.  She knew that it was slightly foolish to be starting the trip this late in the day.  She knew that a full night's rest followed by an early morning excursion would have been the smart thing to do.  However, Scootaloo wasn't pressured to do something wise.  She needed to be swift.  From all that Rainbow Dash had told her, the competition was barely a day and a half away.  Scootaloo had to hurry if she wanted to make it there in time... if she wanted to give her idol the surprise of her life.

        Kicking and kicking against the soft earth, Scootaloo wheeled herself quickly northward, her eyes locked on the image of Cloudsdale hovering in the distance, like a beacon of hope.






        “Haman!”

        “Haman of Rust Blood!”

        “Prime Rust-Bleeder, sir!  Please speak to us!”

        “Strut Eleven and Eighteen are in chaos!  Are we next on the list?!”

        “Will the Hex-Bleeders or Glass-Bleeders strike anyone else?!”

        “Are all our women and children safe?!”

        Several Rust-Bleeder citizens were gathered in front of a large, four-story building erected within the center of Twenty-One Strut's Alpha Level.  Imps of all sizes clamored their way towards the front of the crowd, shouting and pleading for the attention of the yellow-skinned elder who was presently hobbling up the steps to his luxurious abode under the guidance of Fredden and several other goblins.  A group of yellow-banded half-lings with rifles stood before the front of the entrance, acting as a living shield against the district's anxious population.

        “Please, Haman!  We must know!”

        “Is this the rebellion that you warned us all about?!”

        “Where's my husband and son?!  They went on assignment and never came back!”

        “Have you sent my brothers to battle the rebellion within Petra?!”

        At the very top of the stairs, Haman paused.  He turned towards Fredden and leaned into the bodyguard's pointed ears.  After an exchange of mumbled words, Fredden adjusted his shades, faced the crowd, and waved his arms wildly.  The citizens of Twenty-One Strut collapsed into a nervous murmur as the bodyguard spoke out loud, “Your ever-faithful prime Rust-Bleeder is pressed for time.  The clan leaders of this impcity are in the process of establishing an emergency meeting to discuss the ramifications of the bloody feud that has transpired so many struts below.  Although Haman will be busy with attending to such negotiations, he has agreed to deliver a swift speech unto you.”

        That said, Fredden shuffled back.  Haman stood as tall as he could, leaning against his cane as he gazed down at the many frantic and trembling imps.

        “My fellow goblins, the madness of the Wasteland is always looking for new and horrid ways to seep into the magnificent society that we have established for ourselves here.  Since the Blight consumed the world, Petra has become something of dazzling beauty, a pristine example of goblin perseverance.  It is, of course, not without its enemies.  The selfishness in the black hearts of power-hungry goblins occasionally shows itself.  I believe that what has transpired between Glass Blood and Hex Blood is an example of grotesque ambition in the claws of irresponsible imps.  I knew Franken of Glass Blood; he was a good goblin and a hard worker.  I was proud of him, though I cannot say the same about his subordinates.  Stupid thugs: imps behaving like that with guns.”

        Haman briefly shook his head with disdain, summoning a somber murmur from the crowd.  His ear-stalks drooped and his amber eyes glossed over sadly.

        “I have been known to shed blood before,” he spoke gravely.  “But it was entirely in the name of integrity, to keep wayward imps from destroying all that Rust Blood has become.  What Franken's brothers have done is wage war cruelly and indiscriminately upon another clan.  They have done so in a barbaric and chaotic fashion, all without the integrity of a solid chain of command.”

        A voice shouted forth from the crowd, “But they had reason to believe that the Hex-Bleeders had massacred their families!”

        “Gremlin security teams say that they saw the Prime Hex-Bleeder at Eleven Strut!” Another imp exclaimed.  “Over a hundred Glass Blood laborers who went to work in the foundries there never came back!”

        “But Devo and his troops were seen leaving the site unscathed!”

        A loud commotion once more billowed through the crowd.  Fredden frowned and whistled for attention.  The many goblins briefly settled down.

        Haman spoke, “While I cannot personally speak for what Devo has done, I can certainly account for what he has said in the past.”  His face did a rather poor job of maintaining a neutral expression, but none of the anxious souls attending appeared to have noticed.  “At every clan meeting for the past few years, the prime Hex-Bleeder has been notorious for spouting out words of eccentricity and then clouding them over by immediately denying any affinity for impcity rebellion.  It is quite possible that in a day and age when Petra is most fragile, the clan leader of Strut Eighteen has at last shown his true colors.  If this is what Franken of Glass Blood witnessed just before his dying breath, then I admire his silent courage as much as I mourn his grand legacy.  It is against the nature of a goblin to expose the sins of another before public scrutiny.  That Franken would die of such horrible means is a sign that, quite possibly, his partner with the Hex-Bleeders had run out of ways to conceal his family's deeper intentions.  But, as probable as all of these possibilities may be, I must declare them as purely speculatory, and I shall wait upon the council's decisions with a patient heart.  Whether or not it all justifies the blood spilled between Hex Blood and Glass Blood remains to be seen.”

        “Haman!  Sir, what of our fellow brothers in arms?”

        “So many of us are missing!  Are they on duty with Miss Ryst?”

        “Has security been increased in lieu of all this chaos?!  Is that why the streets are empty of so many Rust-Bleeders?”

        Haman raised his hand and eased the crowd with a gentle motion of his cane.  “Be at ease, my fellow goblins.  If you must know, yes, I've had to employ a great number of armed laborers in patrolling the impcity.  This is all in the name of protecting Hex Blood's interests.  Miss Ryst and her advisers have many of our brothers spread out throughout Petra to make sure that no more goblins fall from the feud between Hex Blood and Glass Blood.  This is why so many of you haven't seen your loved ones lately.  Rest assured, you shall all be reunited soon.”

        “Oh, I very seriously doubt that,” a voice coldly emanated from the very rear of the crowd.  “An empty promise is still an empty promise.”

        Haman blinked.  Fredden craned his neck to see the author of that voice.  He visibly cringed upon making eye contact.

        The huge, stammering crowd swiveled around to see a four-legged creature standing in the middle of the district behind them, her frowning features bathed in golden lamplight.

        “However, it does give him ample time to go through with plans of his own,” Scootaloo murmured aloud, her iron-wrought scarlets trained angrily on the prime Rust-Bleeder.  “Which I'm willing to bet is merely within a matter of days.  Is that right, Haman of Rust Blood?”

        Fredden gulped.  To maintain composure, he barked at his fellow guards.  Every yellow-banded  imp within eyesight cocked their steam rifles and aimed at the last pony.  The pegasus icily reached back for her copper rifle, summoning a nervous hush from the crowd.

        Haman cleared his throat.  After waving his cane, the many guards nervously lowered their weapons.  He paced a few steps down the front entrance of his headquarters and smirked in the equine figure's direction.  “And just what plans are those, sky stealer?  Forgive my lack of manners, but Devo's bizarre choice for an Outbleeder has a reputation that proceeds itself.”

        “I imagine I do,” Scootaloo replied, glaring daggers from afar.  Her voice carried like so much steam and smoke hissing across the district.  “As my reputation has relied on sending bullets through the skulls and guts of the many assassins you've flung at me on Strut Eleven.”  Her brow furrowed menacingly as she gestured towards Fredden.  “Or have you already forgotten the many souls your lackey there has ill-responsibly sent to their deaths in a fool-hardy attempt to cover up your own crimes against impkind?”

        The district exploded in an uproar.  Half of the goblins shouted and hissed angrily at the pony.  The other half murmured in shock and confusion.  Fredden was wincing, his pale brow forming beads of sweat.  Haman, in the meantime, was calm and collected.  He smirked as he strolled a few lasting steps down the entrance and leaned on his cane.

        “Allow me to get this straight,” Haman said.  “The imps of Glass Blood perform a full-frontal attack on the property of Hex Blood.  Within hours of such a horribly bloody event, an Outbleeder representative of Hex Blood—a pony at that—marches up to the threshhold of my neutral domain and attempts to stain my hands with an atrocity that I had nothing to do with?  My dear sky-stealer, I am quite used to the many families within this impcity laying their troubles on my shoulders, but this is utterly ridiculous.”

        “What's utterly ridiculous is that this goddess-forsaken city, with all of its politics and red tape, could actually allow you to get away with the murder of Franken of Glass Blood,” Scootaloo said, immediately causing several imps within earshot to gasp at the audacity of those words.  She didn't stop for an instant.  “Just what do you intend to get away with next, Haman?  I wonder, will it make even less Rust-Bleeders return home from whatever suicidal task you send them on for the sake of accomplishing your vile agenda?”

        A wave of angry shouts, cat-calls, and shaking fists swarmed the last pony's way.  Several random objects and chunks of street trash were thrown at her.  She didn't bother dodging most of the debris.  Absorbing the crowd's anger and detritus with equal vigor, she spoke loudly above the roar of the district.

        “You may be able to fool your many minions into worshipping everything you say or do, whether you're crippling the economy of those who manifest Petra or making underhanded deals with the likes of ogres—”

        “Ogres?!”  Fredden suddenly spoke up.  His skull rattled angrily, forcing him to adjust his shades upon his face.  “How dare you?!  Haman of Rust Blood endured the torture of ogres just to stay alive and lead his family today—!”

        “Shut your face, you mouth-breathing pile of garbage,” Scootaloo hissed up at the bodyguard in a cold voice that frightened away the jeers of those closer to her.  “You couldn't silence me with a thousand bullets yesterday, so don't pretend like you can make any more of a difference with your useless tongue today.”

        Fredden bit his lip.  Just like that, the goblin with a hundred riflers at his beck and call shuffled into the shadows.  Sighing, Haman spoke above the drooping head of his subordinate, “Your accusations are quite colorful, pony.  I can see that Devo's eccentricity has infected you.  Surely you've heard that he was witnessed at the scene of bloodshed yesterday?  Or perhaps he had you in his violent employ upon such an occasion?”

        The crowd roared all the louder in Scootaloo's direction.

        She sliced fearlessly through it with a glare and a sneer.  “Don't assume I'm like all of your sychophantic pawns, Haman, ready to scarf down your bullcrap.  I was there, yes.  I was there in Strut Eleven yesterday.  I saw the leftovers of a massive project, a construction program that resulted in the manufacturing of countless kilograms of explosives, all of ogre design.  Whatever the purpose of such an endeavor, it took the death of Franken to preserve it, and it took dozens of your hired hands dying while trying to kill me, hoping that they could bury me along with him.”

        The population of the district was no less noisy, but many of the voices were cast in a crossfire of momentary confusion and doubt.  It took Haman's authority to redirect the anger back at the pegasus.

        “So you don't deny that you were responsible for the deaths of many Rust-Bleeders, pony?”

        Scootaloo gritted her teeth.  “I did what I had to do in order to stay alive and expose—”

        “Expose what?!” Haman balked.  “The truth that my brothers and sisters defended themselves to the bitter end against Devo's most bizarre ally yet?!”

        Several citizens who hadn't seen their loved ones in days immediately sobbed and collapsed at those words.  Several more growled and angrily marched towards the pony as the entire district rose in volume around the equine's guilty figure.

        Haman went on, “Or perhaps you've come here to answer for the death of Darper, one of my closest advisers, who leaves a wife and child at home to manifest Petra on their lonesome?”  He smirked, having to practically shout over the rising cacophony of a restless mob.  “You come here, sky-stealer, laying bold and factless accusations upon my head, and yet you are a creature of the Wasteland.  You are born unto violence and tempered by it, whereas I have only ever sought to justify my own honor through minimal bloodshed in this great oasis granted us by Petra.”  Haman shrugged, gesturing with his cane while smirking like he suddenly owned the universe.  “Some of us only want to maintain structure and order, the very foundation of business, while radical idealists like Devo think that Petra must undergo a change.  Well, I've known that goblin for a long time, and I have no shame in admitting that he has long overstepped the boundaries that he's become far too demented to respect in his age.  I fear that it has cost him both his assets and his life.  I have it within me to respect the consequences of his folly.  Do you have it within yourself to know a loss cause when you see it, Wastelander?”

        The line of angry goblins drew closer and closer to Scootaloo.  She did not budge.

        The last pony shifted her backside, feeling the weight of her copper rifle.  Somewhere far below, Devo was bleeding to death.  Somewhere far deeper, Rainbow Dash's remains lay hidden in a heap of all of yesterday's colorless years piled up on top of one another.  Nothing in life was ever simple, and for a brief and heart-throbbing moment, all bloody roads led to the fragile skull containing Haman's sniveling smirk.  “Don't preach to me about lost causes, Haman,” Scootaloo said, feeling her own blood turn cold.  It was queerly thrilling, something that she hadn't felt in months, for the warmth of green flames had almost incubated something decent and civilized within her.  Suddenly, blissfully, all of that was wanting to peel away, like dead skin rejoining the ash of the Wasteland.  “You're tempting me to teach you a thing or two about losing a head.”

        The crowd briefly jolted upon that last statement.  The many guards flanking Haman reached for their steam rifles once more.  The prime Rust-Bleeder in question merely smiled.  “Oh, how charming.  Is that threat, sky-stealer?”  His gnarled fingers gripped tighter around the transparent globe atop his cane.  “Because the only reason you haven't been reduced to a bullet-ridden corpse on sight is due to the fact that there is still honor to be had in my district, and it respects that bandanna on your head more than Devo and all of his self-destructive tendencies as of late.”

        Scootaloo was hardly aware of the smirk until it was already spreading across her face.  It felt in a way like falling from a great windy height, only this time she wasn't desperate to catch anything... or anyone.  She would drop herself if she had to, the grin on lips was that paralyzing.  “Oh, is that all it is?”  She reached her hooves up in a movement that made the thugs' knees tremble as much as their trigger-fingers.  “Then allow me to remedy that.”  She was already mouthing a runic command halfway through disrobing the Outbleeder article from her skull.  The bracelet of horns over her hoof sparkled and the magazine in her rifle was already glowing.

        Just then, upon the brink of chaos, an impish figure rushed up and clasped Scootaloo's hooves from behind.  Several clawed fingers latched onto the bandanna, keeping it on her head.  The crowd murmured in mixed confusion and shock.  The last pony turned to look.  She immediately frowned.  “Raimony?!”

        “Thanks for looking so grateful,” the daughter of Devo spat.  A vent of steam licked her brown hair from behind.  She twitched momentarily, but proceeded with lowering the pony's limbs down to the street.  “Father's gotten worse.  I want you to stop making yourself out to be a jackass here and go see him before it's too late.”

        “I think I'll get a lot more done with Haman and his goons here,” Scootaloo said.  Her scarlet eyes narrowed.  “Or has it ever occurred to you that what happened to your father was more than the Glass-Bleeder's doing?”

        “You wanna become extinct?!”  Raimony exclaimed, tossing her eyes towards the thick crowd and the angry squad of riflers lining the steps above them.  “Do it on your own time, in the Wasteland.  Right now, my family still needs you.  Alive.”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She slowly glanced back at the crowd.  They hissed and spat at her like a sea of trolls.  Unlike trolls, however, they had waited for an excuse to tear her to shreds.  Scootaloo was briefly more encumbered by her own stupidity than she was invigorated by her own wrath.  Oddly enough, it was the thought of a young green goblin's muted sobs that finally shook her out of the frosty shackles of the moment.  With a sigh, she marched away from the crowd with a limp gait that underwhelmed the initial fervor with which she initially confronted them.

        “You're doing the smart thing,” Raimony remarked, walking cautiously along with the pony.  “If I was in your place, I wouldn't pick ridiculously impossible fights while I still had the choice.”

        “Keep talking,” Scootaloo droned.  “I'd rather hear your worthless drivel than theirs.”

        “When you speak again with Devo of Hex Blood, Pony,” Haman's timely voice rang out from behind her, “Send him my condolences and respect, but most of all ask him a question I've meant to inquire of him since the last council meeting: 'Are we not goblins, even if half of us are corpses?'  It is most relevant in lieu of what's happened as of late, wouldn't you think?”

        A few voices actually chuckled, scoffing at the equine figure as she walked away with the image of Devo's daughter.  As the last pony trotted further and further into the distance, the confused and agitated crowd gradually dispersed, leaving Haman behind along with Fredden and his other followers.  The smirk trailed away from the prime Rust-Bleeder's lips.  For the briefest of moments, he weathered a nervous grimace.  Shrugging a shiver of anxiety off his bony shoulders, he shuffled about and walked his frail way into the heart of his four-story dwelling.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's hoof slapped angrily over a lever.  With a rattling jerk, the body of a tiny elevator car rolled down a shaft leading away from Strut Twenty-One.  The great golden body of Petra loomed above and below as the sighing pegasus stood limply in the company of the green-eyed goblinette.

        “It would have been so easy,” Scootaloo muttered.  “Just one shot, just one bullet, and all the pretense would end.”

        “And just who's skull is the subject of this rambling discussion?” Raimony asked, hugging her arms to her torso and shivering.

        “Haman expects to get away with everything that he's done,” Scootaloo continued, her eyes distant as she murmured to the bulkheads of the shaking elevator car.  “I don't know what hurts more, that he's already done so much bad to Franken and Devo, or that he's going to do a heck of a lot worse and there's no way of proving it to all the families of Petra...”

        “Hmmm.  A goblin who covers his tracks,” Raimony said with a nod.  “He's got the money and imp-power to do what he's been doing for years.  Just what do you have?  Hmm?  Loads of guns and a death wish?”

        Scootaloo blinked.  Her brow furrowed curiously at both the choice and tone of Raimony's words.  She gazed up at the goblinette, squinting.  “And just what made you an expert on Wasteland guile?”

        “The same as you,” Raimony hissed, her right-eye twitching.  “I was also there when the exploding world burned everything away but the baser shades of our strength and loathing.  Yes yes yessss...?”

        Scootaloo snarled.  In a flash, she bucked Raimony upside the chin.

        The goblinette violently flew back, her body impacting hard with the metal webbing of the elevator car's wall.  She couldn't move, for she suddenly had the barrel of a copper rune rifle extended against the nape of her neck.

        “You!”  Scootaloo snarled, her eyes burning holes in the figure's blue skin.  “I tossed words and insults Haman's way, but all I really wanted was you.  Haman may have been the spirit behind all the bloodshed at Strut Eleven, but as soon as Devo told me that he was seen at the site, I knew it could only have been you who planted the seeds of discord.  It's because of you that Hex Blood is in shambles!  It's because of you that Devo's at death's door!”

        “There are things far simpler than a bullet that can tip the scales of the wrecked world, four legs,” Raimony said.  Slowly, her blue skin turned to red under rivulets of unfolding scales.  Staring fearlessly down the sight of the pony's rifle, Razzar next murmured, “And yet, there are things far too fragile to ever bother tasting the kiss of such a necessary poison.  I can see past your anger and spit, my fellow sister.  You need not thank me.”

        “Thank you?!”  Scootaloo growled.  “Since we've talked, I've nearly been riddled to death by Rust-Bleeder bullets and burned to a crisp by a gremlin lightning gun, and I'm supposed to thank you?!”

        “Death has stalked you in many yellow shades these last two days, yes yes yessss.  But I was hardly an accessory to such boomer blasts, four legs.  If I was indeed an active participant in yesterday's bullet-flinging, I must say with little pride an even littler joy that you would be far too meaty to be angry at me right now.”

        “Give me a reason to friggin' believe a shape-shifting snake in the grass like you,” Scootaloo icily said.

        Razzar gazed placidly at her, adjusting her chin against the barrel of the unsmoking gun.  “Because you just asked me for a reason, four legs.”

        Scootaloo blinked, exhaling slowly while contemplating that.

        Razzar's eye twitched as she said, “Haman would be satisfied to see your guts join the stains of this dead world.  I would be satisfied with nothing but silver, for it is all business, you see.  The death of the last pony is profitable to no one.  Devo, on the other hand, is a necessary brick in the bloody wall that must go down in a matter of days.  Yes yes yesss.  The world has seen many Devo's, all idealistic, dreamy, and full of spit.  They perish in the great abyss of all boomers' hopes and dreams like ash across a hot plate.  But we are far from common creatures, dear sister.  When you and I die, so will the need to mourn things die us.”

        Furiously, Scootaloo yanked her gun away.  She fumed while Razzar struggled to regain her gangly balance.  “What the heck is your deal?”  Scootaloo grunted, not once lowering her rifle as she glared across the moving elevator at the lizard woman.  “Is it within your blood to play two sides at once?  Why go out on a limb to keep me alive while doing so many things for Haman?”

        “Must I remind four legs that I am a partner and not a servant?”  Razzar cracked a few kinks in her neck and picked at a molting shred of skin hanging off her shoulder.  “There are many things my life has taught me.  It's taught me:  'keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.'”

        Scootaloo's eyes were narrow.  She was residually aware of the sight of her own reflection in the naga's green eyes.  “Can you even tell which is which anymore?”

        “Hmmm... One meat you can eat, the other you can't stand to savor.”  She said with a fitful twitch as her grayer eye glazed twice over.  “When the world lost its color, the only thing real was my stomach.  My children became my first enemies; they would hardly be my last.”  She gulped and darted her tongue out before adding, “Now the only real thing in my life is a money pouch.  When my work with Haman is done, and our partnership is over, he will once again become as tasty as any other conniving body in the Wasteland that pretends to have a soul.  Mmmm... he would do well not to meet me again in the future.”

        “You're nothing but a pestilence to this city,” Scootaloo said aloud.  Her grip on her rifle tightened as she tongued the edges of a runic word hanging off the precipice of her mind.  Regardless, she murmured on, “You're going to rip Petra apart.  You, Haman, the bombs—it's all amounting to a mountain of chaos.  It's already consumed South Blood, Glass Blood, and Hex Blood.  Sooner than later, it'll tear this whole impcity asunder.”

        “A pony's spit is always spot on.  Believe it or not, I'm old enough to remember that about your kind,” Razzar said as she gnawed on the back of her knuckles and gazed sideways at the pegasus.  “Hmmm... Even when you're poetic, you're bound by truth.  Yes, Petra is doomed.  What remains to be seen is if this is really a deterrent to such a darling sister.  Tell me, four legs, what is simpler?  A crusade to end one of many goblins, or a collapse that will wipe out all goblins?  The former might open a path to your goal, but the latter is the only true way to eliminate the barrier that stands between you and the pits.”

        “I'm not a murderous psychopath like you,” Scootaloo exclaimed, frowning.  “I'm bound by honor, by a contract with Devo—”

        “And what business is an impossible contract, four legs?  Devo provides you very little, Haman provides me a lot, but only the oblivion of tomorrow provides all,” Razzar remarked.  She gulped and murmured in a sickly voice, “Must I remind you that we were both born to be lost causes?  Every day since the death of all things has been an endless repetition defeat.  The only victories are shallow accidents at best.  Scavengers are made by the weight of the corpses available to them for pilfering.  Why be so swift to stop death when it is our only trustworthy companion in the Wasteland?  Hmmm?  I told you to be patient, four legs.  I hope you had realized that the best business to be had in Petra was one that required twice a scavenger's restraint and half a warrior's spirit.  And just what did you do, regardless?  You marched into the meat of Fredden's and Haman's minions, and you barely marched out without becoming meat yourself.”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  Slowly, painfully, she lowered the barrel of her rifle, all the while keeping a frown locked onto Razzar's face.  “The only reason things are impossible in this world, Razzar, is because we haven't bothered to see it all through yet.”

        “Truer and truer spit, four legs, yes yes yesss...”  Razzar squinted at her from an angle.  “And do you remember the first time you did something impossible?  I mean truly impossible, to survive?”

        Scootaloo's eyes twitched.  She stifled a foalish whimper.  She searched and searched the vestiges of her mind, but she was suddenly incapable of dredging forth the colors of the rainbow.  Standing there with only the shedding skin of Razzar to separate the two souls, she could think of nothing but gray shadows.





        An eleven year old Scootaloo was in the middle of hacking away at a useless pike of wood with her shiv of troll teeth when she heard something moving behind her.  Wings twitching in fright, the emaciated little pony spun about.  Her eyes quivered desperately with the effort it took to keep the sunken ruins of Cloudsdale in focus.  Everything had become a blur to her starving, witless soul.

        Still, from the side of her dilapidated camp, she thought she saw a movement.  As she waited patiently, her ears took in the sound of a rustling noise, of small limbs scurrying through the powdery rubble of the pits.  Gulping, she laid her tools down and marched down a hill of debris, squinting and gazing hard into the Cloudsdalian detritus beyond for a better look.

        Something bounded away in the distance, paused, then looked back at her.  Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat, neither joyous nor frightened.  She slowly crept further toward it.








        “It is hardly a rewarding thing, is it, four legs?” Razzar hissed bitterly.  “For us to do that which was once impossible?  Even if that very reward is the sanctity of our putrid lives?”

        Scootaloo was sweating hard.  With each passing second that she stared into Razzar's face, the naga's right eye appeared cloudier and cloudier, like a twitching ball of white fur.  Scootaloo ran a hoof shakily over her brow, gulped hard, and murmured, “What... Wh-What exactly are you trying to tell me...?”

        “Simply that it is impossible to kill you, four legs,” Razzar murmured as the elevator slowed in its descent, lowering the two towards the body of Strut Eighteen.  Her twitches had dwindled to a sad quivering of dry lips as she stared long and hard at the pegasus.  “In all my lonely years, I've slaughtered heaps of meat across the Wasteland: boomers, trolls, dogs and ogres.  But you?  You are twice the spirit and half the spit, four legs.  Killing you would be my first murder in decades, and I think the two of us deserve a lot more color than that would allow.”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, pulling her hoof down her pale face to stare back at the mercenary.

        The drying figure twitched one last time and uttered, “Let boomers be boomers.  This stopped being our world a long time ago.  Boomers are too young or demented to know the colors we did.  They can't wake up to the fact that every day is a funeral.  Hmmm... yes yes yes...”  She pulled her clawed hand up to the lever and yanked it.  The elevator halted, and the doors rattled open.  She cast a final glance at the last pony.  “I do believe this is where we get off.”  As soon as she said that, her skin peeled over and blended with the metal bulkheads, and she was once more lost amidst Petra.

        Agan, Scootaloo was alone.  Even if Razzar's words echoed and rattled through her skull until the end of her days, she would remain as alone as the naga was.  When she walked out onto the Alpha Level of the Hex-Bleeder's platform, her hoofsteps were loud and ringing things, like thunder, and pegasus no longer had the strength to scare the lightning into hiding.






        The last pony trudged through the wreckage of Cloudsdale, limping.  There were no goblins.  There were no trolls.  There was only her and the bright shape darting ahead.  Slowing her gait, the last pony crouched low in the rubble, momentarily becoming one with it, hiding.  It took all her strength not to surrender to exhaustion right there.  Every moment that passed, she imagined that her next fit of slumber would be her last.

        With a firm jolt to all her muscles, the pegasus forced herself back onto her hooves.  She rounded a hill of debris, and finally stumbled upon that which she hadn't realized she was pursuing until she saw it.  A tiny, one-eared rabbit looked back at her, almost as lifeless and starving as she was, and upon a shared glanced the bunny slowed down to an icy lurch in a way that Scootaloo's pounding heart suddenly refused to.








        “There were so many of them, prime Hex-Bleeder.  My brothers and I fought them off.  I ordered my very own son to shoot and kill.  When the attackers all fell, I took it upon myself to count the dead.  They were children, Devo.  They were childen, and I had no other choice but to fight them back and evacuate the steam pits.  We've lost the extraction point, prime Hex-Bleeder.  It was all I could do to get our brothers and sisters on board the train before our lives were forfeit. By Dimming's Blight, how did it all come to this?”

        “Shhh...” A trembling blue hand rose up to cup the edge of Matthais' pained face.  The pale elder knelt beside Devo's cot, opposite to where Warden and Raimony were perched.  The blue clan leader with dreadlocks managed a weak smile.  “Old friend, you did what you had to do.  You protected your family, and my family, as well as all other souls that dwell within my authority.  There are many goblins safely hiding inside the stalk right now who owe their very existence to you for what you've done.”

        Matthais gulped, his expression locked within a perpetual grimace.  “I have only ever wanted to win your respect, Devo.  But now, after all that has happened, I feel that is not enough to p-purge my soul of the blood I've spilled.  Each year that passes, the burden gets worse and worse.  How can I ever be pure enough to manifest Petra when it all boils down to this?”

        Devo summoned the strength to gaze passionately up at his ally.  “It is beyond even the mightiest of clan leaders to absolve an imp's soul of its sin.  I can only hope to strip you of your self-doubt.”  He swallowed and weathered a wave of pain.  “Please be strong, Matthais of Teeth Blood.  I may yet depend on your courage and tenacity a little longer...”  He added with a cheekish smile.  “As clumsy as it may be at times...”

        Matthais smiled back, breathing in a confidence tempered by decades.  He clasped Devo's wrist with two hands and breathily said, “I have and shall always owe my life to you and all of your Hex-Bleeders.”

        Devo slowly nodded.  “Of that I am forever grateful, old friend.”  He squeezed Matthais' grip in his.  “Go and see your family before the stormfront comes to provide the enemy another ambush.  For I fear we may be in for another Dimming.”

        Matthais swallowed, nodded, and stood up.  Just as he shuffled out of the office, he nearly bumped into the icy gaze of a pegasus.  The two old souls briefly stared at each other, suddenly too jaded to maintain a hatred that was older than time.  Matthais shuffled out past the guards outside of Devo's room, and Scootaloo slowly trotted in.

        Warden's ears wiggled upon seeing her.  Nevertheless, the youngster sat beside Devo, sympathetically holding the elder's other hand as he lay there attached to the breathing apparatus.  Raimony stood a few paces away, arms folded, keeping an emotionless distance that her face was gradually betraying with hard, quivering lines.  All three imps stared up at the last pony as she entered.

        Devo spoke first.  It was a raspy, wheezing effort through his breathing tubes.  “My daughter implied that you had gone to see Haman personally.”  There was another wheeze.  The elder stirred on the cot and spoke on, “Since you're back in one piece, I imagine either you've changed your mind, or I should now be worrying about the Rust-Bleeders rushing in our front doorsteps with as much bloodlusting vegeance as the Glass-Bleeders.”

        “Devo...”  Scootaloo started, then stopped.  Wincing, she glanced over her shoulder and gazed at the doorway through which Matthais had departed.  Looking back down at the imp, she sat on her haunches by his cot-side and murmured, “I need to ask you something...”

        “I've gotten word from many other families,” Devo said weakly with a pinch of enthusiasm.  “In spite of all of the hateful words spreading around, the majority of the other clans are voting to hear me out at the next council.  Still, I'm afraid that I will not be in the best of shape to attend a meeting in the next few days, but Raimony most certainly can speak on my behalf.  Perhaps you can assist her.  As Outbleeder, you've managed to win the respect of several prime bleeders who hold a great deal of distrust in Haman.  That's quite a remarkable feat, all things considered”

        “Devo...” Scootaloo's ears flicked slightly as she bent over to murmur towards his bruised skull.  “Is what Matthais said true?  Do you no longer have access to the inner pits of the sky marble extraction mines?”

        “Now pony...”  He raised a hand to touch her forelimb.  “We mustn't give up hope.  I know things are grim, but I believe beyond the shadow of a doubt that Petra can still blossom in this day and age—”

        “Devo, don't get philosophical.  Don't get sappy.  And, most of all, do not coddle me like...”  Scootaloo winced, but said it anyways.  “...like a charity case.  Just give me a straight 'yes' or 'no' answer for once in our tragic lives.  Can you get me into the pits anymore after all that's happened?”

        Devo gazed up at her, his copper eyes blinking.  He ran a hand up to his mouth's apparatus.  Raimony stirred briefly to stop him, but halted as soon as he breathed evenly with the tubes removed from his throat.  His voice was low and steady, like he was delivering a eulogy.

        “No, Pony.  I cannot get you into the pits.  Whatever power I did have is gone now.  Even if Raimony and I salvage what reputation I have left in the next few meetings, I fear the repercussions that Hex Blood has suffered are far too great.  I simply... c-cannot get you safely to where you need to go.  It... it is impossible...”

        Scootaloo took a long breath.  Her eyes dulled like the dead metal walls around them.  “When I came here, Devo, and I came to work for you, I had a goal in mind—”

        “And we can still accomplish that goal, pony!”  Devo wheezed, pointing at her with a weak hand.  “Yes, it will take time, and it will take much faith and perserverence, but I have hope that it can be accomplish!  For you and for the future of Petra!  I... I still have something to give you, pony—”

        “No, Devo,” Scootaloo softly said, shaking her head.  “You have nothing to give me anymore.”  Her nostrils flared.  In a somber breath, she raised her hooves to her head, removed the blood-stained bandanna, and laid it down beside his cot.  “Our business is over.”

        Devo was silent.  Raimony blinked.  Warden's jaw had dropped in shock; he looked ready to burst, but he couldn't summon the breath to do it with.

        Scootaloo stood up slowly.  With a shrug of her shoulders, she turned around and walked out of the room.  In the middle of the shuffling trot, however, she coldly droned over her flank.  “Come along, Wart.”

        The teenager jolted at that.  He gave both Raimony and Devo guilty glances, gulped, and hobbled after the pony.  “Sc-Scootaloo?!  But... B-But where are we going?!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The last pony was halfway down the stairs from Devo's office when Warden caught up with her.  “What was that all about?!  Aren't we going to help Devo?  His family's going through heck cuz of what Haman's framed him with and you're just gonna leave—”

        “We're done here,” Scootaloo muttered.  “Are you working for him or are you working for me, kid?”

        “Well, uhm, y-you, but—”

        “Then follow me.”

        A pair of foosteps marched out of the office, followed by a loud whistle.  “Hey!  Pony!”  Raimony frowned from up high.  “Before you utterly ditch my father after all he's done for you, would it kill you to have your last words to him be something of gratitude?!”

        Scootaloo briefly stopped in her tracks.  Legions of nervous Hex-Bleeders paused in the middle of their recovery tasks to watch the awkward scene.  The last pony lingered in silence, delaying a response.

        Raimony spoke again.  “All these days you cavorted around the platforms, you did so under our family's banner.  Sure, it wasn't exactly a walk in the park, but how long do you really think you would have lasted with only your own blood to answer for, Outbleeder?”

        “I'm no outbleeder,” Scootaloo murmured, not bothering to look up at her.  “I'm a 'glue stick', and you are an imp.  It's always been that simple.  My only mistake was pretending for a few days that it wasn't.”

        The goblinette folded her arms and practically snorted.  “Well, good luck prancing out into the wide desolate yonder as you look for any other family crazy enough to spare you from bulletfire, pony.”

        “Thank you.  I won't.”  Scootaloo marched off.

        Behind her, Warden nervously flashed a look between her and the Hex Blood goblinette above.  He flung apologetic glances every which way before awkwardly scampering after his four-legged companion.  “Scootaloo!  Please!  Wait up!”

        By this time, Raimony was fuming.  She tried to walk away, to shrug the thought off her shoulders, but it eventually exploded out of her mouth and echoed across the walls of the bloodstained warehouse, shivering her subordinates to the core.  “You actually came close to making friends in this place, glue stick!  It was impossible, but you did it!  Always remember, my father didn't throw that gift away!  You did!”  When no response answered her loud cry, she frowned and kicked a nearby railing with a resounding clang.







        “Sc-Scootaloo!”  Warden ran until he caught up with the pegasus' furiously marching body.  “Come on!  Don't do this!  Devo's in a bad place now!  His entire family is!”

        “Yes,” Scootaloo nodded as they passed a bullet-ridden barricade and trudged onto the blood-stained streets of Strut Eighteen's Alpha Level district.  “That's rather unfortunate.”

        “Unfortunate?!  It downright sucks!  Don't you think we owe it to Raimony and her dad to see this whole thing to the end?!  I mean, we were the ones in the center of all the havok in Strut Eleven!  We have as much a part to play in all of this as Haman and his goons do!”

        “I don't owe Devo anything,” Scootaloo muttered, gazing straight ahead no matter how much Warden anxiously bounced around her.  “Not so long as he has nothing to give me,” she droned in a distant voice.  “It just isn't proper business—”

        “Nnngh!”  Warden suddenly skidded to a stop in front of the last pony, blocking her path.  “Why is everything all about business with you all of the sudden?!”

        “Wart, it's always been about business with me!”

        “Really?!”  His aquamarine eyes hardened into green marble.  “Was giving me a flight around the monotrail train about earning silver?!  Did you save me time and time again in Strut Eleven just for payment?  Was it business when...”  He sharply inhaled, and those eyes lost their strength just as swiftly as he had summoned them.  “...when you showed me what it means to feel for all that I've lost?”

        “Warden, right now, I just want to get out of here,” Scootaloo said, gazing down at him for the first solid time since they exited the Hex Blood headquarters.  “And I want to take you with me.  I want to take you someplace safe, someplace where you won't be under the gun by imps of like-blood who only want to prove how angry they are to one another.”

        “And just where would you take me?!”  Warden shrugged wildly.  “Where in the Wasteland would I be safe?!  At least safer than you ever are, Scootaloo?!”

        “I don't know—”

        “Have you even thought this through—?”

        “I said I don't know!”  Scootaloo barked, marching past Devo.  “Anywhere but here!”  She slowed to a stop, paling as she heard her own words come out.  “Anyplace will be safer than here in the next... few... days...”

        The silence that followed was accentuated by the ghostly stillness of the battle-strewn street around them.  Warden slowly paced around, gawking up at the pony.

        “You...” He murmured.  “Y-You say that as if you know something, Scootaloo.  As if you expect something even worse to happen than all the crap we and Devo's family have witnessed...”

        Scootaloo shuddered.  There was suddenly only one soul she could share this with, and it was standing next to her.  “In a little while—in a few days, or in a few weeks—I will no longer have to worry about struggling to get to my old friends' remains.”  She gulped hard, as if waking up to the confession this suddenly was.  “Because there won't be a Petra standing in my way, at least not like it is now.  Things will be... far simpler for me when that time comes.  So, as you can see, the sooner we leave this Celestia-forsaken city, the better.”

        Warden gazed at her in disbelief.  The width of his eyes was only outmatched by the gape of his jaw as he strolled closer to her and asked, “Was it... Was it Haman who told you about this just now?”

        “No...”  Scootaloo murmured, the scarlets in her eyes blending with the rust red of the stained world all around her.  Everything was hissing and steaming, like a giant brass giant that needed to fall over and die sooner than later.  “It was Haman's lackey, Miss Ryst...”  She added in a hollow breath, “Two days ago...”

        “You...”  Warden clutched his hands over his chest, suddenly shivering, shivering hard.  “You kn-knew this since the day of the clan meeting?”  He gulped.  “And you didn't tell Devo...?”  His ears pointed back angrily as a frown poured across his face.  “You didn't tell me?”

        “I wasn't sure if I wanted to believe it or not...”

        “Liar!”  Warden suddenly shrieked, forcing Scootaloo to look at him.  “You weren't sure if you wanted to take advantage of it or not!”

        “Wart... seriously, kiddo,” Scootaloo said with a shy.  “It's way too complicated to explain—”

        “Uh uh!  No you don't!”  He stomped his foot down and seethed up at her.  “I may be young, but I'm not a complete idiot!  You were given an offer too good to refuse!  So you stuffed it in your back-pocket without telling me or the one goblin in all of Petra who was willing to help you get what you want!  Now that everything has gone super-crazy-ugly, you've decided to take the easy route!”

        “It's not so much easy Wart, as it is simple.”

        “I think you're just scared!  I've seen you face down entire firing squads, killer hovercraft, and leagues of Rust Blood assassins!  But now you're just scared, and it's lame!  Totally not frostbeams!”

        “Please, kid,” Scootaloo sighed and ran a hoof over her throbbing temple.  “Enough with the whole 'frostbeams' schtick.  It was getting old even before I met you—”

        “And just why did you bother to scoop me up off the streets to begin with?!  Huh?!  Or do you not remember?”  Warden folded his arms, frowning, seething.  “You said that a goblin gave you a second chance at life, and that he was giving it to you again.  And so, for your sake, for Devo's sake, you wanted to do something honorable!  You wanted to give back!  Whatever happened to that pony?”

        “Wart, if I knew then what I knew now about all the stakes that I'd be in, I wouldn't have stuck my head into this whole matter to begin with!  There's no sense in it!  There's no profit in it—”

        “Profit?!”  Warden's eyes bugged.  “Are you an imp or are you a pegasus?!  I thought you actually cared about me and all that was good to be had in this world!  What happened to you?  What happened to the last steward—”

        “Nnngh—For the love of oats—Take a friggin' look around you!”  Scootaloo snarled, forcing the teenager to jump in place.  She swung a hoof around, accentuating the bloodstains, burn marks, and bullet shells littering the grimy lengths of the metallic platform.  “Do you see beauty?!  Do you see  birds or fruit trees or crystal-blue ponds of water?!  Huh?!”

        “I... I-I...”  Warden nervously trembled.

        Scootaloo's eyes flared as she sneered at him.  “This is not my world, Wart!  This is not what I was born to preserve!  I want to be a good pegasus!  I want to preserve a life that is full and rich and gorgeous—but it's too dang late for that!  There's just too much, Wart!  Too much filth, too much hate, and too much blood!  Not in any lifeless spot in the Wasteland, not in the smog-ridden horizons of twilight, not in the briars of gnarled thorns, and certainly not in this cancerous... bastardization of industry you call 'Petra' will I ever find something that's good and clean to uphold!  I want to shed light on the desolation of this world, but that is going to have to be a new world, Wart!  It will not be this—all of this—but something bold, incalculable, and unprecedented!  It has to become something else!  This whole mess all around us can burn for all I care!  What good did it ever do for me, or for you for that matter?”

        “This bastardization happens to be full of my flesh and blood,” Warden said with a rising snarl, doing his best to weather the trembling anger coursing up through his petite body as he glared back at her.  “The imps here may have branded me, spit on me, and treated me like filth—but not once, even before you ever took me from the streets, did I give up on hope.  It's the same hope that you said the Wasteland shouldn't rob from me.  I've struggled to stay alive only because I've wanted to, Scootaloo, even in all of this mess, because someway, somehow, I want to do something that matters, that will make the manifestation of Petra worth it, that will excuse all of those painful months I've lived on my own after what was done to my parents and what was done to me!”

        “Wart, you can give all you like to this grimey world, but you'll be hard pressed to find souls who will pay you back for all that you've done.  And even then, the only kind souls are dreamers with more words in their mouths than mettle,” Scootaloo said.  “I rightfully can't blame you, kid, for wanting to believe in more than what's there.  Years of being hungry and homeless has made the best of us delirious!”

        “Oh shut up!”  Warden spat.  “What the heck do you care?!  You're just bitter!  All your life, you've only ever been one pony!  It's gotta be easy to give into desperation when all you've got to answer for is yourself!”

        “Easy?!  Easy?!”  Scootaloo stomped her hooves right in front of Warden, flinging the gasping youth onto the ground.  She snarled down at him, almost spitting.  “What could you possibly know about desperation, you thoughtless, immature child?!  Am I bitter?!  Of course I'm bitter!  You try living your life like it's all that matters in the universe, forsaking anything and everything that you ever once held dear for the sake of continuing to be, no matter how despicable the act may become!  Do you really want to know what it means to be desperate, Wart?!  Because I'll tell you what it means!”




        Scootaloo shuffled forward, her shaved mane hair bathed in twilight.  The dangling ruins of Cloudsdale hung above like a dark cloud, obscuring the next few seconds of breathlessness as she squatted down on her haunches, her lips pursed as she eased the shivers in her body to stillness.

        The tiny rabbit stared at her, its body trembling, its nose wrigglingly anxiously.  It's one good ear twitched as the thing tilted its head from side to side, gazing at the pegasus from afar.

        The last pony gulped.  Slowly, she smiled, a very empty thing, but gentle nonetheless.  Her hollow cheeks winced from the effort it took for her chapped lips to curve.  A pair of scarlet eyes narrowed, blood-shot and dry.  Peacefully, with the grace of a drooping flower, she reached her right hoof out at the rabbit's body.  The gesture was sincere, harmless, inviting.

        Nervous, the bunny merely sat where it was, staring back for the next minute and a half.  Finally, after a stirring of its limbs, the starved creature shuffled and hopped weakly towards Scootaloo, its growling body desperate for something—anything—that this equine had to offer.  The distance between the two orphans of Cloudsdale dwindled, like the trickling of a river downhill to meet a lake, something so desperately natural.

        Scootaloo grinned the entire time.  The closer the rabbit got, the filly's nostrils flared in a sudden heat.  She reached out further for the tiny creature with her right hoof.  All the while, her left hoof hung behind her flank, and in the crook of the brown limb was a hard, jagged rock.






        “Being desperate means living each day by allowing another tiny piece of yourself to die forever!  It means being willing to get rid of all the warm parts of you that you once held dear, that you once believed in more than the need to believe itself!”

        Scootaloo roared, her voice echoing across the metallic walls of the street.  Beneath her, a shivering Warden tried to scoot away from this sudden monster.  There was no escape, and he flinched at every thundering breath that came out of her.

        “When there is nothing left to do but to live at all costs, you reach a point when you're not really alive.  You're a thought running off of the fumes of infernal mechanization, a device far colder and lifeless than this pathetic hunk of scrap you call Petra!  At least the goblins are accomplishing a spiritual objective when they build all of this stuff!  Do you really think it's all full of frostbeams when I plug a bullet into another living thing's head, Warden?!”

        Scootaloo's shouting voice was changing in pitch, almost squeaking as a touch of hyperventilation squeezed through her strained vocal cords.

        “A pony... a p-pony is never supposed to kill, Wart!  She's never supposed to kill... ever!”





        Scootaloo's hoof twitched in time with the rabbit's trembles.  The two creatures came together softly, pliable skin against furry coat.  It was the first warm thing Scootaloo had felt in years.  As the trembling animal shuffled up and nuzzled the filly's forelimb, the pony felt a heartbeat that wasn't hers.  She remembered hugs she had shared, laughing breaths against her ears, Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle and so many smiles and faces that were about to dissolve forever.

        The filly's mouth opened, as if to say something.  Perhaps it would have been a warning.

        Nothing came out of her.  The rabbit hopped a step closer.  It was sniffing its way up the length of her forelimb, nuzzling the inside of her joint.  It was deathly ticklish.  Scootaloo suddenly wanted to sob.

        Her stomach growled instead.

        The rabbit froze instantly.  Scootaloo's eyes twitched.  Something move, something jolted, and suddenly she was flying forward into the white froth of everything.  She felt the rock flinging from her numb hoof.  There was something trembling underneath her, something pathetically tiny and as empty as she was.  Scootaloo hissed and clambered for an even hoofing.  She was smacked in the face with one good foot.  Her world spun.  The rabbit was bounding away in a white streak.

        There was a howling noise, but there were no trolls.  Scootaloo had lunged forward and was gripping the rabbit by its waist.  It shrieked, loud and shrill.  Scootaloo never knew rabbits could make noises before.  She had to silence it.  First, it was one hoof, then it was two, then she was exchanging blows, each of them increasingly wetter than the last.  Something white poured from the thing's bloody mouth and sliced across her hoof.  Scootaloo winced, slipped, and the rabbit broke free.

        It had barely made one bounce when the last pony flung the whole of her weight on it, shoving down against the quivering mass, prying her entire being into the nape of its neck.  It squirmed and kicked against her.  Scootaloo wanted to scream, but she fought it at the last second.  The result was a demonic snarl, hissing out the blistery lengths of her mouth as she squeezed and squeezed the little thing tighter beneath her, until she felt something snapping, something crackling, and slowly—far too slowly for her to believe—its spasms ended, and it draped like a deflated white balloon against the jagged marble below.

        All was silent once more.  It had always been quiet.  The only thunder was between Scootaloo's ears.  The pony stared off into the pit of the wasteland, rising a sudden wave of nausea as she realized that there were no shivers to be had in the meat beneath her.  Gradually, like a deflating flower, she tilted her head down and unfolded her hooves.  Her face melted, pale and waxen, like runoff from the exorcism of all that was good in her life.

        The little pegasus bent over, bowing a quivering face against the body of her first victim, as if hoping to breathe life back into that which she had just robbed.





        “There was once color in this world, Wart.  And it wasn't all red,” Scootaloo murmured as a paleness washed over her brown features.  Her eyes glistened briefly with the dead wastes of Petra around her.  She took one deep breath, a long blink, and then she dried back to stone.  “I know this because I was born there.  And though my life wasn't entirely full of fun and games before the Cataclysm... it was only after, when I came to terms with what I had to do to be what I am, that the world stopped having colors for me.  Maybe you can't see that Wart.  Maybe you're lucky enough that you'll never tell the difference.  I don't know, and I don't care.  But if I can carry you away from it all before you have a chance to witness it, then that's the one good thing I'm capable of doing for this world.  Everything else is lost, and even all of Equestria's long legacy of flying stewards couldn't do anything to salvage what I alone am a witness to.”

        She swallowed hard, let loose a long breath, and extended a hoof towards him.

        “I... I'm sorry for yelling.  I... I just need to get back to the Harmony.  Please, Wart.  Come with me.  I can take you far, far away from here.  I can even find you a place to stay with a friend of mine named Spike.  He can... yes, he can watch over you while I... while I come back here to get what I need... when the time is right...”

        The street was silent.  She waited for his response, but gone none.  Staring down, she saw the brightness fleeing from his eyes, giving way to brimming tears as he stared up at her.  Finally, he spoke, and it was a sputtering thing, as if he had just been dashed against rocks.

        “You say everything is lost?”  He gulped and stammered, “I would rather be lost than live all my years with you.”

        Scootaloo sharply lost a breath she wasn't aware that she had.  She choked on her voice in order to regain it.  “Wart, please.  I... We don't have to be alone...”

        “But we are alone, aren't we?”  He murmured, hugging himself as a brown phantom once did the day before.  Slowly, he stood up and stared at her from several growing kilometers away.  “Would it be any different, ever?  Would you at least try to salvage something from what's happened here?  Won't you go back to Devo or talk to Haman or... or...”

        “Wart... I can't—”

        “I don't want to be alone either, Scootaloo,” Warden murmured.  His face was courageously still as tears rolled down his cheeks.  “But what choice do I have, if I'm the only one who has hope for this present world?  Won't you please... please do something?  You're... you're so awesome, Scootaloo.  At least, I know you can be.  Can't you save us... save the imps... save me?”

        Scootaloo's mouth hung open, and she felt as if something was melting against her tongue.  Her eyes twitched, and she stopped breathing long enough to stare into a bloody pocket of her mind.




        Scootaloo sat at the edge of her fireplace before her niche, hugging herself.  It had taken three hours to start the flame.  It had taken another hour to so much as look at what she was roasting.  It was an hour wasted; she knew it.  The flesh was charred by now, but it was there.  Scootaloo was there.

        Reaching a hoof forward, she grabbed a pike of wood and skewered a chunk of rabbit flesh off of the spit.  She raised it to her lips.  She shook and trembled as though she was diving into a sea of needles.  One last whimper, and her ghost was gone.  In its place, her mouth filled with burnt, bitter, but altogether edible meat.






        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, her ears drooping.  There were no more tears, no more shame.  Just one, all-encompassing sigh that buried her like she had once buried Rainbow Dash.  She finally said to Warden, “I am a scavenger Wart.  There is nothing I can do for this dying world of yours.  I can only steal from it.”  She swallowed hard and hung her head.  “I'm... I-I'm sorry, but anything else would just be impossible.”

        Warden gazed at her in disbelief.  He was whimpering, and that whimpering turned into a heavy breathing, and that heavy breathing turned into a deep and furious fuming.  “It's only impossible because you won't bother to do anything about it!”

        “Wart, please—” There was hardly any remaining ounce of sincerety in her voice.

        “No!  I don't want to hear it!”  He shrieked and clenched his fists at his side.  He yelled at her, but couldn't bare to look at her.  His moist eyes were clenched shut as he howled, “You never cared about this world!  And you never cared for me!  All you can think about—all you freakin' care about is your stupid, dead friend!  Well you can have all your pony bones!  If you're not going to do something about this whole mess, then I will!”  That bravely screamed, the green goblin scampered blindly down the nearest alleyway available to him, once more a no-bleeder.  His branded tattoo flickered in the glow of a flickering lanternlight, and then he was gone, swallowed up into the depths of Petra like another piece of meat.

        Scootaloo rode down the settling wave of his echoing footsteps.  When all was silent, she could hear nothing but the tremors in her breaths, and it felt horribly claustrophobic, as if she was still stuck in a pit that she couldn't claw her way out of.  There was a numbness to her spirit, a great black abyss that no soothing violin strings could coax her thoughts out of.  She should have marched her way back to the Harmony, but for some reason she couldn't.

        With a lifeless shuffle, she strolled towards the far ends of the platform, her ears pricking to the crackling hiss of an oncoming stormfront, the only thing the last pony had left to measure her life by.





        The fireplace had been put out.  All of the meat was gone.

        Several paces away from the ruins of her camp, the last pony sat on a mound of rubble.  The stretches of sunken Cloudsdale loomed before her, pale and lifeless under the rays of twilight shimmering down from above.  Scootaloo's stomach was full.  She was nourished and alive, for what it was worth.

        The Wasteland was still desolate and horrible.

        The shaved pegasus stared limply out into the detritus of yesterday.  Her face hung in a perpetual grimace.  After everything she had done, with all the strength that had been restored to her, she still could not get the horrible aftertaste from her mouth.  If anything, she was five times as awake and healthily cognitive of what she had done to get to where she was.  There was no sleeping on it.  There was no falling unconscious.  Her eyes were still too dry to make themselves of any use.

        With a deep breath, Scootaloo glanced down towards where she cradled the one and only treasure she could afford.  Quietly, she unclasped the white container.  Three feathers rested atop the velvet interior.  She could barely tell the difference between them and the perpetual grayness surrounding her.

        The box snapped shut just as swiftly as she had opened it.  A stain had appeared across its immaculate exterior.  Glancing closer, she saw with greater clarity that the same juices that blemished her hooves from earlier had spread to the treasure.

        Suddenly, the past was merely an idea, something only contained in the flimsy shells of a dead world, just like her brown body.

        Scootaloo shivered, shook, then spasmed all over.  With a snarling shriek, she flung the white box off into the desolate nothingness.  It clattered off with a single echo, only to be replaced by another thundering noise—her noise.  Scootaloo was screaming.  Two years of pointless hope imploded in an instant, flowing bloodily out her mouth in one gigantic exhalation of supreme madness.  She collapsed to her knees and clutched the ground, falling into dry heaves and tearless sobs that ricocheted off the walls of the place, begging the heights of Cloudsdale to collapse on her.  Every troll in the Wasteland could have heard her cries, and still that didn't stop her.

        She figured, if anything, that they would have found a new friend.





        Scootaloo was alone in the great emerald plains of Equestria.  She glided north like a burning orange bullet as she pierced the lengths of the rolling landscape between Ponyville and Cloudsdale.  Her speed was a breathtaking thing, for any pony much less a young foal.  With each push her kicking legs gave the earth beneath her, she felt herself get closer and closer to the location of the Best Young Fliers Competition.  She felt herself get closer and closer to Rainbow Dash.

        Sweating, the filly smirked to herself in mid-glide.  She tried to imagine the look on the blue pegasus' face when she showed up to watch her blow away the competition.  In a fit of bizarre pride, she almost feared that she might throw Rainbow Dash off her game.  Scootaloo pondered that it might be best to not reveal herself until after Rainbow had taken the prize.  She imagined the pegasus being raised in the hooves of all her colleagues, and then Scootaloo sauntering up to add to the cheers, and then the smile on the mare's face...

        Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat.  Once again, all that mattered in the world was making such an awesome, prismatic savior proud of her.  In a life stripped bare of all voices but her own, Rainbow Dash's words sparked an energy into the filly's limbs that made the entire race against time worth it, be it a pursuit of living in the village of Ponyville, or this present dash across the fields of Equestria to reach Cloudsdale in time.

        The day was dying.  The crimson bands of the afternoon dulled to a purple glaze as the cold embrace of night fell over the landscape.  Scootaloo didn't care.  If Princess Celestia fell into a coma and the Sun refused to rise for a week, even that wouldn't stop her from rocketing northward like the lightning bolt that she was.  The orphan was in a race against time, and she had no intention of losing.  She kicked against the earth and the world bowed beneath her, obeying the squeaking wheels of her metal tray as she made like a bright bullet for the hazy shape of Cloudsdale.




        Scootaloo only slept because she felt like it, and even that was a very difficult thing to do.  Snuggling under the warm folds of her sleeping bag, the little filly munched on the last of half-a-dozen sweets that she had carried with her.  The metal tray was leaning against a tree, one of many in a cluster of vegetation dotting the side of a riverbank where Scootaloo had chosen to rest under the moonlight.

        Far beyond the thin branches stretching above her, Scootaloo could make out the pearlescent glow of Cloudsdale.  The city of the pegasi shimmered in the glow of Princess Luna's celestial object.  Scootaloo wondered what Rainbow Dash was up to now, if she was having dinner with Fluttershy and talking about all of the amazing tricks she was going to pull off the morning before next.  Perhaps she was stopping by her old home and visiting her parents.

        Scootaloo giggled.

        Rainbow Dash's parents: the adult pegasus had never talked about them.  Scootaloo couldn't help but wonder what they were like.  They had to have been an awesome pair of ponies to have raised someone as spectacular as Ponyville's chief weather flier.  She wondered how proud they must have been of her child, and if Scootaloo could someday make ponies like them proud of her too.  Perhaps someday, when Scootaloo could afford a home of her own and a living that earned her infinitely more bits than pity, she would finally tell Rainbow Dash the truth, as she would tell everypony the truth.  Maybe then Rainbow Dash could tell her—could speak for her parents—in judging whether or not Scootaloo had finally done enough in her life to earn the pride of such colorless phantoms.

        It was a very bitter thought to fall asleep to, but Scootaloo couldn't help but smile.  She was strong.  She knew that she was strong.  The whole bosom of Equestria—the veritably enormous globe of the world—was a blurring canvas meant for doing nothing but rolling beneath her wheeled tray.  Upon the day that Scootaloo learned to fly, she somehow didn't doubt that she could rocket her own naked body into space if she wanted.

        The filly sighed warmly and curled her body inside the sleeping bag.  She shut her eyes to the night, for the darkness was but a prelude to an awesome morning.





        After dawn, Scootaloo wasted no time.  Evoking memories of her foalish trip to Ponyville several months ago, the filly broke into an eager pace, blurring over the rolling plains of Equestria.  It was a far more difficult task than the evening previous.  The advent of midday rolled a rippling heat across the grassy landscape.  On top of that, the downhill glides Scootaloo engaged in were hardly rewarding her for the agonizing, uphill climbs the filly endured.

        Regardless, she pressed on, her violet eyes straining to keep the image of Cloudsdale in the center of her vision.  With each hilly climb she made, kicking against the earth with foalish desperation, the sight of the pegasus city rising up over the next crest of soil made the whole exercise worth it.  In a joyous breath, she'd kick off from the hilltop, roll into a dip in the plains, and repeat the strenuous process... if only to see the hovering image of her distant goal yet again.

        Every now and then, Scootaloo put her wings into it.  Beating the little feathery appendages, she shoved herself further atop the metal tray in order to navigate uneven ground or massively steep gaps in the landscape.  She did this sparingly, of course.  Listening to Rainbow Dash ramble on constantly about the proper ways of athleticism had taught the filly a thing or two about pacing herself.

        All of this intense commitment to the success of her travels could have been a rewarding thing, but with each sweaty hour that dripped by, the filly was at a loss to receive any substantial payoff.  It occurred to her that with each glance she gave the floating city of Cloudsdale, the hovering metropolis didn't appear to be any closer.  A few fleeting, desperate thoughts entered her head.  Perhaps the city was so big, it looked no different there in the middle of Equestria than it did in the center of Ponyville.  Perhaps the city was actually on the move and was floating away from her.

        Scootaloo desperately tried to shake those thoughts away.  She focused instead on the idea of Rainbow Dash devouring the cheers of a stadium full of pegasi, of the many Wonderbolts' jaws dropping, of Princess Celestia herself bearing witness to something so awesome in the sky that it put the Sun to shame.

        However, these many thoughts—jubilant as they were in nature—barely soothed the sudden ache in Scootaloo's heaving lungs.  She knew that it would be a good idea to rest.  Before even setting forth on this gliding trip to the pegasus city, she figured that a few moments of pausing along her path would give her the recharge she needed to complete the journey of endurance.

        As Scootaloo pushed forward and forward, all of her plans seemed suddenly pathetic, for Cloudsdale was looking no closer by mid-afternoon than it did right after dawn.  She realized that she didn't have time to pause for a break.  Her body would just have to get used to the endless rush.  If she was to make it to Cloudsdale in time for the Young Fliers' Competition the next morning, she would have to be something far more stupendous than an average filly.  She would have to be something super-athletic, super awesome.  She had to be like Rainbow Dash.

        Her mane damp from the sweaty effort, Scootaloo gritted her teeth and pushed harder.  The squeaking wheels of her metal tray threatened to rattle right off.  She mentally dared them to stay in place as she kicked and kicked at the earth.  She wasn't about to let time be the boss of her.  After all this effort, she wasn't about to let down Rainbow Dash.




        The late afternoon fell like a broken wind instrument.  Scootaloo's lungs were wheezing, and her breath came out in desperate little squeaks that mimicked the wheels beneath her.  For the past hour, the cross-country rush had dwindled into a painful lurch, and yet still she refused to stop even for an instant.  Anytime wasted meant missing the Competition, and Rainbow Dash's moment of glory.

        As the horizon to her west burned a deeper and deeper red, Scootaloo feared that her aching body was the least of her concerns.  As she approached a thick cluster of trees directly in front of her path, she urged her limbs to push faster.  She had to make it to the crest of Cloudsdale's shadow by nightfall.  That's what she mentally told herself, and her limbs kicked and kicked at the earth with a greater urgency to see that goal through.

        Scootaloo had avoided the dirt paths of Equestria.  She couldn't risk running into other ponies during her cross-country trip.  She had even spotted a few wagon-pulling equines during the journey, but she avoided their gaze by gliding beyond the blind spot of a flanking hilltop.  The filly feared that if any pony in her or his right mind saw her gliding across the valley atop her metal tray, they would take it upon themselves to drag her back to Ponyville “for her own good.”  Such an embarassing fate would risk exposing not only her pitiable desperation but her utter lack of parents to the entirety of the village.  Convinced of this, Scootaloo avoided all contact in order to prevent such a pathetic fate.  She kept her eyes locked on Cloudsdale beyond the immediate line of trees.

        Then something distracted her.  In a weak twitch, Scootaloo wrenched her eyes off of the pegasus city ahead just long enough to glance over her shoulder.  She spotted a bright splotch hovering directly overhead.  A hot-pink balloon was flying northward, headed directly towards Clousdale.  The sight of such a thing soaring towards the pegasus city was hardly a surprise, only Scootaloo was caught off guard by the familiarity of the object.

        “Say...”  Her violets narrowed as she panted and pushed against the earth.  “Isn't that Pinkie Pie's balloon?”  She blinked, for she saw another shape hovering alongside the object.  From a distance, it looked like a pegasus, only the flying pony's wings were large, webbed, and glittering majestically in the sunlight.  “What in the heck—”  Scootaloo's words dropped out from underneath her, for her entire body was dropping down from underneath her.

        In a fitful gasp, Scootaloor realized she was falling.  She hadn't been looking where she was going.  To her horrific discovery, just beyond the bank of trees was a rocky drop in the earth.  She was suddenly plunging more than fifteen meters into a steep pit of tree stumps and scattered rocks.  The metal tray flew out from underneath her hooves as gravity consumed her, flinging her like an orange comet into the jaws of a bone-crunching fate.

        Panicked, the little pegasus instinctually flapped her stubby wings.  She was not rewarded with flight.  At best, the last two ear-splitting seconds of her fall took on a diagonal spin as she spiraled from the flimsy lift her fluttering limbs afforded her.  She smacked straight into a tree, bounced off at an awkward angle, flew through one, two, three sets of snapping branches, and fell hard like a bag of rocks onto a mercifully soft patch of earth.  “Ooof!”  What wasn't so merciful was the waves of pain that shot through Scootaloo's body upon the whiplashing end of her collapse.  “Unnngh...”

        With comical delay, a metal ringing noise alighted her twitching ears a solid second after she had landed.  Squinting forward, the foal gasped—not at her own anguish—but at the utterly horrific sight of her ruined metal tray lying on the ground ahead of her.  The object's fall had banged it beyond recognition.  Her trusted, beloved mode of transportation—the one thing that had taken her all the way to Ponyville to begin with—was now a mangled chunk of rust, bent at a forty-five degree angle, its wheels crooked and limp.

        Already whimpering, the foal broke through a sudden rush of heartbeats.  She jumped to her limbs and made to scamper to the terribly trashed object.

        She barely made it past a single hoof-trot.  “Aaaugh!”  She fell to the ground, wincing, clutching her rear left limb and quivering all over.  She squeaked with the waves of agony coursing through her.  Hyperventilating, Scootaloo held her eyes open long enough to see a thick, throbbing whelt forming beneath her orange coat just below the joint of her limb.

        She wasn't sure just how bad the injury was.  She knew how bad it felt, granted, but the seriousness of the injury was barely enough to wake her from the blinding horror of her next realization: she was stuck in the middle of Equestria, halfway between Ponyville and Cloudsdale, and not only was her faithful mode of transportation wrecked beyond repair, but her leg was horribly sprained... maybe even worse.

        “Oh jeez... Oh jeez... Oh jeez...”  She whimpered and gazed every which way.  She couldn't see the main roads from the rocks and trees surrounding her.  The sky was bleeding away to a dull crimson.  Night would be falling soon, and she barely had the energy to move a single centimeter from where she was presently curled up and suffering.

        The pain wasn't what made the first tear fall from her eyes.  Imprisoned by the throbbing lengths of her hysterical breaths, Scootaloo realized that after all of her hard work and perseverance, this pathetic tumble meant that she couldn't see Rainbow Dash in her moment of glory.

        “Nnngh... N-No!”  She hissed, a very demonically angry thing.  She pulled herself up with three limbs and limped towards the metal tray.  Every shuffling movement shot icy waves of pain into her body, and yet still she gripped onto the bent object and leaned on it like one of Granny Smith's walkers.  “I can't... I-I just can't stop now...”

        She couldn't speak out loud anymore.  Scootaloo's breaths were fitful and jagged enough from all of her heated pain to possibly afford making any vocal sense.  She had three choices. She could turn around and limp back to Ponyville.  She could make her way to the nearest country road and hitchhike a passing wagon to a town that could get her patched up.

        She could also do the impossible.  With her leg busted and her metal tray having become a veritable heap of garbage, Cloudsdale looked even further away than she had ever imagined it.  There was no conceivable way that she could make it to the city in time to see the Competition, and even if she did, just how could she see Rainbow Dash... much less let Rainbow Dash see her?

        Scootaloo whimpered.  She needed to return home.  She needed to ask Nurse Red Heart to look at her leg.  She needed to make sure that she didn't live the rest of her life with some horrible, permanent injury.

        With a groaning sigh, Scootaloo gripped tighter to the weight of the bent tray, and hobbled north, heading in the same direction as her entire trip had taken her, marching painfully towards the hazy image of the pegasus metropolis.




        That evening was the worst night of Scootaloo's young life.  The pale blue moonlight illuminated the rolling plains of Equestria before her like sepulcher boneyards, all of which Scootaloo navigated through icy curtains of pain.

        The foal refused to sleep, even as the bone-chilling stabs of pain emanated from her sprained leg.  She limped forward, clawing at the earth with her metal tray, pulling her numb body forward by her desperate grip to it.

        She seethed through clenched teeth.  Every desperate shuffle was like a climbing up the flat wall of a burning mountain.  The pain was so intense that Scootaloo could barely tell that she was freezing until she realized her wings were shivering.  A brown feather fell beneath her hooves, and they were frozen solid with condensed frost.

        A cloud of vapor billowed before her, fogging up the metal surface of her tray as she clawed and dug at the earth with it, pulling her ever achingly forward with the looming shadow of Cloudsdale in sight.  Somewhere up there, Rainbow Dash was getting a good night's sleep for the Competition the next morning.  The adult pegasus would have no idea what Scootaloo had gone through to just to be there for her.

        Scootaloo had to make sure that Rainbow Dash wasn't let down.  She had to show the weather flier that she too could do the impossible, that she was worth the confidence that the prismatic pegasus had bestowed upon her.  The blue mare was the most awesome and loyal pony in all of Equestria.  Scootaloo wanted to pay her back with equal loyalty.  She had to pay somepony back.  Her parents were dead, and she learned a long time ago that earning their pride was something that took time and perserverance.  Rainbow Dash may not have realized it, but she helped Scootaloo with that task.  Now she was about to help her with another task, no matter how painful it was.

        The orphan filly pressed torturously onward.  She was hungry, drowsy, and breathless.  Rest was the refuge for a weak creature that she refused to acknowledge.  She left that fainting, whimpering foal back in Manehattan.  She could leave the shadow of a similarly helpless soul back in Ponyville as well.  All that mattered was her journey, the heights of Cloudsdale, and whatever length she could cover between then and morning.

        Princess Luna's moonlight illuminated her path, and Scootaloo bravely navigated it, urged forward by the chorus of her wincing breaths.




        Morning came and Scootaloo wanted to die.

        The icy pain in her leg had spread into a throbbing mess.  Every trot that she took, every step that she made, she feared the limb would utterly fall off.  In a way, she hoped that it would.  It was as if she was hauling a dead weight around.  The rest of her body was just too stubborn to shake loose a torturously superfluous appendix that was leeching off of her.

        The battle for dominance over her aching limbs was curtailed by another struggle; Scootaloo fought to squint through the blinding rays of the morning Sun.  Dawn was a hideously bright thing, and only after a solid hour of trudging through the heat of it did the little filly truly realize what distance she had covered over the last twelve hours of darkness.

        The majestic, hovering weight of Cloudsdale loomed directly overhead.  She had reached her destination.  She had made it after so much pain and suffering.  Scootaloo could hardly revel in the half-hearted victory, though, for she still had not accomplished the impossible.

        She stood, slumped within the shadow of Cloudsdale's immensity.  Her wings twitched and her breaths came out in quivering shudders.  No matter how she looked at it, the situation was hopeless.  Her destination was uncountable fathoms above her, and she was pinned like a dead rock to the ground.

        Scootaloo didn't quite know what to expect.  It wasn't like there was going to be a staircase made out of sky marble or a grand golden ladder that could take her to the foundation of the floating city.  In a way, she had secretly hoped that—upon arriving here—she would meet a legion of pegasi, among whom she could easily hail a friendly pony willing to give her a lift to the Cloudsdale Coliseum.

        Sitting there in the shadow of the hovering metropolis, Scootaloo indeed saw pegasi.  However, they were fleeting, speeding ponies.  The mere specks of them darted to and fro, soaring at incredibly epic heights that no single filly's voice could ever hope to reach.

        Regardless, she gave it her best shot.  What came out of her was a pitiable sound, stretched thin by an entire night's worth of pain and exhaustion.

        “Somepony!  Anypony!” she screeched into the horrifically bright air of the Equestrian dawn.  “I need to get into Cloudsdale!  Please!  There isn't much time!”

        The distant, winged equines soared higher and higher.  Flocks of pegasi gathered blissfully around the bright, white circle of Cloudsdale Coliseum above.  Scootaloo could even hear the combined roar of their cheering voices from down below.  It shot a bolt of panicked electricity through her heart.

        “Please!  I-I've got bits!  I'll pay you!  I just need a lift!”  She shrieked and leaned on her bent metal tray at an angle, giving her lungs as much room to exhale loudly.  “For the love of Celestia, the Competition is going to start at any second!  I gotta see Rainbow Dash!  I just gotta!”

        The air echoed with her cries.  The cloudy lengths of the world diffused her volume.  The morning bled on in golden indifference.  The orphan was as alone as ever.

        “Please...”  She was sobbing at this point.  She knew it.  With a limping shuffle, she strolled over to the edge of a tiny, blue pond directly beneath the shadow of Cloudsdale Coliseum.  “Pl-Please... I just want... I just need to see Rainbow Dash...”

        She sniffled as tears rolled down her orange face.  She dropped the metal tray like a useless corpse alongside the banks of the pond and fell to her chest, burrying her nose into the crook of her forelimbs.  She was a long way from home, at least the place that she had long deluded herself into believing was home.  Two days' worth of journeying had been wasted on what could have been the happiest day of her life, because it was bound to be the best day of Rainbow Dash's life and Scootaloo was determined to be there to share it with her.  Now all she could share was her tears—cold and pathetic—absorbed into the soft soil of the even colder earth beneath her, the young filly's one and only anchor.






        The last pony sat on the edge of Strut Eighteen, her rear legs dangling off into the golden air of Petra.  Her jaded, scarlet eyes stared into the joining of her front hooves.  A tiny blue feather fluttered in the wind, bending gently under her soft caress.

        All her life, Scootaloo struggled to make ponies proud of her.  Ultimately, those equine souls had one thing in common: they were all dead.  Even when the scavenger built the rainbow signal, it was something she secretly knew was made for lifeless eyes.  As she made her green flaming trips into the past, it was to preserve the legacy of a civlization that would never again be alive to relish it.

        Now, as Warden's sobbing words bled into the distant rumble of a coming stormfront's thunder, Scootaloo realized that the only creature left in Equestria to make proud was herself, and that too was a very, very dead thing.  To pretend to be otherwise in a world without color would be foolish, and Scootaloo had done enough stupid things in the past few days to learn a lifetime's worth of cold lessons.

        There was another rumble.  Scootaloo gazed up from the feather.  The first bright strobes of lightning bled through the smoggy ceiling of pollution that hung over Petra.  Soon, the world would be a mesmerizing spectacle of bright flashes sparkling around the silhouette of the gigantic goblin city.  She had no intention whatsoever to hang around and gawk at it.

        With a resounding sigh, the scavenger strung the tethered feather back around her ear, stood up, and marched towards the nearest elevator shaft.  For all she knew, Razzar and Haman would be the death of all goblins soon.  Those were the last creatures Scootaloo had ever planned to make proud of her.  Every second spent inside the depths of that towering city was a pathetic waste of time, even to the orphan of time.  She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be flying the Harmony straight out of there.

        What was destined to happen would happen.  It no longer mattered; her business in the impcity was over.  The scavenger could count the corpses of history later.







        The devastated camp around Scootaloo's niche in the ruins of Cloudsdale was abandoned.  The decaying halves of a troll hung halfway downhill from where the lonely pegasus had kicked them days ago.  In the corner, beside a dead campfire, a patch of shredded fur and bones rested in a heap.

        All was quiet and the very essence of desolate.  Scootaloo was nowhere to be found.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Lengthy tunnels and subterranean pathways joined the cavernous tombs of Cloudsdale to one another.  The bones and ash of dead pegasi lined the sundered passages like garden flowers.  As a gust of Wasteland wind billowed down from above, tattered banners and shreds of paper briefly rippled, and were still again.

        Silence permeated the deathscape forever and ever.  Nothing moved and nothing stirred.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        A halo of twilight forever shone over the glistening rocks piled on top of Rainbow Dash's grave.  The jutting plateau was bathed in falling flakes of snow from the gray world above.  All was silent and frozen.  The very breath of oblivion had no pitch, no tone, no hope for a chorus.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        From across the black chasm, the distant tools of the goblins glittered in the twilight.  The world briefly rumbled as a two-year-old weight of settling Cloudsdalian debris shifted, shook, and was silent once more.  The pits of the world hung in a deathly blight, and everything beneath the jagged cliff-faces was darker than dark, a fathomless abyss that sucked all light that entered.

        Scootaloo was here.  She stood before the precipice of nothing.  Staring ahead, her tired scarlet eyes drank from the bleak enormity of the future.  The filly remained still as a statue, with no sign of shivers to be had throughout the length of her shaved mane.  Whatever bitter contemplation was fermenting inside the confines of her clenched jaws, she was hardly willing to spit any of it out.

        Slowly, like setting of a dead sun, she let her eyes fall until they had become one with the abyss.  She saw into that great, stabbing darkness, and the last pony found something that she understood.






        Scootaloo slowly trotted into the confines of the hangar bay of Strut Fifteen.  Her nostrils flared as she kept her eyes locked to the gritty bulkheads beneath her.  As she came closer to the body of the Harmony, she became nervously aware of something.  There was no purple aura to greet her upon her return.

        Blinking, the filly looked up.  She gasped and instantly reached back for her copper rifle.  Extending the weapon, she propped herself against a wall and aimed at the body of her own dirigible.

        The manashields had been disabled.  What was more, the aperture entrance to her airship was hanging wide open.  All that time, the vessel was a gaping invitation to any and all creatures of the Wasteland who may have fancied waltzing straight inside.

        Nervously, Scootaloo blinked and shuffled her way icily towards the craft.  She balanced the copper rifle over her shoulder until she was stepping onto the metal platform before her entrance.  The runestones were still lining the doorway; they hadn't been stolen, merely diffused.  Gritting her teeth, Scootaloo lunged herself into the bottom level of her gondola, pointing her gun straight in.  There was no invader, no intrusive body to be found.

        Carefully, cautiously, Scootaloo strutted inside.  “H'jnor!” she shouted.  The door behind her spiraled shut, cutting off the exit to any hidden intruder as she next made her way up the revolving staircase to the pilot's cabin above, ready to flush out any and all figures she might stumble upon.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        As soon as Scootaloo ascended to the top of the stairs, she spun about, the copper barrel to her gun flickering in the lanternlight.  The area around her cockpit was empty.  She spun again.  Her hammock was barren and the bright boiler at the rear of the ship was dimly billowing.  Otherwise, there was no errant shadow or hint of a robber or pirate in sight.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, riding the crest of her racing heartbeats.  She paused and leaned against her rifle, running a hoof through her violet mane as she desperately pondered the confusing situation.  Just because there was nobody there, she realized, it didn't mean that somebody had already been there.  Her heart pulsed again at the possibility of missing something.

        She cocked the rifle and spun to gallop straight down to the lower level for a second inspection, when something bright and sharp caught her attention from the top of the workbench in the middle of the cabin's portside.  Between the Royal Grand Biv outfit and the dangling glint of a goldne lyre, a shred of paper had been pinned to the wooden surface of Scootaloo's work area.  What was more, the paper had been pinned by none other than a single, colorful unicorn horn.

        Scootaloo's breath left her in a single burst of realization.  There was one soul in the graveyard of Equestria who had learned a few runic commands besides her, and it wasn't Spike.  “Oh goddess, no...”

        She rushed over to the scrap of paper, her scarlets blazing desperately across it.  The scribbling handwriting was messy, desperately written, indicative of a teenage goblin's eight tiny fingers:

        Scootaloo,

        Something has to be done about Haman, and I think I know what.  I can't ask you to forgive me for what I'm about to do, but I do hope you can understand.  There's more to this world than all that is dead.  If bravery can't save it, then maybe strips can.  I'm sorry, but you left me no choice.

                                                                -Warden of Stock Blood

        Halfway through reading the letter, Scootaloo's face was already grimacing.  She hyperventilated and dropped her copper rifle, flinging her front limbs all over the lengths of the workbench and its many cubbyholes.  She panted and panted in the heated desperation of her search.  Everything was where it was supposed to be inside the Harmony, everything but one object.

        “Oh dear Celestia, no.”






        “It's now or never, the boss says,” Fredden exclaimed.  He stood alongside a cluster of yellow-banded imps who were busy loading wooden packages into the freight car of a steam train parked inside an abandoned depot of Strut Four.  “Devo may be out of the picture, but his laborers sure aren't.  We better finish what we started before any of Hex Blood's sympathizers catch up with us.  That stupid pony Outbleeder tried raising a ruckus earlier at Twenty-One Strut—”

        “I know, smelly boomer,” Miss Ryst hissed as she paced down the line of hard-working goblins who were tossing the crates into the train car.  “I was there.  But unlike both times that you were in the company of four legs, my presence made a difference.  I doubt that she will be of any impediment to Haman's plans from now on.”

        “Well, that's certainly good news—”  Fredden said with a smile.  His shades slid down from a pair of quivering bright eyes as he suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a steam pistol.

        “Hmmm... Good news is the only spit I want to hear coming out of your meat-mouth from now on, Boomer,” the shape-shifter hissed, pointing the weapon into his skull.  “Promise me you won't repeat the stupidity of Strut Eleven and I'll promise not to satiate my hunger right now.”

        “Y-Yes, Razzar.  I promise—”

        “Say my boomer name while I still have the skin to spare,” the mercenary grumbled, twirling her pistol and sliding it back into her holster.  She turned around and gazed at the Rust-Bleeders' labor while gnawing on the back of her knuckles.  “Hmmm... This has taken far, far too long.  Silver strips should be easier to chase down than groundhogs.  Mmmm... Too much ash and not enough groundhogs in this world.  Maybe that's why my skin is shedding so, yes yes yessss...”

        Otto suddenly stopped what he was doing and unholstered his steamrifle.  He squinted towards the far end of the metallic depot and cocked his weapon.  “Somebody's here.  Did you hear that?”  All of the imps around him immediately stopped what they were doing.

        “Hear?  No.”  Miss Ryst allowed a reptilian tongue to slip out between her chapped lips.  “Hmmm.. But I smell it.  It smells like fresh tears.  I think I'm going to be sick.”

        A pair of footsteps clawed up to the platform just beside the dormant train.

        Fredden spun and glared from beneath his shades.  “Y-You!”

        Warden gulped, shifting nervously under the gaze of all of Haman's thugs.  He held his hands behind his back in a demure gesture.

        “Yes yesss...”  Miss Ryst sighed long and hard.  “Positively nauseous...”

        “H-Hello, Miss Ryst, representative of Hex Blood.  I'm very sorry to b-bother you.”  Warden's trembles were epic.  Regardless, he bore a gentle smile as he shuffled towards the group.  “I don't know what you're planning, or whatever you think you're going to earn from the creepy stuff you're about to do.  But I've come to make you all an offering.  I promise that there are a lot of strips for you if you just consider my... m-my proposition.”

        “By Petra's Blight, enough of this!”  Fredden cocked a pistol of his own and aimed it at the teenager.  “You're long overdue for a booboo that even your mother can't kiss away, kid.”

        A red, clawed hand gripped tightly over Fredden's wrist and wrenched the gun from his grip.  The bodyguard winced and glared as Ryst's flesh flesh fluttered back to the tan complexion of a goblin.  “No, this is suddenly the most amusing thing that has happened all day.  Hmmm... Let us hear the little morsel's spit.”  Ryst stared over at the petite goblin with thin, green slits.  “How can you grant us a sea of silver, boomer-lite?”

        Warden took a deep breath.  “I'll sell you something so spectacular that it will earn you five times as much profit as what you're doing for Haman here.  Then you can go on your merry way and leave Petra alone.”

        “You need to learn a thing or two about pitching a sale, shrimp!”  Otto frowned and folded his burly arms.  “Just show us what it is already!”

        Warden gulped and did just that.  A bright emerald glow wafted over the faces of the many gawking imps as he held the translucent cylinder of green flame out towards them.

        “Please... Consider what I have to offer you guys,” he said in a trembling voice.  “I just want to do business...”
        






        Scootaloo stood before the abyss of Clousdsale.  With one last breath, the last pastel shades of her coat bled away.  The eleven-year-old was a brown and lifeless shadow teetering on the brink of forever.  Shuffling her aching muscles, she reached a front hoof out into the blackness that consumed her.

        The filly's wings were numb and useless.  Scootaloo couldn't fly.  She knew this.

        Closing her eyes, she let gravity take over, and leaned her weight forward into the abyss...







        Scootaloo was being serenaded by her sobs.  Exhaustion was just about to take over when suddenly there was an ear-splitting sound from directly above.  Shivering, the little foal dried her face and gazed straight up into the bright heights of Cloudsdale.

        A deep gasp escaped her lips.

        Plummeting from the circular body of Cloudsdale Colisseum was a quartet of limp bodies: three knocked cold and one reduced to a colorful flailing of limbs.  Surging straight towards them in a blue streak was a sight that sucked all the tears from her violet eyes.

        She was hardly prepared for the next sight.  No soul could have been prepared, no matter how young or old.  A cataclysmic explosion rocked the landscape, blinding the tiny filly with a kaleidscope of spectral madness.  Two seconds into attempting to contemplate this maddening spectacle, a horrendous shockwave of noise and fury flew into Scootaloo, knocking her back so that she toppled like a domino and landed, half-submerged in the pondwater rippling beside her, a confusing baptism.

        “Nnngh... Mmmf...”  She hissed and sputtered her way through the delicious pain of the shocking moment.  Gazing up, she weakly observed a solid band of rainbow energy soaring directly overhead.  The blue shape at the helm of the prismatic band snatched the four falling ponies up in one swoop before carrying them straight up towards the ivory halo of Cloudsdale Coliseum above.

        The unearthly sight was amazing, breath-taking, and undeniably—

        “Awesome,” Scootaloo murmured.  Past her pain, past her delirium, she found the energy to do something impossible.  She smiled, squeaking forth the weak semblance of a giggle.

        Then she fainted.

>  End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 6
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Thirty – The Main Event







        Rainbow Dash blamed the whipping winds for her tears.  The grin plastered across her face shone like the golden crown upon her head as she soared through the blistering heights of the Central Plains with six members of the Wonderbolts gliding alongside her.  Tilting her blue wings at an angle, she spiraled her way through a cloudbank and came bursting out the other side in a victorious, vaporous explosion.  The six professional pegasi broke formation, spun several times, and converged on her figure just as she twirled and accelerated with a forward thrust of her wing muscles.  The resulting thunder of all seven ponies piercing the same patch of air rocked the troposphere in the shadow of Cloudsdale, and soon the large group of uniformed fliers—Rainbow Dash included—were hovering down to a low hanging cloud, chuckling at the bedlam caused by their audacious aerial maneuvers.

        “Whew!  That was spectacular!”  Soarin' exclaimed, briefly raising his goggles to expose a pair of bright green eyes.  “I've never met a weather flier who knew how to perform the Epic Zoom Noise in coordinated flight!”

        “That's because I ain't your average weather pony!”  Rainbow Dash smirked, her teeth glinting as she adjusted the golden crown atop her head.  The Best Young Flier basked in the midday sunlight as the Wonderbolts too settled down on the white patch of clouds.  Agile pegasi with gold-embossed bands across their blue uniforms surrounded her, stared at her, listened to her.  It took every ounce of strength in her body not to shiver.  Instead, she cleared her throat and kneaded her hooves in the white vapor beneath as she exclaimed, “I can do the Epic Zoom Noise in my sleep, in or outside of formation!”

        “Somehow, I wouldn't doubt that.”  Spitfire raised her goggles and stared at Rainbow Dash with deep brown eyes.  The Wonderbolts' captain smiled softly and murmured, “After all, you did the Sonic Rainboom in all of our sleep.”

        Several of the celebrity pegasi chuckled merrily, filling the air with bubbling excitement that only tripled the pulse in Rainbow's blood vessels.  The prismatic mare blushed, bit her lip, and eventually cracked forth, “Yeah, that's too bad.  What I pulled off was pretty awesome.  I wish you, Soarin', and Fleetfoot could had seen it.”

        “Does it matter?” a uniformed mare with a silver-and-blue mane exclaimed from the far side of the cloud.  “You saved our lives!  That means we get a chance to see you pull the Sonic Rainboom off another day!”

        Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes twitched.  She fought the urge to hyperventilate.  “You m-mean it?!”

        “Hey, why not, girl?”  Fleetfoot smirked and pointed.  “You didn't win the Best Young Flier crown for being a mailpony, did you?!  Keep it up, and you'll be going places!”

        “I'd have given my left wing to pull off the stunts you do so easily at your age,” Spitfire added.

        “Really?”  Rainbow Dash blinked.  Her cheeks toasted into a deep, rosy hue.  “Eh-heheheheheheh—”  She snapped out of it, her pupils dilating at the sound of her own foalish giggles.  “Ahem.”  She reclined across the edge of the cloud, casually leaning her grinning face against a hoof.  “So what if I wanna make clearing weather over Ponyville look like a work of art?  I swear, sometimes it's so boring in the skies above that town that I'm half tempted to make a hurricane just to barrel through it!”

        “One pegasus single-hoofedly building a hurricane...”  Soarin' murmured aloud before smirking at his fellow wingponies.  “Now that I'd pay to see!”

        “Pfft!  Why bother?”  Rainbow Dash winked.  “I'd give you a free show right here!”

        “I... don't think Princess Celestia would approve of a cyclone being manufactured directly beneath Cloudsdale,” Fleetfoot remarked.

        Another Wonderbolt exclaimed, “She doesn't have to know!  We'll just chalk it up to the prophesied return of Princess Nebula!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Heheheh—Yeah, that would totally go over well,” Spitfire said, rolling her eyes.  “So, Rainbow Dash, before my team and I have to head off for Canterlot, do you have more tricks you wanna wow us with?”

        “Depends on how brave you slowpokes are!”  Rainbow Dash hopped up and hovered in place, grinning devilishly.  “Ahem... Can somepony say 'Buccaneer Blitz?'”

        “Ooooooh,” Soarin' cooed over the hushed murmur of his uniformed companions.  “I think some Weather Flier is in over her head!”

        “Better than being a chicken with his head cut off!”  Rainbow Dash egged him on by sticking her tongue out.  “Is this the same Soarin' who jump-started the power plant in Fillydelphia with the legendary Lightning Lunge?”

        “Wuh oh!”

        “She's callin' you out, Soarin'!”

        “Heheh—The pegasus sure has spunk!”

        Soarin' rolled his eyes, smirked, and slid his glinting goggles down.  “Buccaneer Blitz, huh?  Why the heck not?  The day hasn't begun until I've nearly died twice.”

        “That's the spirit!”  Rainbow Dash flew at level with him as the two ponies made for a broad patch of air parallel to the cloudbank atop which the rest of the Wonderbolts stood, watching.  “I apologize in advance for any burns you might get on that snazzy uniform of yours.”

        “Yeah yeah.  A little confession,” Soarin' said, smirking.  “I'm not the biggest fan of the threads, but it could have been worse.  Spitfire originally wanted the uniforms to be a whole lot brighter.  We only usurped the captain's wishes through majority vote.”

        Spitfire grumbled and folded her legs underneath her.  “I still think 'platinum' would have made a much better color.  That way, we wouldn't blend with the sky in the daytime and there'd be less chance of colliding with random delivery ponies.”

        “Yeah!”  A random Wonderbolt spoke up.  “But then the captain would look like a flying thatch of wheat!”

        Another added, “She's so friggin' yellow as it is, we almost mistake her for a Phoenix at practice!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Heheheh!”

        Rainbow Dash giggled, hugging herself in midair as Soarin' struggled to contain his own breath.  Down below, Spitfire sighed and uttered, “Are you gonna do the Buccaneer Blitz or not?  One way or another, Soarin' isn't returning to the lockers without getting burnt.  I can assure you of that.”

        “Yikes!”  Soarin' glanced Rainbow's way.  “Better make this count.  Maybe we can shock her into another coma so I can make my escape!”

        “After you!”  Rainbow Dash saluted with a hoof to her golden crown.  “The buccaneer won't blitz itself, y'know!”

        “The way you perform so many breathtaking stunts without goggles is amazing, by the way.”

        “Well, I would have brought some really slick lenses that this cool little filly in Ponyville made for me, but the Competition's friggin' rules had to be a stick-in-the-mud about how a young flier gears herself.”  Rainbow Dash's brow briefly furrowed.  “But enough chit-chat.  Are you ready or aren't you?”

        “See me?”  Soarin' hovered high up in the air above them all to take position.  “This is me getting ready!”

        “Heheh...”  Rainbow Dash cracked the joints in her neck and limbered up her four legs as she levitated to a higher altitude.  “Hold onto your wings, boys and girls, because things are just about to get electric—”  She stopped in mid-sentence, her ruby eyes twitching as her expert vision caught the smallest of orange shapes dotting the Equestrian countryside below.  Her breath escaped her, but in a different way than in all of the mesmerized gasps she had exchaled in the presence of the Wonderbolts.  “H-Hold on a sec...”

        “Now who's a chicken?”  Soarin' exclaimed from above.  Several watching pegasi chuckled.

        “Seriously, I mean it!”  Rainbow Dash stopped flapping her wings and simply fell.  She soon landed on a cloud below the rest and leaned over the edge of it, getting a better look at a tiny blue pond glittering in the sunlight beneath the group.  A frail young filly was lying unconscious beside the battered shape of a metal tray.

        Rainbow Dash blinked, her wings flexing in and out.  At first, a look of shock rolled across her features.  Then, like a rising sun, a very bright and very proud smirk dominated her lips.  A toasty warmth spread through her coat, dwarfing what she thought had been insurmountable joy on that most spectacular of days.  The last two hours of hanging with the Wonderbolt briefly faded before the contemplation of what she saw.

        “What is it?”  Spitfire was suddenly hovering at Rainbow Dash's side.  “Is somepony hurt?”

        “Is that...?”  Another Wonderbolt was fluttering alongside the two, then three more, then four.  Soon all six were gathered about the cloud.  “Is that a kid?”

        “What's she doing?”

        “She looks like she's sleeping.”

        “Nuh huh, see that thing on wheels?  I think she banged into something...”

        “Hey... Uh... Guys?”  Rainbow Dash glanced up at her celebrity companions, Soarin' especially.  “Remember that little filly in Ponyville that I told you made me a pair of goggles?”

        “Yeah?”  Soarin' hovered down.  At the look in Rainbow's eyes, his jaw fell.  “Oh no way...”

        “Yes way!”  Rainbow Dash immediately flew down towards the earth.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's chest slowly rose and fell.  Her lower half was drenched in the edge of the pondwater.  In her unconsciousness, she fitfully spasmed with random shivers.  Moisture clung to the edge of her eyelashes, and several blades of grass were stuck in her mane.

        The violet strands of hair in question billowed as soon as a set of blue hooves touched down in front of her.  Trotting over, Rainbow Dash bent low and looked at Scootaloo up close.  She bit her lip with sudden pensiveness, staring at the filly from multiple close angles.  She fidgeted and glanced up just as the six Wonderbolts landed all around the scene.

        “Guys, I'm a little...”  Rainbow Dash's voice cracked as she fumbled for words.  “This is...”

        “Here, allow me,” Fleetfoot exclaimed as she touched down and marched over to the little filly.  Gently, she pulled Scootaloo's body out of the pond water and pressed her ear to the little pegasus' chest.  “I'm a registered nurse.  I'll see what's up with her.”

        “Yeah, Spitfire inducted her because Mercury's always slamming into sky marble during practice.”

        “Tchhh—Shut up, Rapidfire!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “I don't see why you're not working your way up to become a doctor, Fleetfoot.”

        “Yeah, it makes a heck of a lot more money than nearly killing yourself in an airshow every week.”

        “Like you're one to talk, Quicksilver.  You were a librarian before Spitfire found you!”

        “Yeah, so?  At least when the books caught fire, I could put them out by spinning in circles.”

        “Heck, you're still spinning in circles!”

        “That's because you're always catching me off balance with those silly parachutes you call wings!”

        “Oh go huff a tornado.”

        “Shhh!”  Fleetfoot frowned, closely examining the filly.  “Will you guys can it for a bit!”

        “Yeah!  The mistress mare of medicare is at work!”

        “Ew.  Goddess, Soarin', do you ever hear yourself sometimes?”

        Rainbow Dash leaned forward through the circle of pegasi.  “Is... Is the little squirt okay?”

        “And what a tough little squirt at that!”  Fleetfoot stood up straight and smirked.  “She's got a sprained ankle and a couple of minor contusions.  It looks like she took a tumble, the poor thing.”

        “H-Here?”  Rainbow Dash gazed around the flat, green landscape beneath Cloudsdale.  “Scootaloo's a little rough around the edges, but she's usually not that clumsy.”

        “I dunno.  With a name like that, I'm surprised she gets out of bed without tripping over her own laughter.”

        “Quicksilver, knock it off.”

        “Heheheh...”

        “Actually, she's a little bit parched too,” Fleetfoot exclaimed, running a hoof over the unconscious filly's chapped lips.  “If I didn't now better, I'd say she wasn't just out for a regular morning stroll.  However she may have hurt herself, I think she went on walking a long distance afterwards, considering how much the leg's swelling.”  She gazed up at Rainbow Dash.  “You say that you know this kid?”

        “Uhh... Yeah!”

        “And she's from Ponyville?”

        Rainbow Dash opened her mouth to reply, but then paused.  Her wings drooped and her eyes curved.  “She...”  Her voice sounded hurt, but a pony could barely notice from the soft smile blossoming across her features as she leaned her head aside and gazed warmly at the little pegasus.  “She came to see me.  Scootaloo came all the way here...”

        “Dang.  Talk about a fan, huh?”

        “She traveled from Ponyville?  On that metal thing?”

        “Great Nebula!  That's some trip!”

        “Hmmm... You certainly know how to bring out the best in ponies,” Spitfire said to Rainbow Dash, patting the mare on the back with a uniformed hoof.  She gestured towards Scootaloo.  “I think we should take the kid to Cloudsdale Central Hospital.  We'll make sure that she gets patched up just right, Rainbow.  Don't you worry.”

        “W-Wait!”  Rainbow Dash uttered in a squeaking voice that even startled her.  She gulped and murmured, “Actually, guys... uhm... instead of that, could we... uh...”

        “What, Rainbow Dash?”  Spitfire raised an eyebrow.

        Rainbow Dash looked at Fleetfoot.  “You think it's serious?”

        Fleetfoot shrugged and shook her head.  “Nothing that a little bit of bandaging and good rest can't solve.”

        “And as a registered nurse, you can do that yourself, right?”

        “Hehehe... I would imagine so.  Why?”

        Rainbow Dash took a deep breath.  She merely smirked.





        Scootaloo stirred.  The last veils of sleep peeled off the little filly as her legs uncurled beneath her, only to find themselves brushing up against a fluffy bed of clouds.  “Mmmff.”  She murmured through orange lips, her violet eyes fluttering open.  Through a parting sea of pink hair, she saw a grand blue vista looming before her.  The body of Cloudsdale loomed in view, but there was something odd about it.  The majestic city was at eye level.

        The little pegasus blinked hard.  The foggy traces of her rattled memories were slowly piling on top of one another, and the first thing she realized was that the pain in her leg had numbed considerably.  She glanced down at her lower half to see a thick bandage plastered over the sprained limb in question.

        “What... H-Huh...?”  She blinked.  Suddenly, the vaporous reality of the cloud beneath her shook the girl's soul.  She breathed more and more rapidly, squirming back into what turned out to be a warm body seated behind her.  Tilting up, she saw a blue-uniformed mare with silver hair smirking down through glinting goggles.

        “Good afternoon, sunshine.”

        Scootaloo's lips parted as her eyes quivered.  “Fl-Fleetfoot?”  The kid exhaled sharply.  “Fleetfoot of the Wonderbolts?!”

        “Hey!”  Two figures show up on either side of the cloud, their wings flapping.  “The little shrimp knows you, Footsie!”

        Scootaloo gasped, glancing in disbelief at the two hovering stallions.  “Soarin'?!  Quicksilver?”

        “I guess that makes two crazy fangirls in one day,” Spitfire grinned as she and two more pegasi hovered down.  Soon Scootaloo was surrounded by smiling, chuckling ponies in uniform. They all formed a happy, warm circle around the bandaged foal.  “Maybe you're right, Soarin'.  I should be starting a club.  Heh.”

        “Sp-Sp-Spitfire...?”  Scootaloo was shivering harder and harder.  Her bright eyes sang volumes of how delightfully overwhelmed she was at that very pulsating moment.  “Mercury?!  Rapidfire?”

        “Wowsers, kid!” Quicksilver chuckled.  “Who taught you so much about us?”

        “That would be me, thank you very much!”  A prismatic sight fluttered into the center of the group, adjusting the golden crown on her head and smirking devilishly as if for a snapshot.  “I taught her everything I know—except how to take a fall, apparently.  Meh.”

        Scootaloo's breath was sucked in as if she had fallen a hundred kilometers in one grinning second.  “Rainbow Dash!”

        “Oh, well pfft!  Now we know who her favorite pony is.”

        “As if there was any doubt.”

        “Hehehehehe—”

        “Awwwwww!  Look!  She's trembling!”

        “What's the matter, kid?  Not used to being around famous pegasi?”

        “She should be!”  Rainbow Dash reached in and ruffled the shivering foal's mane.  “She only clings to me like peanut butter on velcro!  Isn't that right, ya little squirt?”

        “You... You...”  Scootaloo's violet eyes darted every which way.  To keep from rolling back in their sockets, they eventually settled on the golden crown resting atop the weather flier's head.  “Rainbow Dash!” she gasped wide, her grin explosive.  “You won!  You won the Competition,” her voice positively squeaked.

        Several of the Wonderbolts chuckled as Rainbow hovered proudly and brandished the glittering article atop her skull.  “Dang straight, I did!  I'm ashamed of you, squirt!  Did you think I was gonna practice all those days in front of you just to come here and lose?”

        “N-No!  Of course not!  I... I...”

        “What pony in their right mind would travel all the way to Cloudsdale to not win, huh, kid?”  Rainbow Dash said.  She smiled and winked.

        Scootaloo did a double-take.  A warmth spread through her cheeks as she buried half of her face and murmured into the clouds below.  “I knew you could do it, Rainbow Dash.  I just knew...”

        “Pfft!  Stop being sappy!  This is my party, not yours!” the pegasus barked in a gruff voice before upturning her nose.  “Rapidfire?  Where were we?”

        “I was about to smoke you in a race!”  The stallion in question took off.

        “In your dreams, slowpoke!”  Rainbow Dash flung her wings back.  She tossed a thunderous explosion of compressed air and rocketed north towards the body of Cloudsdale.  Rapidfire was swift to match her speed, and soon the two were neck-in-neck as they spun their way over and around billowing columns of white vapor.  The air rang with the cheers and hollering voices of the spectating Wonderbolts.

        Scootaloo stared, her mouth agape and twitching with each resonating heartbeat that pulsed through her.  She nervously trembled atop the cloud, as if afraid that any random whim of gravity might pull her through the bed and send her falling to her death—or worse—wake her from the best dream her mind had ever blessed her with.

        “Hey there,” Fleetfoot's voice cooed as she stretched a wing over the foal's shaking body.  “Chillax.  You're safe up here.”

        “It's not th-that...”  Scootaloo murmured, gulped, and gazed with wide eyes as Rapidfire and Rainbow Dash spun winged streaks through the bright, blue air.  “It's... It's... She's...”

        Fleetfoot smiled under her reflective goggles.  “Rainbow Dash sure is something else, isn't she?”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, leaning her grinning chin on two forelimbs.  “She's so amazing...”  Her nostrils flared as the rays of the sun toasted her coat to a glittering sheen.

        “Heeheehee.  She saved our lives, y'know.”

        The filly jerked, glancing up at Fleetfoot.  “She d-did?”

        “Well, some of us.  Heh.  Spitfire, Soarin', and I were knocked unconscious as we tried to save a falling Young Flier contestant.  Rainbow Dash flew down fast as lightning and saved all three of us—including the contestant.  Everypony was dazzled, Princess Celestia too.  You'll never guess how she did it—”

        “The Sonic Rainboom.”

        Two of the Wonderbolts glanced over at Scootaloo upon hearing that.

        Fleetfoot blinked under her goggles, then smiled.  “How'd you guess, kid?”

        “She's Rainbow Dash,” Scootaloo said, her shivers finally coming to a stop as she drank in the mesmerizing blur of the prismatic figure from a distant.  “There's nothing she can't do.”

        “Hmmm...”  Spitfire smirked over her shoulder at the filly in their company.  “A rather infectious tenacity, if I must say so, Miss Wheels.”  The Wonderbolt Captain waved a bent tray that she had been holding in her grasp the entire time.

        Scootaloo blushed furiously.  Just then, a huge blast of air nearly knocked her into Fleetfoot's flank.

        Rainbow Dash and a visibly breathless Rapidfire had just soared up to the cluster of clouds.  “Come on, guys!  You can dish out better than this!”  Ponyville's chief weather flier caught Scootaloo's gaze but pretended that she hadn't.  She barked at the group of uniformed pegasi, “I can take four of you on at once if I wanted to!”

        “You're on, ruby-eyes!”  Quicksilver shouted with a grin.  Together, along with Mercury and Soarin', he dove clear off the cloud and bulleted northward with a gust of hot air.  Rainbow Dash was already joining them while a wheezing Rapidfire gasped and goofily flapped his wings to catch up.

        Scootaloo tried to stand, but immediately winced at the painful reminder of her bandaged leg.  Gently urged back to her haunches by Fleetfoot, the filly sat on the cloud and watched in awe as four blue streaks competed with a rainbow-colored one.  The skies above Equestria roared with multiple sonic booms and vaporous shockwaves as the speeding pegasi criss-crossed paths, slicing any and all errant clouds into misty madness.

        The air crackled with so much excitement; Scootaloo felt as though lightning bolts would dart between the athletes' wings at any second.  Throughout her young life, Scootaloo had been frightened, starving, ecstatic, and even agonized.  All of those multiplicitous moments of adrenaline—legendary experiences of shock and awe in their own right—couldn't possibly scale to the blood-pulsing wonder that she was enduring at this very moment, even with the magnitude of all those righteous memories slapped ridiculously together.  The beating of her heart dissolved into a dull vibration that sang outward from the center of her body and tingled at the ends of her hooves.  Her wings quivered, the feathers fluttering in the wind, as if itching to carry the filly to a higher altitude that might safely chill her heart-throbbing ecstasy.  With each breath that coursed through Scootaloo's numb body, she felt that she might die: a good death, a handsome death, a death that was worth offering this sacrificial smile that burned across her orange features and refused to go away.

        All of the pain and suffering of the foolish trip taken to get there had dissolved in an instant.  Scootaloo hardly remembered the empty loft of a decrepit barn waiting for her back in Ponyville.  She stopped thinking about earning bits or food.  She suddenly didn't care that life was a lonely string of accidents that all-too-often ended with her stomach being empty or her eyes being dry.  Right then and there, as the breaths that came out of her turned into pitiable little squeaks, Scootaloo even forgot the shape of two bodies lying paralyzed in a bed somewhere under a cold, golden morning.  She was there to witness Rainbow Dash's moment of shining.  There was so much color, so much warmth.  If she suddenly went blind, she wouldn't mourn the monochromatic shades of yesterday.  She had witnessed an explosion of prismatic awesomeness, and it was bursting before her again with each second that burned by, engraving joyous hues into the quivering surface of the filly's retinae, forming a permanent memory that would forever be the firmest anchor her life could ever need.

        “Dang, she really is fast,” Spitfire exclaimed, flapping her wings and taking off to do a few loopty-loops of her own.  “I think we got ourselves some competition, Footsie.”

        “What was your first clue, Captain?”  The other mare chuckled just as the four soaring Wonderbolts and the Best Young Flier rocketed back from their blistering race.  “Hey, Rainbow Dash, what's your secret for going so dang fast?”

        “I like to think that it's not so much that I'm moving quickly,” Rainbow Dash wiped a curtain of sweat from her colored bangs.  She settled down to a hover alongside the Wonderbolts whom she was brazenly slapping high-hooves with.  “But I'm scaring the earth into spinning away beneath me.”

        “Heheheheh!”

        “Hahaha—Hey, I'd believe it!”

        “You're a regular bolt of lightning, girl!”

        “Mmmhmmm,” Rainbow Dash folded her forelimbs and smirked in the glistening sunlight.  “I am what I am!”

        “Well, kid?”  Fleetfoot nudged the little foal in the center of the group.  “What do you think?  Is this an awesome party or what?”  She giggled to join the chuckling cadence of the other Wonderbolts around them.

        “It... It...”  The little filly gazed up, her body frozen and her eyes trembling.

        The heavens spun around her.  Spitfire was performing dazzling flips.  Soarin' and Rapidfire blazed by, firing jets of lightning-brimming smoke behind them.  Quicksilver and Mercury were flying coordinated spirals while Rainbow Dash's bright body hovered in the epicenter of it all.

        “It's...”  Scootaloo's voice squeaked.  A tear streaked down her face.  It was too late to stop what was being released from her lips.  “It's my foalday.”  It wasn't true, and yet it was.  Her heart had never felt so on fire.

        Fleetfoot gasped.  She raised her goggles up and stared with bright blue eyes.  “It is?!”  A thick cluster of gasping, grinning Wonderbolts closed in all around the child.

        “Wow!”

        “Well if that don't beat all!”

        “Awwww...”

        “Heheheh—What a surprise!”

        “This day just keeps getting better and better!”

        Scootaloo smiled nervously.  She ran a hoof across her cheek, drying it as she curled tighter into herself atop the cloud.  The Wonderbolts merely chuckled all the more.

        “Awwww... She's so shy!”

        “Don't sweat it, kid!”

        “Just how old are you anyways?”

        “Oh... Uhm... Uhhh...”  Scootaloo bit her lip and kneaded her hooves into the cloud.  She actually had to think about it.  “Eight winters...”  She even doubted that was true too.  “But... B-But you don't have to—”

        “Have to what?  Sing?  Thought you'd never ask!”  Soarin' turned towards the crowd.  “Ready, guys?”

        “Oh come on, Soarin', really?”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Really!  A one—two—three!”

        “Happy Foalday to you!  Happy Foalday to you!  Happy Foalday...”

        The Wonderbolts exchanged glances briefly.  The young filly bit her lip.

        A blue pegasus cleared her throat.  “Scootaloo,” Rainbow Dash said.

        “Happy Foalday, dear Scootaloo.  Happy Foalday to you!”

        “Can we pinch her for a year to grow on without those dinky wings falling off?”

        “Cut it out, Rapidfire.”

        “What?!  Just saying!  Them things are twigs!  Wait until you're twelve winters, kiddo, and I'll race you!”

        “Eh heh heh... I... Uhm... Th-Thanks, all of you...”  Scootaloo rambled, hiding behind a mat of violet hair like a certain animal tamer that the young foal never expected herself to emulate.  Gazing across the cloud bed, she couldn't help but stare nervously at Rainbow Dash, as if expecting the pegasus' expression to cast some judgment on this entire scenario.

        Rainbow Dash was merely smirking.  Suddenly, she motioned to Spitfire.  Spitfire hovered closer for the blue pegasus to murmur a few things between the two of them.  The Captain of the Wonderbolts slowly smiled, then leaned over to whisper into Quicksilver's ear.  The stallion nodded and blurred off in a blue streak towards Cloudsdale.

        “Well then!”  Spitfire's clapping hooves stole Scootaloo's attention.  “Since it's now a triply awesome occasion, I think it's only fitting that the foalday girl choose what cool move the Wonderbolts pull off next!”

        Scootaloo's tail flicked excitedly.  “R-Really?”

        “Yup!  Tell us—What have you've always wanted to see, Scootaloo?”  Spitfire grinned warmly, leaning over towards the filly.  “Consider this like a free ticket to an airshow!”

        “I... I...”  Scootaloo squirmed nervously for a few seconds.  Her eyes darted up towards Rainbow Dash.  She bit her lip to contain a cheek-splitting smile.  “C-Could Rainbow Dash lead the formation?”

        “Oh!  I see how it is!”  The Captain tossed her hooves in mid-hover.  “Everypony's trying to get me out of a job!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Heeheehee!”

        “Maybe she'd let you lead if we had less goofy looking uniforms, Spitfire.”

        “Shut up, Soarin'.”

        “Yes, ma'am.”

        “Ahem.  Seriously, though,” Spitfire said with a wink in Rainbow's Direction.  “I think you're more than capable.”

        “I'm more than a lot of things.”  Rainbow Dash cracked her joints and fluttered over towards the head of the group.  “So, what'll it be, squirt?”

        Scootaloo's ears twitched excitedly as she sat up with a grin.  “The Half-Dozen Death Dash!”

        Soarin' whistled.

        Rapidfire and Mercury exchanged wagging eyebrows.

        “Oh yowsers!”  Fleetfoot stood up, flapped her wings, and joined Rainbow Dash's side.  “I can't sit this one out.  Stay on the cloud, kid.”

        “S-Sure thing,” Scootaloo said.

        “You know how to do this one, Sonic Rainboomer?”  Rapidfire flew up.

        “Heh.  How could I not do something with my namesake in it?”  Rainbow Dash glanced down and winked on the filly on the cloud.  “I've certainly had a lot of help practicing for it.”

        Scootaloo smiled warmly back at her.  She sighed long and hard and hugged a clump of white fluffiness beneath her as she sat there and watched...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Rainbow Dash and the Wonderbolts performed the Half-Dozen Death Dash, but they didn't stop there.  As the afternoon wove its way from a golden glow into a copper shine, the dazzling pegasi jumped from one magnificent flight stunt to another.  They did the Cyclonic Star Burst, the Spiraling Speed Strut, the Thunder Plunge, and many more.  Everytime, Rainbow Dash was allowed a chance to lead formation, and on that afternoon she took Spitfire up on each and every offer.

        The Captain of the team smiled in pride.  Scootaloo could see the awe in the lead flier's face, and she wondered if Rainbow Dash saw it too.  The eyes of the filly's prismatic idol were darting everywhere at all times.  It was as though Rainbow Dash knew she only had one day in her life that she could call “the best day ever,” and she was doing her best to drink it all in from all angles as she soared and spiraled through the air alongside her heroes beneath Cloudsdale.

        Quicksilver came back in the middle of the stunt maneuvers, and he wasn't empty-hoofed.  He carried with him a large chocolate cake from a Cloudsdalian bakery.  Eight candles were lit as the foalday treat was carried over to Scootaloo under a cadence of cheers, chuckles, giggles, and coos.  There was no limit to the foal's blushing.  She expelled all traces of guilt and restraint with a heavy breath, blowing the candles out before sharing them with each and every pony.

        The sugar rush that followed only added to the blessed joy of the moment.  Rainbow Dash and the Wonderbolts took turns daring each other into doing crazier and crazier midair tricks.  Quicksilver told jokes and a few pegasi laughed.  Soarin' told serious anecdotes, and even more pegasi laughed.  Spitfire stole swigs from a flask hidden beneath her uniform and smiled rosier and rosier while Fleetfoot rolled her eyes.  Rapidfire and Mercury engaged in a hoof-wrestling competition while the rest of the ponies cheered them on.

        By the time evening fell, and the blue figures of the iconic stunt fliers blended with the soft curtain of night, Scootaloo watched with a heavy heart as the many pegasi strapped their goggles back over their eyes and prepared for the long trip home.

        “Where's everypony going?” Scootaloo briefly murmured as she stood on the edge of a cloud.

        A thoroughly wind-blown Rainbow Dash hovered down beside her under the last rays of the sun.  “It's almost nighttime, kiddo.  Spitfire and her wingponies have to fly back to Canterlot to join the rest of the Wonderbolts before their next big gig.”

        “C-Canterlot?”  The filly blinked.

        “Heheh... The best things in life hardly last forever.”  Rainbow Dash playfully nudged Scootaloo in the cheek with a mock, slow motion punch.  “Besides, the moment I actually join the Wonderbolts is a thing I gotta earn with more than freakish feats of legend.”

        “You mean...”  Scootaloo gazed up at Rainbow Dash with a gaping jaw.  “Y-You only had so few hours to spend with the Wonderbolts, hours that you could have had them all to yourself...”  She bit her lip and squeaked forth, “And instead you chose to spend them with me?”

        Rainbow Dash didn't reply to that.  She merely smirked, a very flippant thing.  She marched past Scootaloo and spoke to Spitfire.  “Hey!  Captain, my Captain!”

        “Yes—hic—Rainbow Dash?  Whew... Excuse me.”

        “Heheh.  Ahem.  You're heading southeast to Canterlot, right?”

        “That's the plan.  Why, you know a better route, Best Young Flier?”

        “Hah!  I'm flattered that'd you ask me that.  Actually, I was curious if you would let us fly with you a bit.  You don't have to stop for nothing.”

        “Hmmm... I don't see why not.”  Spitfire spun and smirked at the rest of the group under the collecting starlight.  “How about it, team?  One last formation with the Sonic Rainboomer?”

        “Heck yeah!”

        “Heeheehee—Sure!”

        “Are you kidding?  Any chance to outrace her is welcome in my book!”

        “Keep your saddle on, Rapidfire.”  Spitfire glanced back and smirked Rainbow's way.  “Looks like it's a go.  But you better keep up!”

        “I was about to say the same to you!”  Rainbow Dash exclaimed, suddenly clasping Scootaloo from behind.

        The bandaged filly gasped as she was raised up into the thick of the air.  She clutched the battered tray to her chest and gazed over her shoulder at the weather flier.  “Dashie, y-you didn't answer my question.”

        “Questions, questions,” Rainbow Dash muttered with a rolling of her eyes.  “The world has too many of those.  I swear, questions only ruin the surprises in life.”  She smirked.  “Like this next surprise.”

        Scootaloo squinted.  “Wh-What surprise?”

        “Did you know that it's my foalday too, kiddo?”

        Scootaloo smiled wide.  “What?!  No way!  Are you serious?”

        Rainbow Dash merely stared at her.

        The little filly blinked.  Warmly, she smiled and sniffled.  “Today was way better than that, wasn't it?”

        “Today was the best.”  Rainbow Dash took her crown off and dropped the golden thing onto Scootaloo's pink head.  “And I could only share it with the best.”  She was decidedly winking at Scootaloo—and not the Wonderbolts—as she said that.

        The golden crown fell loosely over Scootaloo's face.  Her violet eyes blinked cutely on either side of the circlet as she raised the winged thing up by a hoof and smiled up at the mentor holding her.

        “Wonderbolts!”  Spitfire's voice soared by along with her body.  “Take wing!”

        A loud grunt of unison echoed from the five pegasi as they surged afterward.  Scootaloo gasped, for she and Rainbow Dash were swiftly joining them in formation.  She clung to the battered tray in her hooves, a flimsy fossil to the memories of the past.  The only reason she didn't drop it was because she suddenly saw that there was beauty to be cherished in awkward things.  After all, not once did Rainbow Dash drop her.

        The prismatically-maned pegasus grinned devilishly into the cold winds of Equestria as she and the Wonderbolts flew in a majestic glide towards the Canterlotlian mountains in the distance.  Scootaloo hung from her grasp, and the golden wings crowning her head whistled against the beating currents of the high altitude air.  No matter how frigid the night winds got, she merely nestled deeper into Rainbow Dash's grip and found warmth.  She blinked, and the soft memories of the day joined a snapshot of reflective pond-water emblazoned into her mind.  Happy, toasty, and alive, Scootaloo raised her head and nuzzled Rainbow's chest from behind.  She never before felt so secure, safe, and special.

        It would be the blissful first of many last times.






        Twenty-five years later, Cloudsdale was gone.  In its place stretched the golden stalk of Petra and its thirty-five shimmering platforms.  Smoke and steam were being pumped continuously into the air, feeding the darkening shroud of a gigantic stormfront hovering over the desolate Central Plains of former Equestria.

        The regular weather phenomenon was in its final phase at this point.  Thunder roared and pierced the blackened sky.  Bright bolts of lightning converged on the jagged rooftops of the gigantic imp city.  In preparation for this scheduled event, several tall stalks of metal had been constructed alongside the smokestacks.  Each of these thick needles absorbed the lightning bolts, attracting the surging currents safely away from the cylinders that were pumping steam out into the ruptured air.  Bouncing beams of electricity branched across the forest of metal spokes, so that the many platforms full of hustling and bustling goblins below were largely unaffected by the savage nature of the Wasteland climate.

        The world rumbled for hours on end as the stormfront raged its war across the twilight-bathed globe.  The booming noise was the first thing in days to drown out the grinding ambiance of Petra's collective machine parts.  It was only a matter of time before the chaos dwindled and the imps could return by monorail train to their sky marble mines in the western pits.  For the time being, the only progress to be made was the brooding kind, as countless imps of all the clans waited anxiously for a storm of a different sort to pass over.

        Less than twenty-four hours since the Glass Blood family had launched an attack on Hex Blood, no council meeting had been established, and the entire city hung off the precipice of fear and uncertainty.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Haman of Rust Blood, however, wasn't waiting for anything.  The aged imp was preparing to leave somewhere.  There was no hiding it; he descended from the steps of his palace in Strut Twenty-One, hobbling after a train of sweating servants who were carrying away heavy trunks and packages all emblazoned with Rust Blood's yellow colors.  As the group of laborers transported Haman's belongings towards a freight elevator at the far end of the platform, the clan leader paused and leaned against the transparent gear-globe of his cane with a sigh.

        “Look at them.  Every goblin is a child.”  Haman's amber eyes squinted while his ear-stalks drooped on either side of his yellow, liver-spotted skull.  “Each year, there's more and more of them, and they only get younger.”  He took a deep breath.  “And I know it's not just me.  If only imps these days could die with twice as much dignity as they breed, then maybe I wouldn't have to purge so much of my own blood.”

        Stepping up alongside him, Fredden waited for a roll of thunder to pass by before adjusting his shades and speaking with a grin, “Cheer up, boss.  Soon, you won't have to worry about all of these bleeders.  You'll be far away, safe and secure, along with your silver.”

        “Stop saying that as if it's something I should be proud of,” Haman slurred, rotating the cane in his grasp.  “Survival is a rather anticlimactic thing, Fredden.  Being on top of the food chain is only as rewarding as the things left for you to taste and savor.”  He breathed raggedly and gazed down the metallic streets of his district as the strobes of distant lightning illuminated the wrinkled extremities of his hunched figure.  “Where I'm going, I will undoubtedly have to learn to fast things.  That is hardly what I would call a 'reward.'”

        Fredden shrugged.  “Well, at least you'll be alive, right?”  He smirked as lightning glinted off his shades before murmuring under the booming noise that echoed throughout the imp city discs.  “How many other imps your age have lived past the Dimming to see such success?”

        “If only you knew, Fredden,” Haman muttered in a low voice.  “Legends, good business goblins hardly make.  Devo of Hex Blood was once a good friend of mine.  Look at him now.  An entire life of hard work means nothing to the prime Hex-Bleeder now that he's made one stupid, pathetic mistake.”

        “You're absolutely right.  He crossed you, boss.”

        “He crossed business with idealism, is what he did. I can't blame him for the nobility of the notion, but he certainly didn't need me to warn him of his folly.  Imps have risen and fallen before, and they were larger than all of the goblins of this city combined, Fredden.”  Haman glanced over at his dark-haired bodyguard.  “Did you ever hear of the prime Green-Bleeder of the West?”

        “Uhm... Can't say that I have, boss.”

        “There was this imp I grew up with; he was younger than me.”  Haman had a distant look in his pale yellow face as he spoke through the cascading thunder.  “We manifested Petra together, worked our way out of the Wasteland.  Things were good; we made the most of it.  Later on, he had an idea to build an impcity north of the Everfree Briar for mercenaries flying through the Western Heights.  That imp's name was Melvin of Green Blood, and the impcity he built was Steamsilver.  This was a great imp, a goblin of strength and ingenuity, and there isn't even a plaque or a signpost or a statue of him in that town.  Now, for all of his strengths, Melvin was a tad bit too ambitious, and it increased with age.  Someone put a steambolt through his eye.  No one knows who gave the order.  When I heard it, I wasn't angry.  I said to myself 'This is the business we've chosen.'  I didn't ask who gave the order, because it had nothing to do with business.”

        “If you ask me, boss...” Fredden smirked and marched a few steps ahead.  “You're smarter than the likes of either Melvin or Devo.  That's why you're gonna live longer than any other imp in the rest of this town.”

        “It's not a matter of being smart, Fredden,” Haman muttered and hobbled after him.  “I'm just lucky—”

        Haman would have said more, but suddenly he couldn't.  In the span of a blink, a brown shape had suddenly touched down, grabbed him with four legs from behind, and soared up into the lightning with a flap of blurring wings.  Haman's sudden screams were drowned out in the waves of thunder swallowing his streaking figure.  All that remained was his cane, twirling vertically for a few revolutions before rattling down to the metal floor of the street.

        Fredden slowly turned around.  He lowered his shades to the bridge of his nose and blinked a pair of pale eyes at the empty sidewalk.  “Uhm... B-Boss?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Aaaaaugh!”  Haman screamed.  Haman flailed.  The golden platforms of Petra were blurring down past him, swiftly replaced by the steam-hissing smokestacks, and finally the electrically brimming needles of the imp city as he was carried up to the very summit of the majestic, goblin superstructure.  All around him, the black-on-gray horizons of the world swam with hellish branches of electricity that seemed to be reaching out towards him, laced with the carnivorous roar of hungry thunder.  “Nnnghh-Haagh!”  He panted, sweated, and twirled until he stared into an even more ghastly sight.

        Lightning strobed, illuminating a pair of lifeless copper goggles that framed an equine jaw full of gnashing teeth.  The flashing horizon bled over a silhouette of darkly billowing mane hair.

        “Aaah!”  Haman's amber eyes pulsed.

        “Hello, Haman,” Scootaloo hissed.  She released her hoof's grip.

        “Ooof!”  Haman fell hard on his spine.  The aged goblin winced hard.  He stirred achingly atop a small circular platform of rusted metal standing between tall copper stalks.  Lightning and thunder was exploding all around.  “Unnngh...”

        “You know, we've had our differences, you and I,” Scootaloo murmured as she reached into her saddlebag.  An intestinal length of black twine poured out suddenly over the metal floor.  The mare's voice droned under the immense thunder of the storm billowing overhead.  “We got off on the wrong hoof, so to speak.”

        “Nnngh...”  Haman struggled to sit his aching, wrinkled body up.  He was only residually aware of the cord being wrapped around his twitching right leg.  “Huh... Wh-What...?”

        “But let's amend that, shall we?”  Scootaloo tied the other end of the rope to her saddle and pulled the length of it tight.  “How does a little stroll through the neighborhood sound?”

        “Wait..”  Haman's amber eyes twitched as he reached a clawed hand out.

        Scootaloo's brown wings stretched against the lightning-torched sky.  Frowning, she broke into a full gallop.

        “No!  Wait-wait-wait-wait—Aagh!”

        Scootaloo leaped off the side of the platform.  Haman soared after her, dangling madly on the end of the cord.  Before the elder could summon the breath to scream, the last pony was already giving him a reason to yell even louder.  She plunged suddenly, diving the two of them straight down into the interwebbing sea of criss-crossing metal lattices that formed the rooftop of Petra.  The pegasus darted up and down, left and right, skirting the edges of several swinging mechanisms and hissing vents of red-hot steam.  Haman shrieked and dangled after her, his twitching ear-stalks full of thunder and noise as the storm screamed all around the nightmarish flight that he was a helpless appendix to.

        Finally, Scootaloo pulled up, and it was a ridiculously steep climb.  The blood rushed violently to the back of Haman's skull as he flew like a comet-tail behind her.  His amber eyes rolled into the back of his head as his ankle bled from the biting pull of the rope around his leg.  Just as he started to taste the bile bubbling at the back of his sore throat, the last pony landed the two of them onto another rusty platform before an array of smokestacks.

        Scootaloo came to a safe stop.  Haman didn't.  “Mmmff—Nnngh—Augh!”  He rolled, tumbled, and ultimately slammed into a bouncing copper antenna.  He clutched the metal surface of the roof, trembling and hyperventilating.  “Nnnngh... Mmmf... Fuuu... Fuu...”

        “Hmmmmmmm...”  Scootaloo paced past his shivering figure, tilting her flaring nostrils towards the deathly storm as a gust of electrified wind kicked at her bright pink mane.  “Do you smell that rich, clean air, Haman?”  She inhaled long and hard.  All was dead and black.  She glared over at him with a glint of her copper goggles and hissed over the drumming thunder.  “No?  Well, there's a reason for that.  It hardly qualifies as air anymore.  It's more like dragon's breath.  You remember dragons, don't you?  You're old enough.”

        “You're... Nnngh...”  Haman hissed and fought to sit up on wobbly limbs.  “You're insane!”  He glared at her through one good eye and growled through blood-stained lips.  “Do you know who you're messing with, sky stealer?!  Do you have any idea who I truly am?”

        “Sure do!” she chirped.  “You're a rich, entrepreneurial goblin who's long overdue for an inspection of your steam!  I think it's the source of why the air doesn't smell good anymore!”  She trotted straight towards the edge of the platform.  “Here, let me help you get a better look—”

        “No, wait!  Don't—!”  Haman was already desperately grasping at the rooftop as his body slipped off after her.  His claws desperately scraped a few desperate chips off the metal surface, and then he was screaming once again, dangling and flailing after her.

        Scootaloo soared straight into the sea of smokestacks.  Gritting her teeth, she viciously veered left and right.

        Haman's ragdolling body was flung like a pendulum into the tall metal stalks.  The air sang with metallic reverberations that rivaled the thunder above.  His brittle bones knocked against one other upon each subsequent impact.  He grunted, gasped, groaned, and let loose a long, undulating shriek as he was dragged—rattling—over a series of horizontal pipes.  Seeing stars, he barely noticed when Scootaloo dragged the two of them towards an even rooftop full of billowing steam pipes.  A pair of metal needles stood so close to the platform that whenever lightning struck, it bathed the two of them in an aura of pure white madness.

        The thunder that ensued was twice as deafening.  Haman screamed and reached a pair of hands up to grasp the earlobes he no longer had.  Blood was dripping down his chin, face, and shoulders as he gazed up, trembling, to see Scootaloo pacing along the edge of the rooftop and gazing darkly into the thick of the storming Wasteland.

        “Do you know what this place used to be?  Do you?”  Lightning illuminated her slowly moving jaws as she murmured, “This used to be the site of Cloudsdale, the pride of Commander Hurricane, the Refuge of Goddess Nebula.  It was a city where pegasi gathered to harness the gifts of nature and spread them generously throughout the warm and wanting world.  Snowflakes were built here.  Rainbows were farmed and rain was purified.  Soldiers were trained here, guardponies of timeless honor and guile.  Talented stunt fliers challenged gravity and astronomists studied the stars.  When the seasons changed—like they used to—the residents of Clousdale took it upon themselves to be stewards of a beautiful, vibrant, and blessed earth.”

        Lightning struck the stalks beside them.  Haman flinched.  As he did so, the pegasus turned and glared at him.  Twin goggles flickered like the portholes to a ghost ship as she marched towards him, snarling beneath the thunder.

        “Twenty-five years have passed since I last set hoof in that once beautiful city of harmony and life, and what do I find?  Silver-sucking, soulless imps like you have defecated upon it!”  She shouted, something that inhaled the thunder and breathed it into his face through a pair of flaring nostrils.  Soon, a singing blade joined the chorus as a sharp knife protruded from her metallic horsehoe and carved a tiny, red line across the edge of the shivering elder's liver-spotted cheek.  “Epona help me,” she snarled into his face.  “I should be gutting you one organ at a time for every single chunk of sacred sky marble the likes of you tomb-raiding, pint-sized abominations have dredged from the graves of my fallen flesh and blood.  The only reason I'm not bleeding you of every putrid gut stuffed inside that little quivering bag you call a body is because you're more worth to me alive, because even the richest corpse in Petra wouldn't be able to tell me what I'm chomping at the bit to know right now.”

        “Nnngh... Go freeze to death in the Dimming's Blight, you insufferable war mule!”  Haman wheezed and spat.  “I don't humor the threats of glue sticks!”

        “I'm sorry, did we finish inspecting your steam?”  Scootaloo reached away from the two of them and pressed her horseshoe to a nearby steam pipe.  A hiss of vapor immediately kissed the air from the metallic contact.  “Oooh!”  She shook her hoof and made a face.  “Whew, that's hot!  Does that feel hot to you?  Here.”  She flung his frail weight over her flank and shoved him—cheek first—into the surface of the smoking cylinder.  “Why don't you tell me how hot that is!”

        “Nnnngh-Gaaaaaaaah!”  Haman shrieked long and hard.  His eyes rolled back in his head as the skin on his face bubbled under a rising curtain of steam.  Four agonizing seconds into the torture, and he was flung like a peace of meat to the ground.  The floundering elder flung a pair of claws to the red-hot patches of skin still simmering across his face.  “Nnngh—Haucckt!”

        He soon had something else to shriek over, for Scootaloo had stomped the brunt of her front left hoof over his ankle.  She leaned over him, mercilessly applying her weight as she held the horseshoe blade close enough for him to see the reflection of his twitching, amber eyes.

        “You wanna humor me?  Huh?”  She sneered down at him.  “How about I turn you into a joke?  Brace yourself, Haman, for you're about to become the first goblin in imp history to survive having his five limbs cut off.”

        She immediately flung her blade towards a part of his body that was quite noticeably neither his arms nor his legs.  Haman swiftly shot up, spitting blood and wheezing, “Stop!  J-Just stop!”

        “Why should I?”

        “What... What—nnngh—do you want to know?!”

        Haman fell on his back again, for Scootaloo was staring him down with both copper goggles in his face.  “A small, teenage goblin.  Green skin, bright eyes, a horseshoe branding on his lower thigh.”  She raised the blade to the nape of his neck and further roared over the thunder, “He was carrying a glass jar of bright green flame, a container of magical energy.  He went to see your goons—presumably either Razzar or that moron in the shades.  Now I can't find him.  I want to know where he is.”

        “R-Razzar?”  Haman exclaimed with a last-second jerk of hesitance to his lips.  “Wh-Who is Razzar?”

        “The next time you try playing dumb, consider playing 'eunuch' instead.”

        “Sh-She took a train!”  Haman hissed and sputtered. “She took him in a train away from a depot in Strut Four!”

        “She's on the monorail track?!”  Scootaloo's brow furrowed over her goggles.  “In the middle of a stormfront?!”

        “She didn't kill the boy, that much I know!”  Haman continued squealing.  “Why she's spared him is beyond me!  I can't get into the naga's head!  I never could!  Sh-She follows her own rules!  We've only partnered up because we had to!”

        “Why?!”  Scootaloo growled in his face.  “What is this all about?!  She's doing something with the explosives that Franken of Glass Blood built for you, isn't she?!”

        “I... I...”

        “Are you going to talk, or should I pull your tongue out and see if I can make it confess on its own?!”

        “Nnngh—I am sick to death of you atrocious ruffians of the Wasteland!”  Haman suddenly spat in a desperate wave of anger.  He hissed as blood dripped from his burned cheek.  “I've wanted nothing to do with you!  You're going to swallow all that's good about Petra!  You and the nagas and the ogres and all the other ugly creatures of this damnable world!  At least when the sky stealers were running things, an imp could make profit without fear of a knife to the back!  Petra may have been m-manifested slowly, but at least an imp c-could keep track of it!  Now look at what imps have become!  We've built t-too much in too little time, and now everything is going to go to ruin!  Everything!—And all because you stupid horses brought the Dimming upon us!”

        Scootaloo suddenly let go of him.

        “Ooomf!”  Haman fell down to the metal roof.  Nevertheless, he stared up at her and trembled as she paced towards the edge of the platform.

        “For so long, I've heard the same thing.  'Your race is responsible for the Cataclysm.'  'Your race hogged the resources of the world.'  'Your race controlled the Sun and Moon while the rest of the world floundered for sustenance.'  And you know what?  Maybe there's some truth to that.  Who am I to judge?  Yes, I'm the only pony, the last pony, but that hardly matters.  I lived eight blissful years in a world of light and warmth, and I am forever glad for them.  But the rest of my life—the pathetic, freezing majority of my life was spent in that very same Wasteland that you detest, Haman.  And the whole messy experience—for all its colorless shades—has taught me something.”

        She tilted her gaze towards the strobes of lighting above.

        “You can live for silver, but silver can't live for you.  The fruits of business is not like another fresh commodity, something worth more than pure water or magical flame in this dead world.  It's taken a while, but I've learned to live for hope—something that is innately rewarding, something that would have turned you into an imp who would have helped his fellow kin in their time of need instead of bleeding them out with bullets.  But I can't expect you to understand any of that, Haman.  You're a coward, a flimsy excuse for a sentient creature whose business if far more important than his blood.”

        She turned towards him now, her jaw tight and her wings outstretched like a demon's appendages against the rampaging stormfront.

        “You wanna see the Wasteland, prime Rust-Bleeder?!”  She stomped towards him, flung her goggles off, and yanked him up by his neck so that he was gasping into the brimming anger of her twin scarlets.  “Take a good long look,” she seethed.  Briefly, all of the lightning bolts seemed to be dancing away from her in fright.  “These are not eyes, Haman.  These are the vessels of nightmares, tempered by the deaths of joys, dreams, and colors, and I am prepared to share each and every one of those frosty little deaths with you... unless you tell me everything about this absurd conspiracy of yours and you tell me now!”

        He trembled once more, aghast to see the burned face of a frightened goblin in those red pupils.  “I... I-I had my hand f-forced by the M-Mountain Ogres!”

        Scootaloo squinted at him.  “In the Valley of Jewels?!”

        Haman nodded nervously, panted, and exclaimed, “They captured Waven, Franken, and myself.  They were going to do away with us, but I m-made a business proposition!”

        “Why didn't they just tear you to bits right then and there along with your airship?!”  Scootaloo frowned.  “What was your leverage, Haman?”

        He wheezed, as if the next outburst was more pent up inside him than a patch of untapped sky marble.  It finally squeaked out of his bleeding lips, “Our servants, our associates, our pilots.”  He gulped.  “I sold them, all six dozen of them.  They became slaves for the war against the Fire Ogres.  We three prime bleeders were let go to carry on with our new arrangement.”

        Scootaloo closed her eyes, took a deep, fuming breath, and slurred, “And what arrangement was that, Haman?”

        “I'd find a way to stall the industry long enough to be joined with a mercenary in the Mountain Ogres' employ!  Razzar came, and with her there arrived a supply of fire granite.  Together we worked with Franken to construct enough bombs to tear this impcity to the ground!”

        “You're going to level all of Petra?!”  Scootaloo was not nearly as surprised as she was enraged.  “Why destroy your own flesh-and-blood's manifestation?!  Who profits, Haman?”

        “The M-Mountain Ogres, of course!”  Haman exclaimed fitfully.  “With the goblins, gremlins, and hobs out of the way, they'll have enough uninterrupted access to the sky marble from the pits!  Then they can extract just the right amount of steam for winning the battle for the Valley of Jewels!  As for Razzar: she receives a handsome payment from me.”

        “And you?”

        Haman's lips quivered.  “I... I and my closest colleagues get to retire in a place far away from here, a sanctuary built by Mountain Ogres that's closed off from the rest of the Wasteland.”  His brow briefly furrowed as he droned in a solid voice for once, “It's all a matter of time, pony.  One way or another, the ogres are going to claim this impcity.  If I can't quicken it, then what could have been a mercy killing will instead turn into a long and sustained holocaust as the ogres pillage this place for what it's worth over the next decade.  I can't stand to witness the suffering of my own flesh-and-blood.”

        Scootaloo inhaled deeply.  “Well, I have.  And you know what?  It sucks, but at least I'm stronger for it.  Can I say the same about you?”

        “I am merely eliminating the middle-man!”  Haman hissed, wincing bloodily as the thunder roared around them both.  “The goblins of this place have their days numbered!  There's no need for delaying the inevitable!  All of the blood and silver is being spilled to end it all!  Don't you see?!  It's just business!”

        “And what about hope?!”  Scootaloo snarled, her eyes brimming from the lightning.  “For once, Devo's sappy idealism makes sense!  If you worked as hard as he did to get the goblins to unify, you could be confronting your fears instead of giving into them!”  She dropped him to the ground before leering above.  “As usual, a friggin' 'glue stick' such as myself is stuck doing the dirty work.  Looks like I've got a train to catch...”

        “Wh-What?!”  Haman sputtered and clutched his throat with a shaking hand.  “You can't be serious!  You and what army?!”

        “My four hooves and a prayer,” Scootaloo grunted.  “It's too late for even the Hex-Bleeders to take my side now.  I'm on my own, just like we all are in the end.”

        “Are you mad?!”  Haman exclaimed, his breaths drowned out in the insane thunder all around.  “One pony against a naga shape-shifter and a batallion of my greatest bodyguards?!”  He was briefly stuck between chiding her and encouraging her towards the same bloody end.  “You'll never last a single second!  In a matter of hours, Razzar will be sending a steam-train full of granite fire bombs into the stalk of Petra and sending the whole imp city plunging into the oblivion of the Wasteland!  Even I couldn't stop the wheels that are turning in motion now!  The legacy of goblins is over!  To think otherwise is impossible!”

        “Haman...”  The last pony glared down at him.  “I am now officially pissed off to high heaven.  Anything is possible.”  She leaned over and sneered.  “But you?  You are pitiful: an ugly yellow stain that this blind city hasn't bothered to clean off the bulkheads.”

        “St-Stain?”  Haman uttered hoarsely.  As if in answer, he was tossed mercilessly off the edge of the metal platform.  The elder Rust-Bleeder fell, flailing, screaming.  He flew through criss-crossing metal lattices, through seas of rusted smokestacks, and through dancing clouds of hot mist.  Fatefully, he plunged towards the bone-shattering streets of Strut Twenty-One.  Amber eyes tearing, he winced at the last second.

        He didn't hit the ground.

        Gasping, he reopened his eyes.  He was dangling a mere meter off the floor.  After a roll of thunder, he glanced up past his legs to see a wing-flapping Scootaloo holding him by the rope tied to his ankle.

        “You're right about one thing, Haman.  Every goblin must someday die.”  She hissed down at him, “But you're going to live.  Live and tell any imp you wish that I'm coming for those foolish enough to guard that train.  I don't care what the numbers are.  I want their last hours on this earth to be filled with the same horror that's reintroducing you to your fluids.”  That uttered, she dropped him into a warm, steaming puddle that the elder goblin hadn't realized he had produced until then.  The cord tied to his ankle was snapped, and the pegasus was gone in a brown blur just as Fredden and several other bodyguards rushed in with weapons drawn.  They couldn't see where the last pony had flown amidst the chaos of the swirling stormfront above.

        “Nnnngh... Rotten glue stick!”  Fredden growled, then turned to gaze worriedly at the elder as two other bodyguards helped him to his clawed feet.  “Boss, are you okay?—Whoah!”  He winced, observing the blood and burn marks across the prime Rust-Bleeder's face.

        Haman shuddered, standing on wobbly legs.  He stared long and hard into the flickering, thundering smog.  “Fredden...”  He gulped.  “Fredden, my boy, I need you to deliver a message to Razzar.”

        “Yes, sir,” Fredden said.  Next, he blinked and adjusted his shades with a  nervous shuffle.  “Uhm... Eheheh... Just what kind of a message, boss?”







        Warden's head slowly nodded, then nodded again.  He woke slowly, like an infant on the morning after a long night of throwing up.  The petite green goblin stirred, murmured, and stretched out his limbs.  There was a metallic scraping sound, and the young imp felt his arms tugging on something.  Fluttering his aquamarine eyes open, he realized that he was sitting in the middle of a train car, his arms bound behind his back by a series of metal chains that tied him to a steam pipe.

        His face scrunched up, briefly fumbling to remember the events that led him to that dire strait.  Suddenly, two peculiar smells graced his nose.  Flaring his nostrils, he recognized the first smell from a frightening experience in the factory at Strut Eleven.  Glancing around him, the teenager brandished a horrified grimace.  He was surrounded by dozens upon dozens of large, spherical bombs full of fire granite.

        The second smell increased suddenly, along with a dark crimson shadow.  Warden glanced up and positively yelped.  Hyperventilating, he scrunched away from the sight of a reptilian face with dead, pale skin hanging off the red scales.  A pair of eyeslits blinked tiredly at him—one of them twitching.

        “Your eyes look positively sweet,” Razzar said with a tongue darting briefly between her razor sharp teeth.  A set of claws held the trembling Warden's chin in place as she examined his cranium up close.  “Hmmm... Yes yes yesssss.  One thing I will never forget is how juicy my broodlings' eyes tasted when they popped in my mouth.  It was like honey, a final gift to mommy dearest.”  She gulped, her lips quivering as she murmured, “If only all creatures were as forgiving as they are scrumptious.”

        “Who... Who... Who...?!”  Warden could only stammer.

        “A name is like spit in the Wasteland, boomer-lite,” Razzar muttered, standing up and walking over towards a pile of bombs on the far side of the car.  “It all dries and freezes the same against the petrified stone, but not like silver.”  The train was still; it wasn't moving anywhere.  In the distance, Warden could spot yellow-banded Rust-Bleeders rigging the last of several explosives to the bulkheads.  “You can build a coffin or a fortress out of silver.  Either way, it's all the same.  The only thing you live for in life is to protect your body from becoming meat.”  She picked something up off the bombs beside her.  “When this stormfront ends, all the boomers piled sky-high will realized they've built themselves a sandwich.  It's a shame there're no more crows to clean up after them, yes yes yessss.”

        “You...”  Warden gulped and curled his legs towards his bound self.  “Y-You're Miss Ryst!  Er... You were... Or you were pretending to be—”

        “Show me a Wastelander who isn't pretending, and I'll show you the sunlight.  Now, Boomer,” Razzar spun about, holding a large glowing jar of green flame in her claws.  “Would you pretend to know what this is and why it would be so valuable to me?”

        “I...”  Warden suddenly bit his lip and glanced nervously towards the floor of the train car.  “Uhm... I-I don't really know...”

        “Be mindful, tender one,” Razzar hissed and twirled the fragile jar in her scales.  “Your ignorance is not what's keeping you alive.  You came to me, offering this, with what you thought was a good business proposition.  I took it upon myself to seize it make an even better one.”  She paced over towards him and held the glowing jar against his squinting face.  “When my contract is done here, something like this could milk more strips from the Wasteland, yes yesssss.  But a potential buyer will want to know where to get more, and you, boomer-lite, are the only link.”

        Warden gulped, then frowned.  “If you want more, I'm not the outbleeder you should be asking.”

        “Hmmmm... Sister four legs summons more than jeers and bullets in her life,” Razzar slurred, stood back up, and returned the green flame to a rest atop a pile of bombs.  “Somehow, I am not surprised.  Still, I imagined her a tiny bit more resourceful than to let something like that go to waste.  It must be hard to grab onto one's valuables when you have hooves instead of claws, yes yessss?”

        Warden sneered, “Isn't it enough that Haman's paying you strips for whatever you're doing with these bombs?!”  He tugged and pulled in futility at the chains binding him to the pipe.  Sighing, he muttered, “Can't you just take the flame and leave this city alone?  So much death can't be worth such measly profit.”

        “There will always be death, boomer-lite,” Razzar murmured as she gnawed on a flake of dead skin hanging off her right knuckles.  “Hmmm.. Grand, rolling fields of death.  Beaches and bluffs of death.  Seas of death.  Have you ever seen the ocean, half-ling?”

        “I... uh... I-I can't say that I have...”

        “It's nothing like what it used to be, of course,” Razzar practically whispered as her teeth nibbled across her skin.  Her right eye twitched as she gazed through a window looking out onto the dead wastes beyond the monorail tracks west of Petra.  “Today, all is black ooze and bobbing corpses.  But it used to be warm once.  Yes yes yessss... there was sea foam and kelp, vast emerald forests that danced and shimmered beneath the waves.  You could swim for days in the gentle embrace of the tide.  You only came up to the surface to relish in the sunlight, not sob in the blight.”  She tugged at a pale sheet of skin, ripping it from her flesh as her nostrils flared.  “Mmm... I had laid my eggs after the Dimming, boomer-lite.  My husband was too starving and emaciated to be by my side.  There was no part of the sea left unblemished with sludge.  The best nesting pond I could find was a cesspool that harpies had once used to recycle their fluids.  I dreaded the day that my broodlings would hatch there.  Nagas should be born unto sunshine, not filth.”  She tugged at her wrist one last time.  A patch of dry skin hung from her maw for a brief few seconds before she chewed it up and swallowed the lump of flesh down her crimson throat.

        Warden twitched involuntarily.  He tried looking away, but Razzar was standing over him once more.

        “Silver is the vessel for which I can cross the seas that are forever dead to me, little boomer,” she icily murmured.  “The strips from this job alone will take me far from here, far from the ogres, far from the Golden Gang, far from all the spit and filth that creatures use to paint their pretentious lives like hollow barricades of hope.  My business in Petra means the death of many things you likely hold dear, but I am not sorry for that.  I am only sorry that you didn't grow to earn your silver faster than me.”

        “I'm the one who's sorry,” Warden droned, frowning into a far corner of the car.  “I'm sorry that I ever once thought Scootaloo was as bad off as you.”

        Razzar's face twitched, almost convulsed.  “Scoot of loo?”

        “The pony,” Warden spat.  “She's lost a lot in her life too, y'know?  Maybe not kids, but her entire freakin' race!”  His arms rattled in his bindings as his young, cracking voice howled up at her.  “She may have done a lot of cold and heartless things, but she isn't one to kill off thousands of goblins just to get some... some... stupid profit!”

        “Stupid... profit...?”  Razzar coldly stepped towards him, leering.  “You would spit so?  A boomer?”

        Warden bit his lip and trembled once more in her shadow.

        Razzar hissed slowly, like a venting red machine.  “Of course the profit is stupid, boomer-lite.  It is tainted with the bloody claws of soul-less little animals like you.  It wreaks of murder, and not of mercy.  It's coated with the blood of infants and carried along the winds of the Blight.”  A series of metal pipes breathed steam against her figure.  The naga's eyes lit up as a snarling breath rose hotly from beneath her lungs.  “I hate that the only thing I have to carry myself away from this nightmare is the same currency that sold me into it.  I hate diamond dogs, I hate goblins, I hate ogres—”  Her eye twitched to the bursting point as she flung a wrist to one of her holsters.  “And I hate...”  She pulled the gun out over a wincing Warden.  “I hate...”  Spinning, the molting reptile plugged bullet after bullet into the hissing series of pipes, accompanying her howling voice with a thunderous chorus.  “I hate steam!”

        Bullet casings and shredded bits of steambolts showered all over the bombs with a series of dangerous sparks.  The many Rust-Bleeders flinched, clung to each other, and cast frightened looks in the mercenary's direction.  Warden squeaked and flinched as several burning pieces of shrapnel littered the bulkhead beneath his legs.

        The punctured pipes vented a final cloud of mist and were silent.  The entire wall of the train simmered briefly from the bullet holes.  Razzar fumed and fumed, took a deep breath, and holstered her pistol.  “So,” she spoke in the calmest voice imaginable as she turned and gazed down once more at Warden.  “Just how does an imp get eyes like that.  Hmmm?  Sparkly boomer is sparkly, yes yes yessss?”

        Warden gazed up at the naga, his eyes wide as his entire body scrunched away from her under a fit of shivers.







        High above the many struts of Petra, far away from the thick patrols of gremlin aircraft, obscured by the dark columns of steam billowing out of smokestacks everywhere, Scootaloo sat and stared off into the stormfront, thinking.  The creases on her forehead matched the fine lines of lightning shooting across the smoggy ceiling of the dead world.  Her rear legs dangled off the edge of a rusted metal platform while her hooves toyed with a blue feather and its matching string in her grasp.

        In a matter of hours—minutes, for all Scootaloo knew—this gigantic superstructure—a mountain of engineering that was home to thousands upon thousands of lives—was going to collapse into flame and dust.  Imps of all shapes and sizes would die in an instant, and hundreds more would suffer lengthily as their corpses blended with the gray desolation all around.  Women and children, seniors and teenagers, workers and traders would all perish in the bloody collapse.  Whatever short and desperate lives they had lived over the last quarter of a century would be consumed in a single gasp of horror.

        Scootaloo dwelled upon this.  She forced herself to, and yet no matter how much she pondered the holocaustal situation, the last pony was at a lost to dredge from her soul any semblance of sympathy for the doomed race of imps.  The only possible sensation that quickened her heartbeat was the memory of Warden's voice, and how his angry sobs would be the last thing she would ever hear from him.

        The scavenger could have just flown away after interrogating Haman.  She should have flown away.  Her body was a numb brick in the midst of this destruction-to-be.  She had witnessed the extinction of countless sentient things.  The Cataclysm alone took more than just ponies: zebras, mountain rams, deer, and gazelles all had met the same grim fate.  When Princess Celestia and Luna died, all hoofed creatures blessed by Epona's spirit went with them.  The multiple canines, felines, primates, and orcs that mortally followed suit were mere gasps in the Wasteland's breath, crumbling civilizations that were too short-lived to deserve any mourning that mattered in the perpetual desolation to follow.

        Goblins were creatures of immense tenacity, engineering prowess, and remarkable zeal.  In spite of all that, they were merely the same dust specks blanketing the scorched bosom of Equestria like any other lingering species.  Even if the death of the city over Cloudsdale's ruins didn't cripple them, the long stretch of time would eventually whittle them away.  Scootaloo may someday restore the Sun and Moon to the world, but she hardly expected goblins to survive.  They were even less populous in the days of brightness and warmth; the apocalyptic world beyond the Cataclysm was their brief and blissful chance to tumorously expound upon their gifts and burn out like a tiny candle.

        Scootaloo had no reason to fight for the goblins' futile survival.  With the exception of Devo's coddling eccentricities, the imps had given nothing to her.  More than anything, they had only wounded or insulted her—with as much anger and distaste as any other disgruntled creature in the Wasteland.  The imps were ugly, ungrateful, squabbling, bloodletting creatures of ill-repute.  When the thirty-five platformed manifestation of Petra collapsed, the dead world would only become a little less ugly.  Arguably, letting that place fall would be the best way to beautify the Wasteland just short of restoring the sunlight that the Onyx Eclipse had supposedly sucked from all life.

        Still, knowing all of these things, Scootaloo couldn’t fly away.  She could hardly budge from where she sat.  She was locked in place, risking the act of collapsing with the full weight of the city beneath her at any second.  She winced at herself, hissed at herself, cursed herself while at odds to discover the reason for her static behavior.  Perhaps it was because she was a pegasus, and the threat to life was appealing to the steward in her.  Perhaps it was because she couldn't stop thinking about Warden, and how the death of all his kin spoke of a truly pitiable tragedy.  Perhaps it was because as long as the city stayed there in one piece, the scavenger felt as though she could still find goblins willing to employ her for silver in the future.

        The truth came to her, however fragmented, upon each successive blinks between the lightning strobes above.  She and Rainbow Dash were being reflected off a shiny pond's surface in the middle of Equestria.  Suddenly that pond was replaced with a fine mist as the weight of Cloudsdale collapsed to the earth below.  She couldn't stop clinging to her prismatic savior.  The world was dying, and the pegasi were the first to go.

        The winged ponies of Nebula's blessing were the heart of the living, breathing world.  When the stewards of Equestria died, the rest of the world perished with them.  In a way, the Cataclysm was merely the first salvo of a great tragedy.  Scootaloo couldn't help but wonder if so much as a dozen pegasi had survived the apocalypse, the world could have been rebuilt by then.

        Now goblins were about to die in droves, and Scootaloo briefly shuddered at the thought, for the goblins were stewards in their own respects.  Imps were the sentinels of the Wasteland.  They embodied the desolation, and yet they improved upon it—however awkwardly—with an artistic beauty that Scootaloo could not digest, but she certainly could respect.  When they died—all as a result of Haman's selfishness, the ogres' envy, and a naga's indifference—something would perish in the Wasteland that would never again shine with any golden brilliance.  Scootaloo didn't even want to think of what could be deader than the desolate Equestria stretching around her, but suddenly the last pony felt as though she had to imagine it, for if she did nothing then she was about to become the first-hoof witness to a cataclysm... again.

        Scootaloo sighed and ran a hoof through her pink mane.  Warden was in trouble.  Spike's extra-rare green flame was compromised.  Somewhere in the green, burning past, the Observatory of Nebula waited patiently for the orphan of time.  However, not even Princess Entropa could help Scootaloo do the impossible.  How could she?  Could a goddess embodying the essence of time be any more motivated than Scootaloo to get her hooves entangled with such a maddening affair?

        The scavenger stared off into the lightning-lit canvas above her.  A pair of sad scarlets drank in the regularly-timed stormfront, like a wounded foal waiting for a clock to stop ticking.

        The past was immutable.  Scootaloo was no more capable of changing history than Goddess Entropa was willing to alter the future.  Here she was, however, in the present.  She knew what Razzar was equipped to do, and she for once could predict the death of a civilization before it happened.  She had every bit of knowledge of the situation, but for once she didn't have Entropan skin to assist her.  The last pony was a mortal thirty-three year old mare whose four limbs and teeth were no match for the naga mercenary and all of her well-armed impish guards.  If Scootaloo so much as showed her face within one hundred meters of the train full of fire granite explosives, she'd be reduced to a bullet-ridden side of meat.

        The last pony sighed long and hard, for Haman had been right.  The situation may not have been immutable, but it most certainly was impossible.

        A sudden spark ricocheted down her system, brighter than the lighting, forcing her to gasp.  The fluttering feather in her hooves felt like a dancing fan of needles.  The last pony stifled a whimper, shivering, for she realized that long before she had ever met Spike and his green flame, she had encountered the confounding juxtaposition of immutability and impossibility before, only on that occasion she did not have the cylinder of reverse time or the unknown fate of Warden to egg her on.  She only had the blackness of the abyss before her and the faint, ghostly traces of Rainbow Dash's glorious colors.  In a surge of centripetal madness the likes of which only an enchanted dragon tooth could provide, she felt herself sailing once again into the onyx ravine, falling, giving in.

        There was suddenly a heavy breeze.






        Scootaloo gasped.  Her scarlet eyes flew open and her wings stretched out instinctually.  The last pony's body wobbled, having been shoved back in the middle of her teetering lean by a strong gust of Wasteland air randomly dipping into the Cloudsdalian ruins.  Her heart raced, briefly woken from the ennui that had almost pulled her into oblivion.  The sensation felt like being carried—by bright blue wings—towards the cold, metal body of a zeppelin and the arcane vaults lying inside.

        Something flickered past her shaved neck.  Panting, she gazed once more into the abyss, seeing a feather fluttering past her, a last ounce of color.  The flimsy strand hovered for an agonizingly long time, audacious in its gravity-defying twirl before slowly, poetically being swallowed up by the black chasm below.  In the last fitful blinks affording her sight of the loose feather, she almost imagined the thing was blue, when it was actually brown, a piece of her own, grown, adolescent wings that had torn off in the sudden downdraft of ashen wind.

        For a brief moment, Scootaloo could not think of her wounds.  She could not think of the rabbit meat.  She could not think of the goblins or their tools or their indifference.  She could only fight back the tears as she hugged herself upon the precipice of annihilation as she heard words...

        Her words...





        “Heck, if you ask me, you weren't just show stoppers,” Rainbow Dash said with a bright smirk, “you were the freakin' main event!”

        Almost a year after Scootaloo returned to Ponyville, months after the Best Fliers Competition in Cloudsdale, and weeks after stumbling into two blank flank fillies at Diamond Tiara's party, the flightless pony was shuffling away from the lit stage of the Young Ponyville Talent Show.  A crowd of adult equines were dissipating along with their foalish children and siblings.  Pale moonlight glinted off several dangling medals hanging around the necks of the fillies and colts as they took their prizes—and pride—home for a good night's sleep.  An award in the shape of a bright, golden harlequin hat hung jubilantly beneath Scootaloo's chin, but she hardly seemed enthused, nor did Apple Bloom or Sweetie Belle who were quietly trotting away with their respective older sisters across the night-shrouded school yard.

        “Did you hear me, kid?”  Rainbow Dash smiled as she trotted alongside the orange foal.  “Or is there a funeral I don't know about?”

        “Hrmmm...”  Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, her mane and tail spiked to compliment the dark purple eyeshadow splotching her face.  The filly's voice cracked from a full night of singing at the top of her lungs.  “We crashed and burned, Dashie.  Stop pretending like our act totally didn't stink.”

        “Hey!  It was cool!  There were crashing setpieces and explosions and stuff!  It woke me up, if nothing else!  Heheheh...”

        Scootaloo briefly frowned up at the older pegasus.  “Look at me straight in the face and tell me that what we did was a good act.”

        The older pegasus stared down at her.  Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes blinked, then blinked again.  “You... Erm... You certainly have a nifty singing voice, Sc-Sc-Scootaloooooo—Snkkkt—Hahahahahah...”

        The foal rolled her violet pupils and sighed.

        Rainbow Dash snorted and stopped Scootaloo in her tracks with a hoof to her shoulder.  She rode a wave of chuckles, rediscovered her breath, and said with a smile, “Okay, look.  Maybe your talent isn't exactly singing—”

        “'Maybe?!'”  Scootaloo frowned and waved her spotless derriere.  “You think I didn't learn that already?”

        “Well, uhm, that's the importance of—uh...”  Rainbow's eyes searched the back of her skull as she fidgeted, fought for words, and finally produced, “Being persistent!  Yeah!  You keep trying something and eventually you'll dig up what you're really good at!  I still mean it when I say that you three girls were the 'main event.'  That act was the best thing I saw all evening!”

        “But I don't want a stupid 'Best Comedy Act' medal!”  Scootaloo said, looking sadly over her shoulder as Apple Bloom trotted with Applejack, and Sweetie Belle with Rarity.  “I only said our talent might be in comedy because the others are suddenly so excited about it.  We took so long preparing for this act tonight, Rainbow Dash, and we still haven't earned our cutie marks.  Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle are so worked up; I don't want to let them down.  But sometimes...”

        “Sometimes what, squirt?”

        Scootaloo sighed and hung her head.  “I just feel like giving up.”

        “Ugh.  Really, now?”  Rainbow Dash raised an eyebrow.  Smirking, she sat on her haunches and stared closer to the foal's eye level.  “Kid, have your parents ever taught you the term 'beating a dead horse'?”

        “Sometimes I envy you, Rainbow Dash,” Scootaloo suddely exclaimed.  Her purple makeup made her face look like a sad, pastel-colored skull.  “You know what it's like to have the best day ever.  It's like you've been to the top of the mountain.  I wish I knew what that was like.  I'd earn a billion cutie marks with what it'd take to catch up with you.”

        “Now, just who the heck said that I've had 'my best day ever'?”

        “Uhhh... you did.”  Scootaloo briefly glared at her.  “Like, a hundred frickin' times since you won the Best Fliers Competition months ago, remember?”

        “Oh... Uh...”  Rainbow Dash briefly went cross-eyed, then frowned.  “Never mind that, pipsqueak.  Has it ever occurred to that little spiked head of yours that I only say that to remind myself that the most awesome things in life can still be bested?”

        “Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked confusedly.  “What do you mean, Dashie?”

        “Heheheh... It's simple, kiddo.”  Rainbow Dash stuck her tongue out and licked the end of her hoof.  While speaking, she reached over and wiped the eyeshadow off of Scootaloo's scrunching face, one lid at a time, revealing the immaculate orange filly underneath.  “Life is full of best-days-ever.  What happened in Cloudsdale was friggin' awesome.  You should know; you were there.  Well, you were there for the party afterwards.  Heheheh.  Still, do you think I would have done the amazing things I did that day or earned that golden crown by giving up during all those afternoons I practiced in front of you?  Rolling over and calling it quits is hardly a way to seize the day.  Most uncool, if you ask me.”

        Blinking her eyes open, Scootaloo looked forlornly in Rainbow's direction.  “But what is there left for you to do, Rainbow Dash?  You stole the show in front of Princess Celestia and the Wonderbolts!  Do you really think anypony could top what you've done?  It's impossible!”

        “The Sonic Rainboom was impossible, wasn't it?”  Rainbow Dash smirked.  “And yet I did that, didn't I?”

        “Yeah... but, I heard Applejack and Pinkie Pie talking,” Scootaloo nervously muttered.  “You'd done the Sonic Rainboom before.”

        “Exactly.  That's the funny thing about life.  Sometime lightning strikes more than once, but for all the right reasons.  I think that's why I get a kick out of hanging with you, ya little squirt.”  She placed a pair of blue hooves on the filly's shoulders and stole her gaze as she spoke, “I want to be there when you do the impossible.  I want to see you buck the world in the face and show it who's boss.  Maybe it'll earn your cutie mark, maybe it won't.  The fact is, there're plenty of best-days-ever waiting for you, and I can't wait for you to earn your first one.  Because...”  She smiled warmly and sat back, running a smoothe hoof through her prismatic bangs.  “Because it'll remind me that I was there once, and that as far as I've come now, I still have so many more wickedly awesome places to go.”

        Scootaloo bit her lip.  With the makeup cleaned off her face, the rosiness to her cheeks was undeniable in the moonlight.  “Twilight's right about you.  You really are the loyalest of ponies.”

        “Heheheh...”  Rainbow Dash's wings flapped briefly in the wind and retracted.  “Yeah, well, I guess it goes to show: once you get sap on you, it's really friggin' hard to get off.”  She paused, for she saw Scootaloo's gaze lowering to the ground.  Glancing down, she saw that a blue feather had fallen loose and littered the blades of grass below.  Gracefully, the pegasus picked the feather up and stroked its fibers straight in the starlight.  “I'll tell you a secret, kiddo,” Rainbow Dash quietly murmured.

        Scootaloo blinked.  “What's that, Dashie?”

        “The key to being loyal...” Rainbow Dash said while leaning forward.  She stuck the blue feather behind Scootaloo's ear before ruffling the foal's spiked mane.  “...is being loyal to yourself first.  All of the other stuff—being a good friend, a dependable pony, and a responsible pegasus: it all happens naturally once you truly know just how righteously cool you are.  So long as you've got that straight, the rest of the world won't know what hit it the day you too pull off the impossible.  There really isn't much difference between flying or pulling off the sonic rainboom.  So long as you don't give up on hope, the spotlight is all yours.”  She grinned.  A devilish glint in her teeth outshone the moon.  “Don't you see, kiddo?  Life's always needing a main event.  Not even the sky's the limit.”






        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  The gray ruins of Cloudsdale were no longer ominous bowers of steep marble.  It was all mere junk, useless and stupid.  She was the only living, breathing soul in the Wasteland, in the earth, in the universe.  Everything around her melted in reverance.  For once, her eyes—wet and scarlet things—were red-hot phantoms of fury, and not the color-drained victims that she had long imagined they were.  For over two years she had suffered and starved in the pits of that desolate abyss.  Suddenly, the only excuse she had for it was that she still hadn't woken up from her first fitful night of sobs under a screaming stormfront above.

        She looked once more into the black depths of the chasm.  In the darkness, there was suddenly color, peaking through the slits in the bars of the arcane vault, then smiling, winking, and flying away.  The time had at last come to follow her.

        With a deep breath, Scootaloo...






        ...stood up from the edge of the metal platform and lowered her copper goggles over her eyes.  The thunder was dwindling.  The lightning was darting away.  The lengths of Petra bowed below her.  Imps were clever but foolish creatures; they knew nothing of the last pony, they knew nothing of the hoofed queen of the Wasteland.  It was time that they all learned a lesson, a truth tempered by the wounds of Ages, years that belonged to Scootaloo and Scootaloo alone.

        Spitting into the face of gravity, Scootaloo dove off the edge of the imp city's roof and surged down the glittering golden height of Petra.  Soon, she was soaring towards the Harmony.  Once landing at the zeppelin's entrance, she...





        ...scrambled up the ladder to the upper loft of the barn, carrying her bent metal tray behind her.  It was the Monday after the Best Young Flier's Competition in Cloudsdale.  That morning, Rainbow Dash had dropped the little filly off in the middle of Ponyville and gone to Sugarcube Corner to celebrate with her five closest friends.  In the warm rays of a glittering afternoon, the white bandage shone along the filly's rear leg.

        Unaffected by her pained limb, the foal scurried over towards a suitcase full of tools.  Still riding a rapid heart-beat of excitement from the previous day's party with the Wonderbolts, Scootaloo grabbed a hammer and prepared to beat the bent surface of her metal platform back into shape.  Before she even took so much as one swing, the filly stopped.

        She gazed long and hard at the rusted metal contraption in her grasp.  That day was just like any other, but she couldn't help but feel as if a part of her had been born again.  Suddenly, what was once a pride of the past was merely a shadow of long dead things.  The only reason they were dead was because new colors of hope had flown down to replace them.

        It wasn't that hard to believe.  After all, yesterday was her foalday.

        Scootaloo smiled.  With each progressive breath, that same grin widened and widened until it morphed into something devilish.  With a triumphant grunt, she tossed the bent metal tray away like the useless junk it was.  All the colorless memories of pain and regret rattled into obscurity along with it.  The filly hoisted a tiny saddlebag over her flank, slid down the steps, and scampered briskly out of the barn, heading towards the landfill on the other side of Ponyville.  Piercing through the edge of the forest's treeline, the filly...






        ...planted her hooves firmly in place atop a hill of granite rubble.  The last pony was scarred and bruised in a dozen places.  She was lacking sleep and nourishment.  She never felt stronger in her entire life.

        The wide bowels of Clousdale hung before her.  Gray twilight swam in dull bands like runway lights.  The snow parted ways, splitting the desolation in two.  The spotlight was on her.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  Her wings slowly unfolded.  The filly's limbs tightened, the muscles pulling taut like iron cables under angry brown flesh.

        It was a sneer and not a smirk that pulled her forward.  Her trot turned into a canter and her canter turned into a gallop.  Scootaloo pierced the depths of the earth.  Life was a comedy act, and she was lucidly aware of the bumps one took in pratfalling across the stage.

        Scootaloo leaped high.  She soared through pale twilight.  She knew what was coming before gravity delivered it.  The filly refused to close her eyes.

        “Nnngh—Augh!”  She slammed into the ground, tumbled, and skidded to a stop on the edge of the plateau.  Wincing, she got right back up.  She gazed up at the gray overcast above the pit.  She then looked at her wings.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Brown feathers caught the air, then billowed as the pegasus' appendages flapped and flapped desperately.  It was not enough.  She plummeted towards the ground like a brown sack of rocks.

        “Unnngh!”  She winced and hissed as she slid down a powdery hill of ash.  Snarling, she hopped up within a single blink.  “Nnngh!”  She ran again, she flapped her wings, she jumped into the cold dead thick of the Wasteland.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Scootaloo sailed hard into a wall of sky marble.

        “Augh!”  She tumbled.  She rolled to a stop across a promontory of ivory rock, hissing through clenched teeth.

        The filly's wings were twitching.  She was bruised in over a dozen places.  She bled from the lips and ears and her insides felt like they would hurl her organs out at the next breath.  She didn't care.

        She was up in the air the longest that time.  She had counted the seconds.  However, on every occasion, as soon as Scootaloo flapped her wings and struggled for lift, she simply fell.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath and stood up on wobbly legs.  She sucked saliva into the corner of her mouth, spat a wad of red juices into the rocks below, and gazed up once more into the dead sky.

        She was dealing with a problem.  She had dealt with problems before; she had even fixed many of them.  The air was so cold, the snow positively blistering.  It was hard to concentrate the soonest her face hurled into the ashen winds of the Clousdalian pits.

        Blinking, the filly gazed over her shoulder.  She spotted a mountain of rubble that had become vaguely familiar to the scavenger over the last two years.  Twirling about, her hooves grinded over the loose pebbles of sky marble and took her galloping into the crumpled shell of a Cloudsdalian snowflake factory.  Once there, she...





        ...ripped an entire tray full of tools loose from underneath the runeforging table of the Harmony's hangar level.  Balancing the tray atop two brown wings, the last pony gathered as many tiny nick-nacks and jars of moondust that she could.  With three legs at her disposal, the scavenger hobbled over to the far end of the dark-lit lower section of the gondola.

        She poured the many rattling objects all over the bulkheads and proceeded to use the entire floor as her workbench.  She squatted down and dragged random objects into the space before her, hammering them together to build the first of many mechanical pieces: a complex grappling hook launcher.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Scootaloo finished spooling over thirty meters of metal cable around a copper spindle.  She affixed this to the grappling hook while leaving two separate chambers rune stones.  Lowering a dark pair of shades over her head, she whipped out a welding tool, sparked it to life, and started fusing together the disparate pieces of a complex metal rig.  The hangar level of the gondola flickered with the torch's bright strobes, illuminating every bright pink hue of the mare's long mane.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Hot steam billowed in purple manalight as Scootaloo finished enchanting the last of several  new runestones freshly carved out of moonrock.  She took one glowing piece and slapped it firmly into a chamber of the grappling hook launcher.  Afterwards, she took another runestone—a long and silver cylinder of moonrock—and fastened it to the end of a metal hook.

        Once the hook and the cylinder were fused together, she slid the slender end of the conjoined object down the barrel of a copper rifle.  She proceeded next to attach a copper-framed sight to the top of the gun, just above the barrel—which had been lengthened at the last second by an expert augmentation.

        Laying the weapon on the runeforging table, Scootaloo stood back and gazed at it, then at the grappling hook launcher.  Two things were missing.  She needed an explosive, and she needed a means by which to carry that explosive along the grappling hook.

        Suddenly, the adult pegasus' eyes twitched under her goggles.  She glanced aside towards the far end of the hangar level.  A glinting metal object was rolling up against a wall in the slow sway of the Harmony's weight.  Exhaling away any reluctance, the last pony rushed over and...





        ...stealthily clung to the undercarriage of the garbage wagon as it rolled through the gates of the Ponyville landfill.  Before the pony-drawn cart came to a rattling stop, the little filly hopped down and scampered out of sight of the shuffling workers.  She climbed up a mountain of junk like she so sneakly had on many an afternoon previous.

        Gazing all around, she brightened upon seeing the remains of a bent and battered bicycle.  She slid over to it and gasped with foalish delight to see that the handlebars were still in perfect shape.  It took the better part of twenty minutes, but she managed to snap the top piece of the handles loose from the rest of the bike.  Shoving them into her petite saddlebag, she scampered off towards another mountain of junk and scavenged for more treasures.

        Gradually, as the afternoon bled into a crimson evening, she found such priceless objects.  She grabbed a bunch of wheels from a collapsed conveyor belt, a slender pipe from the plumbing of a kitchen sink, dozens upon dozens of metal nuts and screws, and even a little filly's bike helmet.

        At last, she found a long metal plank that she judged to be part of a cooking stove's framework.  This, she hoisted over the back of her spine and bravely carried out of the landfill just as the cover of night fell to assist her in her escape.  Giggling in an excited breath of adventure, she carried her victorious loot of junk into the forest—pausing only once so as not to kill herself with exhaustion.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


        That night, Scootaloo had five whole candles lit—the most she'd had ever illuminated the loft of the barn in all the months she had been in Ponyville.  It was a dim spotlight at best, but she made the best out of it as the dark hours lurched on, during which she spent sweating, straining, and hammering away at her new purpose.

        Licking her lips in concentration, Scootaloo bore a hole in the front end of the metal strut.  She slid the slender metal pipe in and fastened it in place.  She took the bicycle handles and attached them to either side of the vertical pipe, taking extra time to wield a rusted file and smooth the jagged edges of her hoofwork.

        Next, she attached the wheels, tightened the spokes, and greased them up with a half-empty can she had scavenged from the landfil on her way out.  She even took time to polish the metal surface until the thing took on a silver shine in the morning sun that was presently rising up over the hilltops.

        There was no time to sleep.  Scootaloo was too alive.  She paced about the length of the loft, her blood vessels bubbling, her hooves brushing past the candles that had melted straight through to the base of their wax holders.  Strapping the purple helmet over her head, she stood at a proud distance and gazed, smirking, at...





        ...the tiny metal scooter which had been rigged to the grappling mechanism.  Bending down, the last pony drew the metal cord from the grappler and attached it to the cylinder and hook that had been planted in the barrel of her rifle.  She practiced aiming the gun, seeing where the trajectory of the magically propelled hook would drag the length of the cable that was wired into the rigged scooter.

        She lowered the weapon and stood in the middle of the Harmony, tapping her hoof in thought as her scarlet eyes swam over the barren length of the childhood transportation.  After a space in time, she placed the weapon down and grabbed a hoof-full of explosive mana runes.  She knew where she wanted to plant them on the metal contraption, but she suddenly realized she had run out of wire fasteners to accomplish the task with.

        The pony's nostrils flared in momentary consternation.  She juggled the runes in her grasp, thinking hard.  Suddenly, she paused.  After a lasting blink, she tilted her head up and gazed towards the pilot's cabin of the gondola.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo grabbed the golden lyre off the wall of souvenirs above the worktable.  Without a second thought, the last pony raised the musical artifact in her grasp and smashed it against a bulkhead.  Shards of priceless metal went flying in the flickering lanternlight.  She didn't bother with the shrapnel, instead freeing the harpstrings to her manipulation.  She spun these around her hooves before hoisting various other treasures off the wall, one by one.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Using a grinding wheel, Scootaloo reduced half of the brick of Stalliongrad masonry into dust.  She briefly lapped a sneeze of the brown powder with her tongue and tasted it.  It wasn't exactly ogre fire granite, but the compound was similar enough to make a spectacular compound explosive with.  She proceeded to work at the runeforging table, mixing the grounded up bits of the brick with moondust.

        After fusing and enchanting the material, she painted it over the explosive manarunes and tied them to the length of the scooter via the harpstrings of Lyra's musical instrument.  When she ran out of the metal cords, she went back up to the top level of the gondol and fetched a buffalo headdress.  Ripping the feathers and beads off, she tore the article down to its basic fibres and used it to strap the last of the explosive mixtures in place.

        She still needed a trigger to rig the explosives.  Scootaloo achieved this by smashing Dr. Whooves' tool to bits and using the springs she found to fix the Appleloosan railroad spike to the front of the scooter.  Once the last of the runestones was in place, she had finished her dastardly masterpiece.  With an anxious breath, Scootaloo...




        ...held the bottle in her mouth while slicing at the end of it with a rusted saw.  Repeating an elementary crafting job, the last pony sat in the upside-down snowflake factory of fallen Cloudsdale and fashioned herself the second of two transparent lenses.  Rows of partially shattered bottles and metal snow containers reflected her in a dazzling gray kaleidoscope while she worked.

        Hours later, she was framing the circular bits of glass with copper rings salvaged from a guardpony armory.  With the aid of a canvas strap, she fixed the twin lenses to a flexible band which she sowed into a loop at the end.

        Wiping a trickle of sweat from her brow, the last pony finished by polishing the lenses and holding them up to her scrutinizing eyes.  She took a deep breath.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The fresh new goggles fit snugly over Scootaloo's shaved head.  They glinted like twin phantoms in the twilight as she stood once more atop a mound of gray rubble.  The filly stared out into the wide, black chasms of the abysmal ruins before her.  Her jaw grew tight and her lungs heaved.  She took one brave breath, then two...

        Her wings flew out to her side.

        A gust of cold, ashen wind dipped down as if to scare the foal in her back to the surface.  She merely inhaled it, and grew stronger.

        Scootaloo moved.

        She charged forward.  She bulleted ahead like a brown ghost, the last pegasus of Cloudsdale.  Princess Nebula left the earth long ago because her work had finished.  Scootaloo was about to do the same.  Her galloping hooves were lonely gunshots in the frozen wounds of the world.  She was tired of festering, tired of bleeding, tired of dying.  The last living pony was a pitiable soul, but she was still alive.

        The edge of the plateau shot up from underneath her.  Scootaloo's eyes flared crimson under the goggles.  There was no more knifing snow to blind her beyond that which she allowed.  She hissed into it, snarled even, and leaped off the edge of a shout before leaping off the edge of the sky marble cliff in turn.

        Scootaloo held her breath.  The colorless world lunged around her, and yet Rainbow Dash wouldn't stop winking from beyond the black bars of the vault.

        Rainbow Dash was a brazen soul too awesome for death to swallow, no matter how many stones were buried atop her corpse.  She tore hurricanes in half.  She outraced the Wonderbolts.  The wind was not an impediment to her; it was a toy.  The skies followed Rainbow Dash's command, because the pegasus knew from the day that she was foaled who was the star of the show.  Life was not full of impossibilities, it was merely full of new and more exciting acts before the final curtain fell.

        Scootaloo was the last pony.  She had her entire life, the entire depths of the moldable universe, with which to make the impossible happen, again and again.  She had what Rainbow Dash didn't have, the chance to be the one and final show-stopper.  The wind would have no choice but to obey her as well.

        And it did.  Scootaloo didn't even need to try.  So long as she held her wings out, and hoped for the best, she caught the air.  She only needed to flap her wings when she felt like it.

        When she did, she jolted upwards in a maddening climb.  The filly gasped, her eyes bulging under the goggles as she flailed about briefly in midair.  Her heart beat a million kilometers per instant.  She was panicking, and panicking was most uncool.  She blinked one last time, and a pair of cuddling pegasi flickered in a pond's reflection.  Her eyes twitched.  The depths of Cloudsdale was gliding beneath her.  She relaxed her wings.  She glided once more.  The last pony realized she hadn't started counting the seconds.  So she did so, belatedly, and gave up about two minutes into the flight.

        She was breathing hard.  The distance between Manehattan and Ponyville was shrinking a kilometer-per-heartbeat in her pulsating mind.  The gliding trek to Cloudsdale was suddenly a sneeze.  She saw a wall of sky marble coming towards her, but could have sworn she was pulling it closer the entire time.

        Calmly, with the grace of a sparrow, she flung her limbs up and caught the vertical wall with the bottom of her hooves.  She clung to the wall, defying gravity, for what felt like an eternity.  She felt the kinetic forces at work, surging through her, deflating before the pull of the earth.  She timed her springing legs just right, depending on a natural ballast in her pegasus heart.

        “Nnngh!”

        Scootaloo kicked off the wall.  She flapped her wings—briefly—and flew higher this time.  She hyperventilated, not out of fear but out of a sudden fever as her body vibrated from the inside out as if she had been set on fire.  Scootaloo suddenly understood what made birds sing, and it wasn't the warmth of spring.  The snowy air sliced into her coat with frigid teeth.  It merely tickled.

        She angled her wings and dipped low.  She tilted them the other way and rose in a brief gust.  The world no longer had up or down.  Rainbow Dash herself could spin loops around the flagpost atop Ponyville's town hall without throwing up.  Scootaloo whimpered, for suddenly a tiny slice of the awesomeness was becoming palpable.  Pegasi weren't just born with wings; they entered the world full of feathery quills to paint the ceiling of the world with guile and joy.  She simultaneously understood Pinkie Pie's envy and Gilda's tears, for she was about to draw a masterpiece of her own.

        Scootaloo sucked her breath in and coiled her legs.  She flexed her wings once, twice, then shot straight up, falling in reverse, piercing the dead ceiling of an even deader world as she rocketed—screaming—towards the flimsy gray veil of the Wasteland above.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        The hanging ruins of Cloudsdale blurred by.  The collapsed columns of sky marble became indistinguishable streaks.  The dead waterfalls and guardpony corpses and heaps of ashen moonrock spun into a cylinder of collapsing memories  as Scootaloo pierced the tunnel of it all—seething—and emerged from the pit like a rising phoenix, parting the gray clouds that hung over the abyss with her earthen wings.

        Rising up, she briefly levitated, flipped over, and flapped her wings as she took off horizontally over the surface of the world.  In the unfiltered twilight, everything was blinding, bright, and immaculate.  The snowy desolation was a blank slate, and the lone pegasus of Cloudsdale was carving her future across it, diving low and ripping up powdery mounds of earth with her furious swoops and winged glides.

        Her heart never stopped beating.  Her lungs sucked in gails of rapture while spitting out all her fears.  Death was merely an encore to the end of something, something she was presently peeling off of her blood-stained coat with each successive wave of g-force that she was hurling herself against.  The lenses of her goggles were starting to fog from the joyous tears of the moment.  She didn't care.  She didn't need her eyes to see the future.  All the colors were illuminating her path from the past.  Scootaloo was weightless because Rainbow Dash was carrying her, and yet she wasn't.  Her smile shone like a lost moon over the deathscape, for even sadness had its own shades of awesome.

        Rising high and twirling like a mad falcon over the gaping pit of Cloudsdale, the airborne pony flung her mouth open and howled at the top of her lungs.






        “Wooo-Hoooo!”

        Scootaloo's tail-hairs billowed in the sunlight at the height her jump.  Bracing herself with a smile, she landed the freshly built scooter at the base of the hill, fluttered her tiny wings behind her petite body, and accelerated herself even faster over the countryside.

        Grass and flecks of dirt flew every which way from the spinning wheels.  The filly gripped the handles in the crook of her hooves, guiding herself forward by the whim of a dashing smirk as warm winds of the morning whistled past the curves of her helmet.

        The grand rolling fields of Equestria stretched green beneath her.  It may as well have been a river of emerald rapids.  Scootaloo roared over them like a skipping stone, fluttering her wings and aiming towards the crest of the next hilltop.

        She flew through the air.  Counting seconds oozing by, the athletic little filly kicked her lower legs up off the airborne metal platform of the scooter until her lower half hung horizontally.  With a flick of her upper limb, she twirled the scooter by its handles beneath her once, twice, and landed her feet down just as the thing struck soil again.  There was a brief skidding sound, a spray of dirt, and Scootaloo was soon coasting along at a heart-pounding rate.

        She laughed.  She drank in the warmth of the world.  Rainbow Dash was awesome.  The Wonderbolts were awesome.  Now, Scootaloo had found her own little slice of coolness.  It may not have earned her a cutie mark, but it didn't stop her from eating her helping from the pie of life.

        Gritting her teeth, she fluttered her wings hard and pushed herself even faster.  When she kicked at the earth, her bandaged limb stung with delicious pain.  Life was too short to sob over things that could be fixed.  It was, however, long enough to build things that could be celebrated.





        Scootaloo's victory dance was a cyclonic flight, inching her closer and closer to the outer ruins of Cloudsdale so that she dipped dangerously low over the collapsed buildings and jagged marble-work of the place.  Smiling, she dashed under ivory archways and soared in between granite columns.  She found half of Cloudsdale Coliseum lying on its side and zig-zagged her way through the multiple stone support beams holding the last standing curves of the eliptical structure together.

        Angling her wings, she pulled herself up high, spun about, and dipped low so that she was gliding over an ash-laden pool of grimy water in the center of collapsed city block.  She gazed down and saw a pair of goggled scarlets blinking up at her.  It was there that Scootaloo met the scavenger of the future, and the scavenger of the future met the orphan of time.  She reached a hoof down in mid-glide, and the rippling waters parted ways, showing her the degree to which she could shape or shatter the colors she had to work with, even if she had to reinvent many of those extinct shades.

        The filly's nostrils flared.  In a sudden breath of determination, she tossed her smile to the winds, banked off to the side, and dove back into the pits from which she came.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Before a deep cave in the sunken ruins of Clousdale, the goblins' fort stood mostly intact, in spite of the many trollish claw marks that blemished the lengths of the wooden fences.  Emaciated, thinning imps huddled in quiet corners, working on the latest worthless projects while Devo of Hex Blood paced about, running a hand through his short white hair as he pondered over the next task to scavenge food and supplies from the horrible abyss within which his entire company of goblins was perpetually stuck.

        Every face was pale and lifeless.  Every pair of eyes had been drained of hope; every clawed hand twitched and convulsed with the need to manifest Petra.

        Squatting low, toying pointlessly with a series of metal trinkets in his grasp, Matthais sighed in the shadows.  He reached a hand up and scratched the back of his pale neck.  Suddenly, the shadows around him doubled.  Blinking, he glanced up, as did all of the goblins around him.  Every imp's jaw dropped in amazement.

        With a loud clatter, a clump of immaculate goblin tools fell onto the stone plateau before them all.  Grappling hooks, spools of rope and twine, and steam pistols—previously unobtainable—were now forming a glorious pile in the middle of the granite space.  Soon, two pairs of brown hooves landed on the ground.  With a rustle of feathers, a pair of majestic wings folded before the imps' gawking eyes.

        Devo of Hex Blood shuffled over while a numb Matthais stumbled up to his feet.  The latter goblin in question glanced at the tools, at his clan leader, then at the equine figure in front of them all.  “You... Y-You finally got them...”

        The last pony raised a pair of goggles.  Calm scarlets drank the gathering group of half-lings in. She merely stared and said nothing.

        Matthais shivered.  A blue hand rested on his shoulder.  He glanced back at his superior.

        Devo was smiling at him, a very tranquil expression, as if this very moment had been spiritually sewn into the fabric of fate two years ago.

        The pale goblin took a deep breath.  Weathering a brave smile of his own, he clasped his hands together and leaned forward towards the pony.  “How... H-How could we ever repay you?”

        Scootaloo pivoted on her hooves.  She viciously and quite deliberately bucked the pale imp in the gut.

        “Nnngh!”  Matthais fell to his knees, clutching his chest and wheezing sharply.  His eyes twitched and teared.

        “Hmmm...”  Scootaloo's lip curved slightly as she ran a hoof over her shaved mane.  “Well, getting on your knees is a start.”

        Devo blinked.  A rise of chuckles blossomed into a sea of laughter as the hysteria of the moment loosened the hopeless limbs of all the imps that were watching.  They rushed forward and seized the tools in a single, mad dash, fixing the kinks in them and reveling in their preserved condition.

        The prime Hex-Bleeder turned towards Scootaloo, smiling gently.  “It never ceases to amaze me.  Even in the bleakest of graves, your kind have managed to spark magic in this world.  And after all that's happened—”

        Scootaloo raised a hoof to silence him.  “I've only realized that I'm alive.  Now, do me a favor.”

        “Name it.”

        “Realize it too.”  She backtrotted from the fort as the goblins prepared to make an exit plan with the grappling tooks at their disposal.  “And make something with it to be proud of.  Your legacy will go beyond your lives.  That's something I wish I had.”

        Devo took a deep breath.  He hesitated briefly, as if he wasn't certain if this was the correct moment to make such a brave leap.  Ultimately, he chose to say, “I wonder... if I may have something to give you, pony.”

        “Nothing that I can't give myself,” she said with a brief glare.

        He blinked.  It was something meditative, and not disappointed, that made him say, “If you insist.”  His last expression was a proud one.  Scootaloo did not expect to see him give her another one in that lifetime.

        She gave Matthais one last glance.

        Still wincing, the pale goblin clutched his chest and looked back up at her.

        Scootaloo blinked.  She lowered the goggles over her eyes... and smiled.

        Matthais ever so weakly, ever so humbly returned one.  Two victims of the Wasteland shared the same breath, and then were separated from sheer altitude as Scootaloo took her leave, soaring upward as fast as her wings could take her.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Hours later, Scootaloo landed somewhere she hadn't ever ventured on her own.  She set her hooves down upon an endless stretch of overcast clouds high above the surface of the desolate earth.

        Pulling her goggles to the top of her shaved head, the last pony exhaled a vaporous breath into the dead ceiling of the world.  She folded her hooves underneath her and stared up into the perpetual twilight, breathing calmly, getting herself acquainted with eternity.






        Her smile was a placid thing, calm and meditative, hardly indicative of a foal her age.  Scootaloo's heart was beating rapidly, and still she stood there atop a tree-laden hill, staring out into the green expanse of Equestria, drinking in a world that was once too amazing to deserve her daredevilish speed and awesomeness.  Suddenly, overnight, it had become hers to have adventures in.  Each day promised a fresh dawn of discovery, a brand new crusade.

        As she leaned against the body of her scooter, a sound rustled behind her.  Blinking in the glow of the afternoon sun, Scootaloo slowly spun around.  She watched as a petite white unicorn stumbled awkwardly out of a row of bushes beside a tree.  The snow-white filly blushed, as if ashamed to have been caught staring at her.  She appeared familiar somehow, though Scootaloo could hardly draw a picture in her head.  The booming voice of Nightmare Moon briefly sounded off in her ears and was gone again.

        “I'm sorry,” the unicorn filly said in a melodic voice.  “I wasn't spying on you.  I just saw you performing all of those really cool tricks on that scooter earlier, and I figured it must have been your super awesome talent.”

        “Well, you're sure right about one thing.”  Scootaloo smirked proudly. She unhooked the chinstraps of the helmet and took it off, flinging her pink mane free.  “I am awesome.”

        The unicorn bit her lip, gulped, then pointed.  “But... But then I noticed you don't have a cutie mark.”

        “Yeah, so?”

        “Well, my name’s Sweetie Belle, and I don't have a cutie mark either,” the little unicorn said, demurely hiding her flank with the length of her tail hairs.  “And I always felt bad about it.  But if a pony like you could do such cool things without a cutie mark, then maybe I've finally found somepony really magnificent and stupendous to convalesce with!  Huh?  What do you say?”

        Scootaloo stared at her.  She blinked.  “Pffft!”  She then snorted and rolled her eyes with a hideous smirk.  “What are you, some kind of friggin' dictionary?!”






        Scootaloo unscrewed the cap to her canteen.  As the Harmony glided towards a high altitude, she turned around and stared at the augmented scooter full of runestones standing in front of her.  In a deep breath, she stood back and raised the drinking container up high in a toast.

        “Here's to making the impossible happen.  It is ever a labor of love...”

        She took a swig, gulped, swallowed, and exhaled.

        Smirking, she added.  “...and explosions.”

        The last pony slapped the cap back onto the canteen with finality.






        Fredden's shades fogged over.  He stared numbly into the dead horizon of the Wasteland as he rode a gremlin hovercraft along the length of the monorail track.  A few final flashes of lightning flickered overhead, then died off.  The stormfront had come to a close.  Haman's plan was about to go into fruition, only there was suddenly a hitch to it.  The dark-haired bodyguard was the one soul cursed with explaining it to a certain shape-shifter.

        The dormant train came into view.  A silent steam engine stood still on the tracks, its front end aimed at the distant glowing sight of Petra to the east.  Behind the train engine, three whole freight cars rested, their weighted chassis bound together.  Fredden knew all about the plan, though he had hoped to be far, far away with Haman when it was executed.  In less than an hour, Razzar was to give the order to Otto.  The Rust-Bleeders would start the engine and send it careening on a one-way path towards Petra.  The second car from the engine was stocked to the brim with fire granite bombs, and once it slammed into the Fourth Platform, the resulting explosion would bring the weight of the top thirty-one struts—including the stalk itself—all falling to an imploding doom.  Razzar and her cohorts would detach the third car of the train and watch the destruction from the monorail track.  As scheduled, one of Haman's airships would pick them up.  Payments would be made, and the business partners would split ways.  The pits of skymarble, no longer guarded by goblins and gremlins, would become property of an army of Mountain Ogres already en route.

        Everything was perfect, a contract bound by blood, until Haman's very blood was shed.  A pegasus wildcard had just been thrown into the mix.  Fredden knew more than any other imp just what kind of a problem they were dealing with.  For a brief moment, he didn't know who was making his heart beat harder, the naga or the pony.

        Sighing, he shook the shivers away and spoke into the communicator wired to his shoulder.  “Fredden here.  I need to have a word with Miss Ryst.”

        “Scrkkk—Hop on board.  This had better be good.”

        Fredden exhaled long and hard.  “Oh, it's positively euphoric,” he droned.

        The gremlin hovercraft slowed to a stop.  The wide, horizontal door of the first car opened up like a rusted tomb.  The vehicle drifted towards it and Fredden hopped on board the train.  A masked gremlin's metallic voice chirped through the whipping winds of the elevated monorail track.

        “When should you come back to pick me up?”  Fredden repeated, glancing over his shoulder.  After a breath, he fidgeted.  “I'll... get back to you on that.”

        The gremlin pilot shrugged and steered the vehicle away.  The metal door of the train slid shut behind Fredden, slamming with a loud clang.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Otto led Fredden towards the second car, past several clambering Rust-Bleeders as the imps put the finishing touches on the explosive stockpile.  Fredden lingered briefly upon shuffling past the many granite fire bombs.  Clearing his voice, he adjusted his goggles and stood in the center of the second car as Otto walked up and tapped the shoulder of the tall mercenary.

        Razzar slowly turned around, her scales a blood-red hue.  It was the first time Fredden had seen her completely in her natural form.  He bit his lip as Otto walked to the far end of the car and Razzar paced over towards him.

        “Fredden boomer... Your hair looks grayer this afternoon.  Is retirement that delicious already?  The ogres will certainly grant you and Haman with sanctuary.  I doubt they will give you back your youth, yes yesss?”

        The chief bodyguard smiled nervously.  “Uhm, yes, well... You see, there's... uhm...”  Fredden paused, blinking, for he saw Warden chained to the pipes for the first time.  “The heck is he still doing here?”

        “Smelling good,” Razzar spat.  “Which is the least I can say about you.”

        “He's given you that spiffy looking green flame.  What do you need him around for?”

        “Some boomers, Fredden...” Razzar marched over and towered before the trembling bodyguard.  She hissed, “Earn their silver just by existing.  If he won't help me find more green flame, then maybe he'll make a good slave to the ogres.  Creatures who can crawl into tight spaces and live beyond twenty stormfronts are worth more than your last ten years of salary combined.  Now...”  She showed her razor-sharp teeth in the reflection of his shades.  “...what are you here to spit that Haman himself couldn't appear personally for?  Hmmm?”

        “It's... It's...”  Fredden adjusted his shades, took a deep breath, and simply let forth, “It's the pony, Miss Ryst.  She's created a... complication.”

        Warden gasped, his aquamarine eyes brightening from where he sat beside the pipes.

        Razzar's right eye twitched rapidly.  “Hmmmm—What kind of a complication?”

        “Haman is asking that we d-delay the execution...”  Fredden gulped.  “For maybe a day, if need be.”

        “Answer one spit at a time, Fredden-boomer.”  Razzar's breath fogged his glasses as she leaned over him.  “What kind of a complication?”

        “Haman... h-has unwittingly compromised the details of this operation to that Dimming spawn of sky stealers!”  Fredden exclaimed in a sudden, angry passion.  “She squeezed it out of him!  You should see Haman.  It's horrible.  He looks like a mess!”

        Warden's vest twitched from the rapidity of his beating heart.  He gulped and shivered with excitement as his pointed ears pricked to hear more.

        Razzar tilted her head to the side.  She brought a hand up and nibbled on one knuckle.  “Hmmm... Just how much did Haman tell my darling, demonic sister...?”

        “S-Sister...?”

        “How... much....?”

        Fredden winced, his teeth showing.  “Uhm... everything...”

        “Everything?”

        He nodded.  “Everything.”  He gulped.  “She even got him to tell her about the Valley of Jewels and the goblin slaves.”  His whole body shuddered.  “So far, there's no sign of her having gone to Devo with this information, but Haman described her as a mad horse.  There's no knowing what crap she might try to pull!  If we're going to blow up this city full of ungrateful clans, we gotta do it when there's not a single pathetic soul to stand in our way, not even a glue stick.  Haman asks that you delay for the time being.”

        “Where is Haman now?”

        “He's recovering up in Strut Twenty-One.  He... uh... he's hoping that you'll listen to reason.”  Fredden bit his lip.  “B-Because he's already canceled his flight to the rendezvous coordinates with the Mountain Ogres, Razzar.”

        The naga took a deep breath.  Suddenly, her twitching stop.  Her right eye became even with her left, and the dark slits within her irises widened, as if birthing the black sludge of a perpetually dead ocean.  She paced away from him, her clawed fingers flexing above her pistol holsters.

        Fredden wrung his hands together behind her back and exclaimed, “I'm so sorry, Razzar.  But it's for the best that we wait a little longer.  Haman told me to tell you that he'll increase your share of the profit by fifteen percent.  Just one more day.  That's all he asks.  I... I-I will deal with the glue stick problem myself.”

        “You... boomer?”  Razzar murmured over her shoulder.  “Just like you so expertly protected Haman like a good little bodyguard and prevented all of this unnecessary spit?”

        “I... I-I...”  Fredden fidgeted.  His shaded eyes fell to the explosives beside him.  Otto and the other Rust-Bleeders suddenly shuffled away from him.  Glancing up, he gasped, for he saw why.

        Razzar was standing in front of him, planting her clawed hands on his shoulders in what almost looked like the beginning of an embrace.  But then she spoke, “You betrayed me, Fredden.”

        “R-Razzar—!”

        “You broke my heart.”  Her eyeslits flared and her jaw opened wide.

        “No!  Razzar, wait!”  He shrieked, trembling, his shades rattling off his nose to reveal a pair of ghostly wide eyes.  “Please—I'll get Haman to double your strips!  Just don't—”

        His voice was swallowed, just as his face was swallowed.  Two lacerated rows of teeth clamped onto his head, twisted and pulled.  A huge, quivering chunk of flesh from his eyebrows to his bottom lip was torn free from his cranium.  Whatever was left alive in his head sputtered and gargled blood.  His meaty body fell under a sea of horrific convulsions.

        Warden almost wretched.  Otto and the other imps winced visibly.

        Razzar yanked her head towards the ceiling of the train, her neck undulating like a vulture's throat as she swallowed Fredden's dismembered face.  With a final gulp, the naga let loose a guttural growl and aimed her blood-dripping frown towards the spasming body beneath her.  She hissed, “Double the juiciness of your eyes before you ruin a naga's contract.”

        Warden whimpered, his legs scuttling away from a fresh pile of Fredden's blood warmly oozing toward him.  With a splash, Razzar's sharp feet plodded through it, trailing crimson tracks as she walked over and stood before the twelve, frozen-stiff Rust-Bleeders gawking at her.

        “Hmmm... Start the engine,” Razzar murmured, wiping the crimson fluids from her chin with a forearm flaked with dry flesh.  “Haman should have followed up what his spit has started.  The Mountain Ogres want this city turned to dust, and they're going to get it.”

        “But... B-But boss!”  Otto stammered, shrugging his stocky arms as he stood before her.  “You heard what happened!  Haman's not leaving Strut Twenty-One!  If we go through with the plan, so does our employer—!”

        “Start the engine!”  Razzar roared at him, blood dribbling off her gaping jaws as the naga's eyes flared.  “There’s no getting off this train we’re on!  All that survives in the Wasteland is scavengers.  One way or another, Haman's payment is ours, even if we have to dig his filthy silver up out of the rubble!”  She growled and nibbled twitchingly on her torn knuckle as she stared into the blood and bombs and beyond.  “I'll share the profits with each and everyone of you, yes yes yesss—or else I'll share your livers!  It's your choice, boomers.  Spit or survive!”

        The dozen Rust-Bleeders shared nervous glances.  Otto took the lead.  The stout goblin marched towards the engine of the train one car down.  The rest of the imps took their stations, readying the mechanical releases to the third car.  By the time Fredden's meaty corpse finally stopped spasming, a hiss of steam filled the claustrophobic vehicles.  The train lurched on the monorail tracks, and with a steady chug it glided east towards Petra, and the resulting holocaust to come.

        Warden watched as Razzar paced across the bloodied floor, reaching once more for the jar of green flame.  The naga palmed the thing in her grasp, staring at it like a mother would gaze shamefully at a child that had just soiled itself.

        “I never thought I would again see the color green without it being boomer flesh,” the naga muttered in a briefly calm voice.  “Here it is in my hand, hotter than sea currents, and I too have to squeeze it for silver.”  She glared down at the bound teenager.  “You must think me a monster.  Pray tell, what has the pony herself murdered to get this?  Hmmm?”

        Warden frowned at her.  “I don't care.  All I know is that when Scootaloo comes to kill you, it won't be murder.  It'll be taking out the trash.”

        Razzar's right eye twitched again.  She slapped the glowing jar down onto the pile of bombs so hard that Warden was almost afraid the glass would break.  She leered bloodily over the tiny imp.  “Sister four hooves knows better.  If she comes here, all she will kill is her future.”

        “She's not your friggin' sister, ya dumb lizard!”  Warden spat.

        Razzar sneered.  “She is more than she will ever be your friend, boomer-lite.  So stop hoping.”

        Warden blinked at that.  His ears suddenly drooped.  Before he could manage a single sigh, the door to the first car forward flew open.

        “Boss!  Boss!”  An imp panted and pointed in the direction of the engine.  “Come look at this!”

        “Nnnngh—What?”  Razzar spun and angrily marched out of the compartment full of bombs.  “This better be worth such frightened spit.”

        “You won't believe what she's doing!”  The imp disappeared with the mercenary beyond view.

        Left behind, Warden's lips parted.  “Sc-Scootaloo...?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The steam engine of the train was a loud, claustrophobic chamber of venting mist and roaring mechanical parts.  A gigantic boiler billowed tongues of flame inside a large, round door through which a soot-stained Rust-Bleeder was shoveling flammable chunks of moon powder.  As the train sped east towards the golden stalk of Petra, three other Rust-Bleeders crowded around the wide stretch of windows framed above the instrument panels of the chugging machine.

        Otto turned and glanced over his shoulder just in time to greet Razzar and the imp leading her inside the compartment.

        “She appeared out of nowhere!  If she's that fast, it's no wonder she snatched Haman under Fredden's watch so easily!”

        “Otto, you never mourned Darper.  Don't smell so bad after Fredden's collapse,” Razzar droned as she stood up and squinted out the windows of the engine along with the five other Rust-Bleeders.  “What's she doing?”

        “I dunno!  She's just standing there!”  Otto exclaimed.  The heat of the nearby boiler formed beads of sweat over the imp thug's balding crown.  “We're going to run her over at this rate!”

        “By the Blight!”  Another goblin shouted.  “She's insane!”

        “She's lost her mind!”

        Razzar squinted, blinked, then cooed, “She's... colorful.”

        Otto and the others did a double-take.  “H-Huh?”  They craned their necks to get a better look as the train sped mercilessly towards the distant equine figure atop the monorail tracks.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo frowned, her nostrils flaring.  She reached a hoof up and dragged a pair of cracked, ruby shades over her angry scarlets.  The last pony stood, wearing the prismatic arcanium weave of the Royal Grand Biv.  A scooter rigged with explosives sat on the monorail bridge before her, facing the distant, incoming steam engine.

        Clad in the armor of colorful, ramcraft regalia, she cocked a copper rifle in her grasp and squinted through the scope, fearlessly staring down the incoming nose of the thundering train.  A cylinder rigged to a grappling hook rested in the barrel of her gun, and the same glinting projectile was attached to the grappling rig of the scooter via a long, copper cord.

        As the Wasteland winds kicked at her spectral coattails, she hissed into the purple aura of the gun's glowing runestone.  “H'rhnum!”

        The cylinder fired from the barrel of the gun.  Sailing like a purple comet, the hook flew along the length of the wire, unspooling with a high-pitched whine from the mechanism rigged to the scooter.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The hook shot through the window of the steam engine and impaled a wall on the other side of the compartment.  All of the goblins winced and shouted in surprise.  A few of them tried desperately to yank the hook and cord out, but to no avail.

        Razzar, in the meantime, was standing like a red statue before the shattered windshields.  She gazed long and hard at the distant speck of the last pony.  Her body slumped in a sad exhale.  “Oh sister, beloved sister, where did we go wrong...?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo took a deep breath and held the smoking rifle up behind the billowing length of the Royal Grand Biv's cowl.

        “Hmmmph,” she afforded herself one last, calm breath.  “And so it is the scooter began, and so it is the scooter shall end.”  She pressed a hoof down onto the body of the childish transportation, a necessary sacrifice for hope.  Leaning her mouth forward, she spoke into the rune built into the grappling hook rig.  “H'lmynhr!”

        Her bracelet of horns glowed.  Magically, the runestone sparked and retracted the spool of copper wiring tying the scooter to the incoming train.

        Next, Scootaloo spoke to the explosive trigger fashioned out of the Appleloosan railroad spike.  “Y'hnyrr!”

        The moondust lining the spring-framed trigger and the multiple explosive compounds glittered with bright purple.

        The train was barreling closer.  The air began to heat up.  The monorail track was vibrating beneath her.

        Just as the spinning spool of bundled cable reached the end of its slack, Scootaloo spoke one last time into a pair of conical shaped runestones fastened to the rear of the scooter.  “M'wynhrm!”

        The moonrock lit up, expeling streams of flame, like rockets.  The cable pulled taut, and Scootaloo released her hoof.  Gliding along the bound length of the cord, the scooter rolled effortlessly along the monorail track—guided by the burning rune thrusters—so that it murderously met the front of the screaming train engine head-on.

        The naga and her multiple imps were already diving for cover, fitfully screaming in horror, as the explosively rigged companion of Scootaloo's childhood sailed straight into the top of the vehicle's chassis.  The resulting fireball lit up the Wasteland ike a second stormfront.  Chunks of metal and steam pipes flew into the smoggy heavens.  The combusting moonrock compound did not halt the speeding train in any respect; Scootaloo didn't expect it to.  What she did plan, however, went off perfectly.  A gigantic hole had been blown in the pilot's compartment of the train engine.  It was wide enough for a pony to fly through, even a phantom like the Royal Grand Biv.

        “Nnngh!”  Scootaloo hopped straight up, flapped her wings twice, and backflipped.  Evening out, she jerked her lower haunches.  With a metallic ringing sound, the prismatic cape of arcanium weave stretched forth a fan of knives.  Slicing through the air with the rusted armor, Scootaloo glided icily towards the incoming train, her ruby goggles reflecting the panicked expressions of many yellow-banded imps as she held the rifle in one hoof and brandished a horseshoe blade with the other.  “Haaaaaaugh!”

        Shrieking like a banshee, the last pony flew a righteous rainbow into the heart of the train.  A sea of armed goblins met her, and they bled for it.



> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - Kaizo Edition pt 7
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Thirty-One – Know Her Name






        A reptilian pair of pale green slits quivered.  For the first time in years, Razzar was seeing color, a furious, diving comet of shades.  Her eyes swam with the rainbow as Scootaloo soared her way through the hole of the train engine's smoldering compartment.  The last pony's ruby goggles sparkled from the flames of her explosive entrance.  Her arcanium cloak billowed on each side of her, the edges of which were brimming with rusted daggers, still sharp with three decades of antiquity.  There was a dark grace to her violent flight, like the fluttering petals of over seven types of flowers combined, and all of them laced with poison.

        Then Razzar blinked, and the many colors drowned under a splashing curtain of red as Scootaloo landed.  The Royal Grand Biv's cloak-blades sliced the throats of two Rust-Bleeders.  Time resumed its rocketing pace.  The two gurgling imps fell meatedly to the floor while Otto and the other two rushed the invader with a combined, bestial roar.

        Scootaloo spun, blocked Otto's punch with the butt of her copper rifle, and shoved him across the claustrophobic train engine compartment.  The second goblin rushed her with a pair of knives.  The last pony blocked one knife with her arcanium weave and deflected the other out of the way with a horseshoe blade.  The third imp—a tiny yellow thing—ran and swung the full weight of his steel shovel.

        The last pony ducked, and the shovel went slamming into a panel of steam-valves.  Sparks rained down on the twitching naga.  “Watch it, boomer!”  Razzar shrieked, struggling to disentangle herself from a metal bulkhead that had fallen over her when the exploding scooter struck the front of the train.  “The steam controls—!”

        The yellow imp paid her little heed.  Hopping over his two dying companions, he swung the shovel down once more towards the pony's cowled forehead.  “Haaaugh!”

        Scootaloo back-trotted in time to duck the swing.  Ruby goggles reflected the dancing orange flames of the speeding train's boiler as she steadied her limbs and prepared herself for the next attack.  The imp shouted in bloodlust and jabbed towards Scootaloo's chest with the moon-stained shovel.  Scootaloo held the length of her copper rifle up in two hooves and met the thrusted shovel down the middle of the weapon.  She then retracted the rifle so that the end of the goblin's bludgeon was stuck between the gun's collapsing stock and hoof-brace.  Twisting her grip of the weapon, she wrenched the shovel out of his grasp before spinning her whole body and bucking him against a panel of steam-powered gauges.  Spiraling to a stop from the end of her three hundred and sixty degree twirl, she extended the rifle and aimed it one-hoofed into his skull.

        “H'rhnum!”

        Whatever shreds of the engine compartment's windows that were left were immediately bathed in brain matter.  Razzar's right eye twitched as half of her scaled face was splattered with the warm juices.  The menacing phantom of the Royal Grand Biv pivoted and aimed the copper rifle full of runestones at the naga's prone figure.

        “Hnnngh!”  Otto rushed in and uppercutted Scootaloo with a fierce set of brass knuckles.  Exhaling sharpling, the last pony flew back, smashing through the door to the engine so that she tumbled like a rainbow sack of potatoes into the first car beyond.  Three goblins were inside the narrow compartment, struggling to stand up under shaking lanternlight as the entire train still wobbled from the last pony's violent entrance.  At the sight of her, they immediately unholstered their steam pistols and took aim.

        Scootaloo looked up, her goggles reflecting their shiny gun barrels.  Biting her lip, she jumped straight up to her hooves and flung the full length of the old outfit's arcanium cloak over her figure.  The three Rust-Bleeders fired a wild volley of steambolts her way.  Her side of the train car sparked and danced with the red-hot ballistics.  She gritted her teeth and tensed her limbs as the ramcrafted cloak absorbed the brunt of the weaponry.

        From the engine, Otto and the other surviving goblin poked their heads out—only to duck and flinch as random steambolts littered the swaying doorframe around them.  “By the Blight!”  Otto shouted as Razzar finally disentangled herself from the mess of metal in the engine compartment behind him.  “Hit what you're frickin' aiming at!”

        The three goblins on the far end of the car were too busy reloading their smoking weapons to follow through with Otto's furious command.  Scootaloo took advantage of it.  Holding her breath, she unfurled her cloak, galloped towards them, then tossed the body of her rifle down with her teeth.  The copper rifle slid smoothly across the length of the compartment, gliding beneath the legs of the panicked Rust Blood trio.  In the meantime, Scootaloo jumped into the thick of the group just as they finished reloading.

        The three imps aimed at her, only to be assaulted with a cyclonic storm of flailing knives.  Scootaloo was leaping, rolling, and cartwheeling through the thick crowd, flinging the length of the Royal Grand Biv's serrated coattails through their numbers.  She effectively knocked the gun out of one thug, shredded the barrel off another's pistol, and deflected the bullet fired by a third.  Once she ended in the center of the group, she caught up with her rifle and slammed a cleated horseshoe over its stock.  The gun twirled up into her grasp.  She cocked it and aimed into one thug's neck.

        “H'rhnum!”

        The first goblin's head rolled off his slumping body as the second screamed and fired at Scootaloo.  The last pony ducked low, twirled the rifle over her cloaked wings, and slid the gun down her right rear leg until it came to a stop with its stock propped against her hoof and its barrel pressed to the second thug's pelvis.

        “H'rhnum!”

        The Rust-Bleeder's abdomen spilled over the floor of the train car.  Scootaloo stood back up, only to collapse from the weight of the third thug suddenly charging into her.  The last pony lost the grip of her rifle as she was slammed into a metal crate.  The angry goblin clutched her neck from behind, repeatedly slamming the barrel of his pistol into her cowled head.  The pegasus gasped and grunted, absorbing the blows through the ramcrafted material armoring her.  There was a brief pause in the violence as the brown-skinned thug spun his revolving barrel of steambolts and aimed the pistol point-blank at the base of her skull.

        “Nnnngh!” She grunted and flung a hoof up into his crotch.  The imp immediately stumbled off of her.  Spinning off the crate, the last pony flung a serrated cloak towards his skull.  Blood flew as deep ravine was sliced across his cheek.  Shouting in pain, the brown goblin clutched his leaking face and teetered off—only to receive the full brunt of the pegasus' bucking hooves.  As he fell into collapsing heap of metal junk on the far side of the train car, more bullets landed around Scootaloo.

        Spinning, she saw Otto and his goblin cohort firing at her now that she was the only thing standing inside the first car's compartment.  The two seething imps squinted and aimed for the few scant parts of Scootaloo's colorful outfit that was exposed beyond the arcanium weave.  She was about to make it a lot more difficult for them.

        Ducking another volley, Scootaloo squatted low and pulled at a release cord built into the neckline of the Royal Grand Biv outfit.  With a shout, she spun in a circle.  This time, the cloak lost a fan of knives.  The rusted, rainbow-colored blades flew—glistening—towards the door to the train engine.  Otto gasped and ducked.  His companion, however, wasn't so lucky.  He received two knives to the chest and one that stuck into the nape of his neck.  The goblin fell back—twitching and gurgling—just in time for a blinking naga to catch the full weight of his spasming body.  Razzar glared over the corpse's shoulder towards the last pony.

        Scootaloo sweated under her salvaged armor as she flinched her body and swung it the other way.  Another stream of blades flew through the train towards her opponents at the entrance to the engine.  Razzar merely held the dying body of the goblin in front of her and Otto.  Most of the pegasus' blades were absorbed into the meatshield.  The rest ricocheted off the doorframe with a shower of sparks.

        The last pony held her breath and grinded her hooves.  She knew that Razzar and Otto wouldn't go down like the rest of the thugs.  One way or another, she had to get into the engine compartment and stop the train from carrying the fire granite bombs into the body of Petra.  With a sinister growl, she galloped full-force towards the pair of Haman's lackeys.

        Razzar saw the pony's charge.  Calmly, she opened her mouth and bit hard into the neck of the knife-impaled goblin in front of her.  Ripping a chunk of red meat out from the imp's torso, she yanked her neck and flung a heap of guts towards the charging pegasus.

        “Aaugh!”  Scootaloo sputtered, her goggles soaked with blinding, crimson juices.  She skidded to a stop and stumbled over the body of a dead thug.  Hissing, she raised a hoof and desperately wiped the blood off her goggles just in time to see the dry skin of Razzar's clawed fist flying into her vision.  The pegasus toppled backwards, bouncing like a ragdoll off a pair of metal crates.  She stood up, and her goggles were cracked.  Sneering, she flung the article off her scarlet eyes—gasped—and raised her horseshoe blade just in time to block a clawed swing of Razzar's fingers.  The pony held her breath, flinched her lower body, and flung a razor-sharp length of her prismatic coattails at the naga.

        In a test of true nimbleness, the naga mercenary bent impossibly backwards, ducked the sharp swing, spun around, and flung a clawed foot straight towards Scootaloo's cowled skull.  The pony blocked with a horseshoe and jabbed forward with her other hoof's blade.  The reptilian woman merely performed a hand-stand on Scootaloo's lunging limb, flipped over her armored flank, and landed on the far end of the car in a slide.  She flung her sharp fingers down to her dual pistol holsters.

        Scootaloo saw it.  In a desperate lunge, she flung her coattails loosely at the naga, launching another fan of knives.  Razzar expertly dodged one, ducked another... then took the third straight to the face.  Her scaled head limply jerked back.  Scootaloo watched with momentary breathlessness, but then gawked as Razzar slowly turned to face her, having effortlessly caught the blade in her sharp teeth.  With emerald eyeslits narrowing at the pegasus from afar, she menacingly bit through the length of the colored knife.  Spitting the two shards out, she pulled both pistols loose, spun them, and aimed at Scootaloo's figure...

        The pony wasn't about to give the lizard the satisfaction.  A pair of pale objects rattled to a stop below the naga's feet.  Scootaloo had tossed two rune-capped flash grenades down the middle of the train compartment, and was already blocking her naked eyes as she shouted towards the swaying bulkheads of the swaying train.

        “Y'hnyrr!”

        Razzar barely had time to leap to a safe distance.  The far end of the car was bathed in hot white light.  The sheer force of the moonrock's magical outburst sent goblin tools clattering all over the floor.  Scootaloo looked once more and was about to rush the prone naga when a pair of strong arms suddenly gripped her from behind.

        “Nnnngh-Raugh!” A blood-stained Otto viciously suplexed Scootaloo in the opposite direction.

        The last pony grunted, bounded through the door-frame, rolled over three dead imps, and landed dizzily inside the engine compartment with her armored shoulders propped against an instrument panel.  Wincing, she glanced up in time to see the stocky-framed Rust-Bleeder marching into the room.  His dark threads billowed around a pale bald spot from the boiler's heat and Wasteland wind as he pulled a wire down from a battery built into his vest and attached it to his brass knuckles.  Slamming the two metal frames together, he produced a bright splash of sparks.  The metal knuckles brimmed with white-hot electricity as he sneered wickedly at the pony across the compartment.

        “This one's for Darper, you lousy sack of manure.”

        Scootaloo spat, stood up across him, and cracked her neck joints.  “Let's see how badly you insult him.”

        Otto hissed, growled, and came charging with a full-fist of electrical fury.  The pegasus held her breath and ducked.  The imp's punch slammed into an instrument panel.  Bright bolts of artificial lightning danced up and down the walls of the engine compartment.  Scootaloo headbutted him in the chest.  He stumbled back, joined both of his knuckles and swung them down hard at her.  She jumped back before the surging currents dancing across the floor could travel up into her horseshoes.  Otto came charging again, and she readied herself with a desperate spin, hooking her pink tail-hairs around his throat.  The burly Rust-Bleeder gasped and sputtered for breath as the follicles tightened around his throat.  Before Scootaloo could shove the length of her horseshoe blade into his shoulders, he shoved both brass knuckles into her chest from behind.  A wave of electricity coursed through the arcanium wing, shocking the last pony to the core.

        “Gghh-Hkkkt!”  Scootaloo spasmed and immediately let go of him.  She stumbled back, her rainbow armor trailing with smoke.  Otto spun with a full fist of dancing bolts.  The pegasus took it across the cheek.  Twirling from the heavy blow, she stumbled until her upper body was draped over a thick iron lever sticking out the side of the engine controls.  Wincing, Scootaloo shook her head and refocused her foggy vision.  She managed to see the shadow of Otto's thick body in the dancing light of the hot boiler; he was charging her rear.

        With a sharp breath, Scootaloo simply flung herself to the floor.  Otto's rush flung him—fists first—into the lever, snapping the device in two.  A rather explosive surge of electrical energy flew into the machine as the controls to the engine's steam distribution was ruptured from deep within.  A loud hissing sound filled the compartment, and the boiler billowed even brighter as the train was forcibly accelerated beyond sane tolerance.  Otto only had two or three seconds to gawk at the damage he had caused.  He was suddenly thrown forward as the body of the train lurched ahead.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Warden gasped, his petite body jolting as the entire train shook.  He rattled nervously from the short length of chains anchoring him to the vertical array of steampipes in the middle of the second car.

        He was fully aware of the violent noises of battle in the two compartments ahead of him.  However, something far more dramatic had just transpired, and the air of the chamber filled with a dull roar of metal wheels scraping over monorail tracks.  Through the grated windows lining the second car, the golden aura of Petra shone brighter and brighter.  The train was now roaring ahead at a menacing velocity.  The teenager's eyes turned a timid turquoise, and he gulped while observing the many spherical bombs of fire granite rolling loosely against each other around him.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo winced, still weathering the electrified spasms coursing through her body.  Slowly, she stood up in the center of the engine compartment.  Her ears pricked under her arcanium cowl, alarmed to hear the high-pitched whine of the ruptured steam panels.  Before she could take a more proper survey of the damage, an imp's hulking weight pressed into her from behind, and she swiftly remembered that she was in a fight to the death.

        Otto held the pony's shoulder in a vice grip.  Wrestling with her, he inched his sparkling knuckles closer and closer to the nape of her neck.  The armored pegasus snarled and flung her body left and right—slamming the two of them into one instrument panel after another—desperate to shake the meaty Rust-Bleeder off her flank.  Their struggling breaths and angry grunts formed an undercurrent of hate beneath the perpetual hiss of the damaged engine panels.  The winds of the Wasteland blew the goblin's black threads into her face as his knuckles squeezed tighter towards her throat.  Hot white sparks danced against her skin, burning her coat.

        She gnashed her teeth while her muscles buckled  underneath his intense pressure.  Her twitching eyes scoured the metal walls framing the door to the first car.  She suddenly saw the dance of orange light from the hot boiler.  Summoning a deep growl from beneath her limbs, she stretched her wings out beneath the arcanium armor.  The gesture allowed her to shift her weight back against a gasping Otto.  With a bestial roar, she hobbled back, then fiercely back-trotted as fast as she could.

        “Rrrrrrr-Raaaugh!”  Scootaloo flung the two of them backwards into the mouth of the boiler.  Her armored body stopped right at the burning chamber's frame.  Otto's didn't.  The screaming imp was flung like a sack of coal into the blazes, his flesh and hair instantly roasting.  Before the smoking effluence of his melting skin could billow out of the oven, Scootaloo was fiercely slamming the boiler lid shut to his wailing voice.

        The last pony flung herself against the lid, panting.  Just as she heard the torturous sounds of a fist hammering against the seal from the inside, a bullet ricocheted off the panel above her.  She spun and looked towards the first car.

        Razzar stood at the entrance, her eyeslits still squinting from the effects of the runestone flash grenades.  “Sister?!”  She hissed and fired blindly into the engine compartment.  Bullets sparked off the metal bulkheads on either side of Scootaloo.  “Where are you, sister?!”  She blinked in the direction of Scootaloo's shadow and aimed truer this time.

        Scootaloo held her breath and jumped out of the way.  As soon as her weight moved, the boiler lid flew open.  The air of the compartment filled with screams as the charred frame of Otto lurched out, only to receive a bullet to the skull.  He fell in a smoking heap.

        Razzar's nostrils flared.  She made a face.  “Hmmm... Never did like his forehead—”

        “Yaaaugh!”  Scootaloo was suddenly diving into her, spearing Razzar straight in the chest.  The pony and lizard went tumbling into the middle of the first car.  Hooves tangled with claws.  A razor sharp mouth clashed with arcanium armor.  The two rolled for two or three more violent meters before ending with Razzar kicking the last pony off of her.

        Agilely, the last pony flipped and landed on sliding, sparkling horseshoes.  Breathless, she reached under her razor-sharp cloak for another cluster of grenades... when suddenly that very same cloak caught fire.  She gasped, lurching forward after taking the brunt of a burning-hot flare.

        Across the way, at the rear of the car, the brown-skinned imp held a smoking flaregun in one hand while his other limb palmed the bleeding knife wound Scootaloo had dealt his cheek earlier.  Sneering, he spat on the ground and fumbled to reload the projectile launcher in his grasp.

        Scootaloo was on fire.  More accurately, her Royal Grand Biv suit was on fire.  Shrieking, she desperately backed away from Razzar while fumbling with her hoves to wrench the red hot cloak of blades off her.  The arcanium weave heated up rapidly.  She could smell the ends of her mane burning.  Desperate to avoid a fate like Otto's, she flung the rainbow cloak onto the floor, only to realize she was still burning.  Twice as swiftly, she flung her limbs up to the problem—her cowl.  Yanking the article off, she tossed the smoking away before the flames could eat at her cranium.  The aching Scootaloo was now reduced to a tight, black layer of ramcraft body armor, devoid of the serrated colors.  Hearing the cocking sound of the flare gun, she spun a soot-stained frown towards the thug.

        The Rust-Bleeder finished reloading the flaregun.  With a bloody frown, he gripped the handle of the weapon with two gnarled hands and aimed at her.

        Scootaloo blinked.  She glanced down and saw her copper rifle lying on the blood-stained ground halfway between the two of them.  Before Razzar could get up and tackle the pony, Scootaloo was running in full-gallop towards the imp.  She stretched her wings out, jumped, and flapped her feathered appendages.  The Rust-Bleeder fired.  The flare burned a screaming path down the center of the car.  Soaring through the claustrophobic space, Scootaloo planted her hooves against the wall, scrunched her body, dodged the burning projectile, and leaped off the bulkhead with a twirl as the flare exploded violently behind her and a lunging Razzar.

        The imp backed up, trying foolishly to reload the flare gun a third time.  His fate was sealed; Scootaloo landed on her back, snatched the rifle up in two hooves, and slid icily forward from her momentum so that she came to a stop beneath the goblin's legs.  She aimed the barrel of the gun up his prone center.

        “H'rhnum!”

        The goblin's brown body jolted.  In a blink, the top of his head exploded as the manabullet flew out his skull and embedded into the ceiling.  With his spine reduced to butter, he fell in a quivering slump.  Stained with his blood, the darkly-garbed pony stumbled up to her feet.  Remembering Razzar, she slowly turned around—only to discover that the naga had remembered her first.

        “Hnnnckt!”  Scootaloo sputtered as a red, razor-clawed hand gripped viciously around her neck.  The mercenary's grip was so tight that the mare barely summoned the strength to lift her smoking rifle halfway.

        Covered in ash from the impacting flares, Razzar leaned her face of flaking skin into Scootaloo's scarlet eyes and sneered above the straining noises of the chugging engine behind her, “You have made a smelly, smelly mistake, four hooves.”  Her dry nostrils flared from the scent of Otto.  “Such a shame.  We could have been very pretty souls in this Wasteland together.”

        Scootaloo's eyes rolled back in her head.  She suddenly shivered, finding herself dangling from the reptile's surprising grasp as she was lifted in two hands towards the grated window lining the first car.

        “This is not your train to catch,” Razzar muttered, tensing the muscles in her upper body.  “After Petra falls, do us both a favor.  Scavenge somewhere else.”  With that said, she flung Scootaloo like a sack of bricks through the metallic window frame.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Even as Scootaloo's body plowed through the curtain of metal bars, her mind was hard at work.  Time slowed as she contemplated the horrid fate being dealt her.  The train was roaring towards Petra now at a ridiculous speed, a momentum far too fast for the even the pegasus' wings to catch up with.  Not even the Harmony had a chance to match the train's velocity now.  Razzar knew how bleak the situation was as soon as she tossed the pony violently through the window.

        What the naga didn't know was just how crazy Scootaloo was.

        Time resumed, and the pony's flickering ears were bathed in a cacophony of shredding metal. The wide gray body of the Wasteland bowed upside down before Scootaloo.  Her entire body danced with pain, but that didn't stop her from doing what she needed to do next.

        “Nnnngh-Aaaaah!” She shrieked into the winds, clinging to her copper rifle while flinging her wings out so fast she swore they would have flown off their joints.  She lost a dozen feathers in the first gust of air she caught.  Her awkwardly angled body spun against the wind, uprighted, and was blown sideways in an ashen draft that carried her underneath the monorail track.  Panicking, Scootaloo wrenched her muscles in the effort it took to angle her body up.  The speeding train roared above her, threatening to surge out of reach at any second.

        Eyes tearing into the frigid winds, Scootaloo spiraled straight up, banked to the right, and met the blurring body of the train just in time to smash through a grated window on the far end of the second car before it passed her by.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Ooomf!”  Scootaloo and the window-frame flew into the claustrophobic compartment.  She pinballed off a wall, rolled over a pile of fire granite bombs, and landed in a dizzy heap before a twitching, green goblin.

        “Sc-Scootaloo!”  Warden's voice cracked in the ecstatic outbirst.

        “Ughhh...”  Scootaloo steadied her googly eyes and stared dizzily at him upside down.  “Oh hey.  You're still alive.  Cool.”

        “Did you just fly into this place all on your lonesome?”

        “No, I took a train.”

        “You...” Warden's aquamarine eyes glistened as she stood up in front of him and tossed a few loose brown feathers off her body.  “Y-You came back for me.”  He gulped.  “And after all I said—”

        “Yeah yeah, I love you too and all that crap.  One thing at a time, Wart.”  She sheathed her rifle, then swung her horseshoe blade across his chain bindings, freeing him from the vertical pipes.  “We're on a collision course with Petra and I've got a naga on my tail.”

        “So let's fly out of here!”  Warden exclaimed, rubbing his wrists and standing up on wobbly legs.  “Your wings still work, don't they?”

        “Not well enough to let me catch up with this train again.  The engine's smashed.  Haman's delivery of death is going faster than I can kick clouds.”

        “What are you getting at?”

        “We gotta get rid of this explosive junk before it collides with Devo's hometown!” Scootaloo said, waving a bruised hoof towards the many explosive spheres rattling across the compartment.  “You and I are the only thing standing between goblin civilization and kablooey!”

        “You... You mean you changed your mind?!”  Warden exhaled.  His cheeks reddened over a deep smile.  “You do care after all—”

        “Kid, there's a time for sap and a time for dying!  Now friggin' help me think.  My head's full of stars.”

        “Uhm...”  Warden fidgeted, gazing towards opposite ends of the car.  “I heard the lizard lady and her thugs talking about detaching the cars...”

        “Okay, so we'll separate this car from the first one and the engine,” Scootaloo said with a nod.  She blinked, then squinted down at the goblin.  “Wait, just how many thugs are on this train anyway?”

        Warden's eyes twitched.  “You mean you haven't killed them all?”

        With bitter irony, the door to the third car suddenly slid open.  Four yellow-banded Rust-Bleeders, the remainder of Razzar's dozen, burst into the compartment full of bombs, only to gasp at the sight of Scootaloo.

        “It's the Outbleeder!”

        “What happened to all the others?!”

        “Murderous glue stick!  Get her!”

        Warden turned pale as a sheet.  “You sure we can't j-just fly out of here—Ahh!”  He shrieked, for Scootaloo had just mercilessly bucked him hard.  He landed in a heap behind a stack of bombs.  Frowning, the last pony unsheathed her copper rifle and cocked it.

        For once, she was slow on the draw, and an imp was already aiming a steam pistol at her.  Just as he pulled the trigger, another Rust-Bleeder beside him gasped and yanked his arm up.  “No!”  The hot steambolt ricocheted off a metal bulkhead just a hair's sneeze from a rolling fire granite bomb.  “Idiot, you'll set them off!”  The speaking imp frowned, pulled out a machete, and sprinted forward.  His three angry companions unsheathed an assortment of metal weapons and joined his charge.

        Scootaloo blinked at the incoming imps, glanced at the many fragile explosives, then ultimately frowned as she had no choice but to use her rifle as a staff, blocking the attack of the first two imps before swinging the butt of her gun across a third's face.  When the fourth came in, it was with a jump kick.  Scootaloo's armored chest took the blow, and she teetered over two limbs before falling back on her spine.  Another imp leaped at her with a warcry.  She flung her gun to the floor and raised all four hooves in time to toss the flailing goblin over her pink mane.  The other thugs came in, swinging sharp blades.  She reverse-somersaulted from their serrated attacks and backtrotted, facing three thugs at once.

        Warden crouched behind a metal crate, watching with nervous shivers as Scootaloo unsheathed her second hoof's horseshoe blade and exchanged metallic blows with the quartet of murderous Rust-Bleeders.  The pony spun and twirled in the middle of the group, blocking a pair of attackers with one horseshoe while parrying two more with the other.  One goblin tackled Scootaloo's flank, and she swiftly bucked him off so that he fell into a pile of bombs.  One large sphere of compact fire granite rolled Scootaloo's way.  The last pony saw it at the last second, turned around, and grasped it with two hooves.  She saw two imps rushing towards her, so she swung the full weight of the explosive sphere in their path.  The pair of goblins skidded to a stop, their swinging machetes stopping mere centimeters from contacting the bulbous surface of the ogre contraption.  They gawked with wide eyes... until Scootaloo mercilessly slammed the body of the metal ball into their faces, forcing them to teeter back.  She turned one more time with the hulking thing against her hooves, and took a Rust-Bleeder's fist to her nose.

        “Ooomf!”  Scootaloo fell down hard onto the floor beside Warden.  The round bomb rolled away as a purple-skinned goblin marched menacingly over the armored mare, glared down at her and repositioned his machete to stab down into her exposed neck.

        Gulping, Warden glanced at the bracelet of unicorn horns just half-a-meter from his face.  He then saw where the copper rifle was lying, and where the purple goblin's foot was positioned in relation to the barrel.  “H'rhnum!” the teenager shouted.

        A manabullet skimmed the ground, severing the imp's ankle out from under him.  Screaming, the purple Rust-Bleeder fell to the floor of the train, clutching his bleeding stub.  In the meantime, the manabullet bounced off a bulkhead and haphazardly ricocheted off the edge of one of the many fire granite bombs.  As horrifically predicted, a spark from the bullet lit one of the many fuses on the rolling object.  The other three imps looked up and gasped in horror as the sphere started smoking.

        Warden bit his lip as his ears drooped.  In the meantime, Scootaloo—“Celestia on a bike!”—kipped up to her hooves, ran over, nudged the smoking thing into the air, spun, and bucked it fiercely out through the open window of the second car that she had crashed into previously.

        The green goblin was already bracing his tiny self.  No less than four seconds had passed when a bright orange flash illuminated the gray wasteland blurring by.  The entire car rocked, tossing two goblins to the ground and the third towards the doorframe leading into the first car.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Standing in the doorway to the engine compartment, Razzar had to brace herself against the bulkheads.  She grunted as the train cars briefly tilted left, right, then evened themselves back onto the monorail track.  The golden body of Petra loomed closer and closer through the smashed front of the train as she glanced over her molting, red shoulder towards the rear compartments of the train and squinted.

        She had almost considered marching into the engine compartment in an attempt to salvage the instruments that had been smashed.  It would have been a lot easier detaching the fourth car with the rest of the train going much slower.  As the artificial thunder of an ogre bomb dissipated beyond the bulkheads, she turned around and marched icily towards the first and second cars.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo groaned, lying on the metal floor after having been thrown mercilessly from the force of the blast outside the train.  The dismembered, purple goblin's wails filled her ears as she climbed blindly forward, only to stumble upon the face-less corpse of Fredden.  She blinked, then glanced up at the sight of a looming shadow.

        One of the three imps—a tall and muscular goblin with gray skin—was steadying himself from the heavy jolt.  At the sight of Scootaloo's gaze, he picked up his machete and charged the grounded equine.

        Swiftly, the last pony reached into a pouch of her ramcrafted armor, pulled something out, and stuffed it into Fredden's cranium.  Just as the gray goblin charged in on her, she bucked the dead bodyguard up into him.  Gasping, the Rust-Bleeder bumped straight into Fredden's corpse.  He blinked, face to faceless-face with a skull stuffed full of runed moonrocks.

        “Y'hnyrr!” Scootaloo shouted, dashing over to the side.  The entire front half of the second car was bathed in imp guts as the gray goblin—thoroughly doused—flailed and fell back into the first compartment.  Scootaloo slid across the soggied bulkheads, stood up, and turned around—”

        “Scootaloo, watch out!”

        Upon hearing Warden's voice, Scootaloo instantly flung her horseshoes up.  Just in time, she parried the combined blades of the remaining two Rust-Bleeders.  The force of their attack was too much, and her trusty blades finally snapped clear off the hoof-braces.  She stumbled back from their attack, kicking off the ground to dodge their follow-up swings.  She slammed into a pile of rolling bombs while Warden gasped in the distance.  Collapsing onto her back, she winced as a bright green light flickered across her eyes.  With a gasp and a blink, she spotted the fragile cylinder full of Spike's green flame rolling across the floor.  She reached a hoof towards it.

        An imp's foot immediately stomped over her limb.  “Aaaugh!”  She screamed, only to have a second food kicking across her chin.  She fell back; an imp pounced on her chest and prepared to hack into her skull with his machete.  She jerked her head to the side, frowned, and leaned forward, biting her pony molars fiercely over the Rust-Bleeder's quivering ear.  The imp shrieked and howled as she pulled him off her by the weight of his snapping lobe.  Just as soon as he was off her, the second one dove in his place.  The goblin and the pony wrestled and tangled, rolling over the purple goblin's bleeding stub, filling the air with even louder wails.  The air danced in a green kaleidoscope as Scootaloo and her foe bumped into the rattling jar of green flame.  The capsule bounced off them and twirled in the center of several dangerously heavy bombs that were about to crush the vessel of reverse-time at any moment.

        “Nnngh...”  Scootaloo sweated and struggled with the imp entangled with her.  She tossed her mane and shouted across the rattling compartment.  “Wart!  Wart, could you please grab the—?!”  The imp wrestling with her clutched her neck suddenly with both wrists, having sacrificed his weapon entirely for the sake of strangling her.  “Snkkkt... Hckkkk...”  Scootaloo's eyes rolled back in her head.  The world briefly blacked out, fading into a shrouded hovel of whining steam and clamoring monorail tracks.  She wasn't aware of what her own tail was instinctually doing until the imp's body slid halfway off her.

        The goblin gasped, kicking his leg to shake the curling pink hairs free from his ankle.  He struggled one second too long, for two hooves suddely slammed into both his ears.  He shouted in pain before being bucked off by Scootaloo's lower legs.  The Rust-Bleeder flew into a bulkhead, littering the floor full of rolling bombs with a shower of metal tools.  Scootaloo, in the meantime, hopped up and almost tripped—only to have a green hand steady her.

        “It's okay,” Wart exclaimed, reaching out from behind a crate.  “I got you.”

        “Nnnngh—Never mind me!  Grab the frickin' bottle of—”

        “Scootaloo!” a hauntingly familiar voice echoed from across the car.

        The last pony glanced over.  Beyond the bodies of two imps stumbling back up to their feet, Warden could be seen standing next to a cluster of bombs.  The petite imp was clutching the glowing green cylinder obediently to his chest.  His wide aquamarine eyes stared past Scootaloo in horror.

        The armored pegasus turned to look at the teenage figure next to him, only to be uppercutted by a red fist.  “Oooof!”  She fell hard to the floor.  Meanwhile, a green imp stretched up from behind the crate, rematerializing as Razzar.

        “Hmmm... I think I should have tossed you harder, Four Hooves.”  She spun both of her pistols free from her holsters.  “Without your wings this time, might I spit.”

        Scootaloo rolled over onto her chest, frowning at the naga.  “You can try.”  She tried standing up, only to experience the two remaining imps running up and forming a dogpile across her black-garbed flank.  “Nnngh!”  She struggled and strained as the two Rust-Bleeders used their combined weight to hold her down to the floor.

        Razzar took a deep breath and aimed both pistols straight at Scootaloo's skull.  “Shhhh... There're plenty of black skies to fly in death.”

        The last pony spat, her scarlet eyes flaring.  “You want to see flight?!”  Her wings stretched ceiling-ward.  “Rrrr-Raaaugh!”  The pegasus shot straight up, carrying the bodies of the two gasping imps along with her.  Razzar jolted, watching.  Warden gasped from afar.  The combined weight of the pony and her two enemies slammed through a metal panel in the ceiling of the second car.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The metal door gave way, snapping clear off its hinges and sailing off like a giant, rusted leaf into the gray Wasteland beyond.  Scootaloo flew up and came back down, grinding to a frictious halt across the top of the speeding train.  Stopping just at the edge of where the second car joined with the third, she spun in a complete circle.  Both goblins clung onto her for dear life in the heavily whipping winds.  Soon, however, they lost their grip.  One tumbled to a stop towards the front of the speeding train.  The other fell clear off the side, his agonized scream swiftly being swallowed up by the cacophony of the blistering winds as he fell to a splattering death beneath the towering monorail tracks.

        Scootaloo hissed into the freezing air and tossed her mane to get a good look ahead of her.  The one floundering imp eventually found his footing, glanced at her, and chose to unsheathe another machete.  The last pony merely glared at him, waiting.  At his wit's end, the goblin let loose a shrill scream and charged her.  She effortlessly dodged his blow, bucked him in the chest, flung her tail-hairs around his neck, and yanked him down hard.  The imp's forehead was slammed mercilessly into the metal roof of the train.  As he lay prone, he lost grip of his machete.  The weapon flew into the Wasteland—until it was snatched up in Scootaloo's teeth at the last second.  The pegasus jumped, used the momentum of the winds, and soared down onto his neck with a swift downward swing of the blade.  A rolling head bounced off the top of the speeding train's rooftop before twirling off into the blurring expanse, its pointed ears stalling the fall like the wings to a kite.

        Seething, Scootaloo turned and galloped towards the open compartment in the roof of the train to rejoin Warden.  A red figure suddenly leaped up from below and perched down in front of Scootaloo.  Bearing a wicked glare, Razzar icily stood, both steam pistols dangling by her sides.  The majestic heights of Petra formed a golden silhouette against her lithe, reptilian figure as she faced off against the last pony.  Scootaloo stared back, the machete in her teeth reflecting the mercenary's cold emerald eyeslits.  The pony's breath fogged against the serrated metal, her eyes worriedly observing the remaining length of the monorail track that was rapidly diminishing with each pulsating second.

        “I offered you fruits of business, darling sister,” Razzar's voice rang with a hissing melody above the roaring train.  Wasteland snow parted ways around her, as if refusing to christen her unholy frame.  “All our lives, boomers and bastards of the Dimming have only ever robbed from us.”  Her fingers tightened around her pistols' triggers.  The dry scales around her jaws tightened.  “I will not let you rob from me too.  My silver is my silver, and this city will fall.  You've shown your true colors, and I must bury them along with you.”

        Scootaloo turned her head to the side.  She spit the machete out.  The velocity of the air above the train's roof carried it back, so that she caught it in the curl of her flicking pink hairs.  “Yeah, yeah.”  The blade tangled from Scootaloo's tail as she grinded her hooves and hissed the mercenary's way.  “Come a little closer so I can skin you for good, ya stupid gecko.”

        Razzar glared.  Her nostrils flared one last time, and suddenly she was dashing forward in a red blur.  Both pistols stretched forward, their barrels flashing hot splashes of white steam.  The speeding winds doubled the speed of the steambolts sailing at the last pony.  Scootaloo ducked one flurry, side-dodged another, and deflected the last pair of bullets with the machete dangling from her hairs.  She then spun with a shout as her tail flung the blade at a curved angle towards the naga.

        The machete spun Razzar's way.  The mercenary leapt clear over the twirling, metal projectile.  She flipped forward, and landed upside-down.  With unearthly agility, Razzar “walked” rapidly towards the pony, using the pistols like stilettos, before firing both barrels.  Her body was propelled upwards into a twirling jump-kick that slammed across Scootaloo's chest.

        “Augh!”  The pegasus flew up, was carried by the winds of the Wasteland, and fell down towards the rear of the train, halfway down the third car.  She winced, a series of claw marks having miraculously shredded through her ramcraft armor.  She glanced up to see Razzar scurrying towards her on all fours, sliding, then firing both pistols while lying on her side.  The pony rolled towards ger flank to dodge, flailed briefly off the edge of the train's roof, and then hopped back onto the top of the car.

        Razzar pivoted and aimed her pistols at Scootaloo's chest.  She paused, seeing something reflected in the edge of Scootaloo's scarlet eyes.  Without a second thought, Razzar kicked up and somersaulted towards the very back of the train, just in time to avoid the return of the machete, flung back towards the train's roof like a boomerang in the high winds.  Sparks flew as the blade was embedded into the metal surface of the car.  Scootaloo dashed over, yanked it out by its handle, and spun in time to deflect two more bullets launched her way by Razzar.  With a muffled growl, she dove towards the naga in the hope of shoving her off the rear of the car.  The lizard met her charge, blocking with the barrels of her pistols before uppercutting the pegasus with a kick to the sternum.  Razzar next fired point blank at Scootaloo's hooves.

        The pony hopped and dodged, backtrotting towards the second car as Razzar advanced, swinging her pistols like billy clubs before firing more steambolts that sailed off into the Wasteland air beyond the agile pegasus' dodging body.  The scavengers' duel continued—creeping them towards the front of the train and the smoking exhaust of the engine beyond as the vehicle full of bombs took them on a collision course with the giant golden structure to the east.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Below, in the second car, Warden stood directly beneath the open hatch in the ceiling.  His twitching ears were pricked to make sense out of the sea of chaos roaring loudly above.  Above both the pitch of the purple goblin's agonized sobs and the whining steam of the runaway engine, the teenager could barely make out the sound of clopping hooves.  He smiled ever so briefly—a bitterly hysterical thing—for he knew that Scootaloo was still alive.

        Just then, the last sane words she had spoken to him resounded in his lonesome mind.  Gulping, he glanced towards the doorframe connecting the second car to the first.  A pair of brass levers marked where the instruments controlled the coupling of the two train compartments together.  Warden realized that he was of no use standing in one place.

        Clutching the jar of burning green flame to his chest, the petite goblin scampered over towards the doorframe, desperate to play his part in the salvation of Petra.  As soon as he gripped four fingers to the handle of one lever, a blood-stained foot landed two meters away from him in the first car.  Gasping, he gazed up.  His ears drooped.

        The gray Rust-Bleeder thug, covered from head to toe with Fredden's guts, stood above Warden.  He finished wiping the blood from his eyes, spat a chunk of brain matter out onto the floor, and glared down at the teen.  Instantly frowning, he pulled a dagger out from his vest pocket.  “Y-You!”  He charged the small teenager, growling.

        “Nnngh!”  Warden scrambled to run away from him.  He received a massive kick to the side.  “Ughh!”  He fell down hard.  The jar of green flame rolled away from him and disappeared into the sea of bombs beyond the purple goblin and his severed limb.  Struggling to get up, Warden crawled away just before the gray imp could kick him again.  His panting shouts echoed squeakily through the second car, wafting up to join the winds billowing through the square opening in the ceiling.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        “Nnngh!”  Scootaloo was shoved back towards the front of the second car's roof.  She clenched her teeth over the machete's handle, struggling to ward off the weight of the enraged naga pressing against her.  Suddenly, the last pony's ears pricked underneath her wind-tossed, pink threads.  Her eyes dilated as a gasp escaped her.  Caught of guard, she absorbed a fierce kick to the chest.  “Ooomf!” she fell on her flank, the machete almost rattling out of her teeth.

        Razzar cocked both pistols and aimed down at the prone pony.  Scootaloo desperately spat the blade towards the naga's feet.  The mercenary expertly jumped the spinning metal projectile, but then not-so-expertly absorbed the pair of lower hooves that Scootaloo next bucked into her airborne scales.  With a grunt, Razzar was propelled several meters down towards the third car.

        The pegasus spun over and stood up, scrambling towards the open door.  “H-Hang on, Wart!  I'm coming—”  A steambolt grazed her front left leg, spraying blood into the air.  “Auugh!”  She stumbled towards the roof, quivering in pain.

        Razzar was squatting and preparing to aim again.  The last pony flashed the mercenary a frown over her shoulder.  As a bullet whizzed over her shoulder, the pegasus inexplicably jumped up and spread both of her wings out.  Catching the wind, she flew like an armored missile straight towards the naga behind her.  Desperately, Naga fired two more rounds.  The bullets merely ricocheted off of Scootaloo's arcanium weave before the equine's limbs collided with hers.  The two went rolling towards the juncture between the second and third car, wrestling with each other's weight across the top of the speeding train as a hair-pin turn in the tracks lingered one hundred meters ahead.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Below, in the second car, Warden was climbing the walls—literally.  Putting his tiny stature to good use, the green goblin reenacted a frightened no-bleeder waking in the cabin of the Harmony.  He jumped from shelf to shelf, kicking tools and metal nick-nacks down at his angry, blood-stained pursuer.  The gray goblin growled and batted away each random object.  He snarled, his upper body quivering in anger, as if he would toss an ogre bomb up at the teenager at any moment.

        Warden never stopped for one second.  The closer the gray Rust-Bleeder got to him, flinging the sharp dagger at the teenager's dangling legs, he climbed higher and higher, until his pointed ears dragged across the ceiling directly beneath where Razzar and Scootaloo's bodies were presently—and loudly—rolling.

        “I'm going to skin you into a new pair of gloves, you Petra-forsaken scrap of filth!” the gray thug hissed.

        Just then, a pained voice cried out from the sidelines, “H-Here!”

        The gray thug glanced over.  The purple, foot-less goblin on the floor of the second car had gathered his wits long enough to grab Fredden's discarded steam pistol.  He slid it across the sea of bombs and whimpered forth under his painful shivers, “Tr-Try not to bl-blow us up!”

        The gray goblin blinked, grinned, then picked up the pistol.  “Petra forbid.”  He cocked the thing and aimed it straight for Warden's skull above them both.  “Suck on steam, ya glue stick lover.”

        Warden bit his lip, freezing, his body plastered helplessly against the bulkhead of the car's upper wall.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Razzar had the upper hand.  Fiercely, she slammed Scootaloo's shoulders against the roof of the train car and pressed the back of her flaking knuckles to her throat, forcing the pegasus' head further and further over the edge and into the biting winds of the Wasteland.  With just a little more weight, the naga would have flung the pony completely off the speeding train with no hope of getting back on.

        Scootaloo sputtered and hissed, her neck bending at an awkward angle as she slid further and further off the edge of the train.  Her eyes rolled back in her head.  She thought of Warden.  She thought of the green flame.  She thought of Rainbow Dash....

        She thought of the hair-pin curve they had just reached.

        Scootaloo did what Razzar couldn't.  She stretched her wings straight out and balanced herself in the whipping air currents as the train flew around the curve in the monorail tracks at ten times the speed normally allowed.  The engine up ahead stayed firmly on the rails, but the three cars attached to it were hardly as graceful.  The north edges of the cars tilted madly, and Razzar was flung over Scootaloo's body.  The naga shrieked, tossed one of her pistols into the gray Wasteland blurring below, and clung with one clawed hand to the edge of the roof.  Scootaloo was flailing next to her, holding on with mirrored desperation.  The pony backflipped, clasping the metal surface at the last second with her front limbs as she and her foe weathered the centripetal force that was currently attempting to fling them into oblivion.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        This same swerving motion rocked the gray thug in the second car's compartment off balance.  When he pulled the trigger, the bullet flew at an awkward angle, bouncing off the metal bulkhead just above Warden's twitching ears.  The train screamed as half its wheels lifted off the railing, then landed back down.  The resulting jolt threw the green goblin towards the floor with a horrible shriek.

        In the meantime, a couple of bulbous ogre bombs rolled past the gasping, purple goblin and slammed into the legs of his gray cohort.  The blood-stained thug yelped and tumbled across the compartment until he was slammed against the frame of the open window Scootaloo had first crashed through.

        Warden stood up in the sea of explosives, glanced at the teetering Rust-Bleeder, looked all around him, and found a hulking metal toolbox.  Lifting it up with scrawny limbs, he summoned a wave of adrenaline and flung it across the car with all his young might.

        The gray thug turned around.  He caught the toolbox, and then the wind outside the window caught him.  With a hellish shriek, he flew clear out of the second car...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        ...and plunged, screaming like a siren into the desolate plateau of rock and stone below.

        On the roof of the train above, Scootaloo was still dangling.  As the cars angled down a straightaway, she kicked at the side of the train and flipped back onto the roof.  From where she had gripped the edge of the car, a thick panel of metal had pulled halfway loose.

        Razzar too jumped up and squared off from Scootaloo.  She cocked her one pistol and aimed it at the last pony.  The pegasus ducked the blast, grasped the edge of the loose panel in her jaws, and wrenched it three with a gnashing of her teeth.  She flung the thing like a staff into Razzar's gut.  The naga bent over, exhaling hard, before receiving a vicious uppercut with the metal stalk across her chin.

        As the pegasus next made to fling the sharp staff like a spear into Razzar, she paused—her eyes widening.  Not only were they speeding dangerously close to the body of Petra at this point, but an elaborate tunnel of metal lattices loomed directly ahead, forming a tight bridge of aluminum crossbeams that hugged the tiny space allotted to the speeding train.  The bulky frame of a gremlin hovercraft station soared violently towards where the two of them had been battling.

        Razzar took advantage of Scootaloo's brief, horrified pause by pouncing on top of her.  The two went barreling towards the rear of the third car.  Scootaloo's improvised staff rattled of the roof and flew into the Wasteland.  Eyeing the body of the aluminum tunnel approaching the body of the speeding train, Scootaloo struggled to dash away, only to have Razzar hold her in a vice-like headlock.  Scootaloo hissed and wrestled with the naga.  The pony's pink mane flapped and billowed between them.  The train shook.  The air grew tight as the latticework loomed so close that it choked the snowy wind.

        The mercenary squeezed Scootaloo's neck tighter and tighter.  Finally, with an animalistic snarl, Scootaloo flung her left wing out and flapped it.  She managed to spin the two of them in a furious circle atop the roof of the car.  After five blurring revolutions, Scootaloo effectively tossed Razzar off of her.  The metal tunnel was so close that its rusty surface tickled the last pony's nostrils.  With a mad jolt, she kicked up off the roof of the car, briefly outstretched both wings, and performed a backflip.

        Razzar glanced up at her, kneeling and propping herself up by one pistol-arm.  Blinking, the confused naga looked towards the front of the train.  She received a face-full of metal latticework.

        That very second, Scootaloo was falling down.  She plummeted towards the very rear of the train, flung her hooves out, and caught the metalwork of the rearmost car's doorframe.  Gripping by the sheer crook of her forelimbs, Scootaloo dangled like a kite's tail from the back of the train—just as the tight webbing of aluminum crossbeams screamed past her, tightly consuming all sides of the train and its rooftop.  Panting for breath, the pegasus calmed herself and angled her wings just right, giving her a tiny bit of lift in the billowing air.  She landed her rear legs onto the bottom of the door's frame, exhaled long and hard, and twisted the lock so that the door panel slid open in front of her.

        The last pony practically collapsed inside the dimly-lit body of the third car.  Not bothering to shut the door behind her, she crawled her way inside, panted from the exhausting stretch of her battle, then ultimately pulled herself bravely onto four wobbling legs.  Warden needed her, and they had very little time left to detach the car full of bombs.

        Scootaloo galloped briskly forward... when a window to the side of the car burst open, its metal grate clattering across the middle of the floor.  The last pony skidded to a stop, gasping and wide-eyed.  Slithering in, a red reptile wormed into position, then expanded her shape-shifting muscles to once again adopt the shape of a normal biped.  Razzar stood directly in Scootaloo's way, as alive as ever.  After a firm glare, she raised her pistol and aimed it down the claustrophobic space of the car so that its sight was affixed between the eyes of the unguarded pony.

        Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat.  This was going to be a more pathetic death than the one she almost had at Sugarcube Corner months ago.

        The pistol clicked ineffectually.  Razzar pulled the trigger again and again.  Her weapon was empty.  She glanced at the gun like it was a naughty broodling.  “Awwwww spit.”

        The last pony blinked.  She rolled her eyes, growled, and charged straight into the naga.  The two slammed through rows of crates, splattering the wall of steam pipes with loose tools, mining equipment and other bits of Rust Blood merchandise.
        

~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        

        A car-and-a-half ahead, Warden was hunched in the doorframe between the first and second compartment.  He gripped onto one of two brass levers, pulling at it with all his might.  He grunted and hissed through sharp teeth as the lever jolted, jolted again, and finally gave way.  A loud noise emanated through the bulkheads below as the clasps adjoining the two cars began to loosen.

        Hyperventilating, the little goblin clasped the second lever.  This one, however, refused to budge.  He yanked and pulled at it desperately, his lithe muscles rippling with the effort.  Just then, a golden aura washed over his features.

        The goblin blinked.  He glanced up at the grated windows of the first car.  The golden glow of Petra was looming.  They were getting close.

        “Not good...”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “See, boss?!” a breathless Rust-Bleeder bodyguard stood on the edge of a balcony atop Strut Twenty-One.  Sweating a storm, he motioned the limping Haman towards him and pointed down at the western stretch of the Wasteland beneath Petra.  “She couldn't possibly have listened to Fredden!  We haven't heard back from him, and now this!”

        The hobbling prime-bleeder of Rust Blood, half his face burnt and his aged body bruised, shuffled up to the edge of the platform, reunited with his eccentric cane.  He leaned on the metal staff and stared tiredly down at the distant image of a steam-billowing locomotive speeding suicidally towards the lower stalk of the grand impcity.

        “Has Miss Ryst lost her mind?!”  The lowly thug naively stammered, his whole body shaking.  Several other yellow-banded guards stood along the edge of the district, all of them staring at the runaway train heading straight towards the basement of their beloved homes.  “Surely she knows that the operation has been delayed!  What's happening?”

        Haman took a deep breath.  His fragile ear-stalks drooped.  “I'll tell you what's happening, my young brothers,” he murmured.  “Goblins are dying.  Petra has burned out, for today is the true Dimming.”

        The sea of panicked subordinates merely cast frightened looks Haman's way.  The elder said nothing.  He closed his eyes and meditatively breathed the cold breeze of the high atmosphere for as long as he could afford to.  In the meantime, the distant whine of the train engine...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        ...met the twitching ears of several goblins down below in Strut Four.  A group of Hex-Bleeders paused in the middle of loading several crates full of tools onto a gremlin hovercraft for transport back to Devo's headquarters.  The imps with red bandannas sauntered over to the edge of the platform, along with several other goblins of various families.  A murmur of confusion filled the air as Raimony herself stepped up to a metal walkway overlooking the train depot and narrowed her thin green eyes on the monorail tracks to the west.

        There was no mistaking it; a train with a smashed front engine was on a collision course with the body of Strut Four.  Several imps and hobs lining the depot saw the impending crash and fled for higher platforms.  The lower body of Petra rang with an air of panic and surprise.

        Ultimately, Raimony grimaced and shouted to her subordinates.  “Everyone!  Back off!  It's going to smash straight through the depot like it's tinfoil!”  She ran through the crowd, ushering them towards higher ground with a pumping fist.  “Go!  I mean it!  Move!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Haaaugh!”  Scootaloo slammed Razzar's cheek up against a bulkhead of the third car.  She aimed a smashing hoof towards the base of the reptile's neck, only to receive a red-scaled elbow to the face.  “Unngh!”  The last pony stumbled back.  Razzar hissed, stuck her left leg down, and swept the pony's rear left hoof out from under her.

        Pratfalling, Scootaloo struck the floor chest-first.  There was a metallic ringing sound of Razzar picking up a link of chains.  Before the aching pegasus stand up, she was instead hoisted up.  Razzar had wrapped a thick web of chains around Scootaloo's throat and was choking her viciously from behind.

        “Snkkkt... Hckkk...!”  Scootaloo's face tightened around gnashing teeth.  Her hooves clambered over the metallic noose being wrapped around her neck.  Her limbs were helpless in their attempt to pry Razzar's grip loose.

        “What did I tell you about patience, four hooves?”  Razzar's tongue darted past Scootaloo's right ear.  “Shhhh... Relax.  You will be dead soon, yes yes yessss...”

        The last pony's scarlet eyes rolled back in their sockets.  The world was blacking out as a barely audible hiss dripped out between her bleeding lips.  With her last ounce of strength, she yanked her pupils back down and became aware of several steam pipes stretched across the wall in front of her and Razzar.  Breathless, she flung her hooves forward and knocked half-a-dozen valves loose.  A scalding hot gust of skin-biting steam immediately vented past her shoulder and into Razzar's quivering face.

        “Nnnngghh-Aaaugh!”  Razzar clenched her eyes shut, her dried skin peeling back and her nostrils flaring violently.  In a fit, she shook all over, dropping the strangling chains so as to grip her spasming face in a pair of clawed hands.  “Rrrrgghh—I friggin' hate steam!”

        Wheezing for breath, Scootaloo fell forward on her front hooves and immediately bucked her rear hooves.  The screaming naga was tossed back against the opposite wall of the third compartment.  Before she could get up, the pony glanced at the floor, saw a rattling goblin pickaxe, and immediately clutched the handle in her jaw.

        Wiping condensation off her face, Razzar stood.  A figure blurred towards her.  She looked over, but was too slow to avoid the swing of the pony's pickaxe.  Bloodily, the mining tool's blade impaled the naga's left wrist, pinning her tightly to the wall of the car.  “Aaaaaugh!” the mercenary screamed, falling to her knees and hanging from the bloody penetration.  Wincing, she tugged and tugged at her limb, but couldn't pull herself loose.  Crimson rivulets ran down her shoulder as he helplessly gawked up at the exiting pegasus.

        “Gotta hand it to you, Razzar,” the last pony limped towards the rear entrance of the second car.  She paused long enough to glare exhaustedly back at the shape-shifter.  “You always were good at sticking to your business.”  For a brief moment, there was color: Scootaloo bore a devilish smirk, and then was gone in a gallop.

        “Nnnngh—Come back, four legs!  Come back!”  Razzar snarled.  Fuming, practically hyperventilating, she flung her good hand over the handle of the pickaxe and tugged with all her strength.  The mining tool refused to budge.  She wrestled and struggled with her impalement, but was helplessly stuck to the wall of the rattling third car.  Enraged, she let forth a banshee shriek, filling the entire train with the thunder of her frustration.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Bruised and bleeding, her breaths labored, Scootaloo loosely ran through the sea of rolling ogre bombs.  She caught a copper glint on the floor of the second car.  Reaching her jaws down, she clamped the body of her rifle up in her teeth and galloped the rest of the way, joining a green goblin who was struggling with the second lever to the compartment's clamps in the doorframe to the first car.

        “Scootaloo!” he exclaimed her name for the umpteenth time in so many bloody seconds.  “You made it!”

        Scootaloo spat the gun out of her mouth so that it rattled to the floor of the first car.  “Good to see you're doing something useful.”

        “Nnnngh...”  Warden grunted, yanking harder and harder on the lever.  “I... uh... I tossed a thug out the window.”

        “Sure you did, kid.”

        “W-We're almost at Petra!”  The petite imp sweated and strained under his vest as he threw his entire weight into the lever.  “And I can't for the life of me get this stupid thing to detach—”

        “Here, Wart.”  Scootaloo nudged him towards the engine with her head, spun around, and bucked the lever mightily with her rear hooves.  With a resounding clank, the metal spoke fell the length of its hinges.  “The key thing is to not be a wimp.”

        “Show off.”  The goblin briefly frowned, then gasped as a loud noise rang through the junctioning slabs of metal connecting the first car to the second.  He and the last pony gazed as the doorframe between the two compartments rattled, then slowly, slowly separated.  In a oozing motion, the second car started parting ways with the first.  The clamps rattled free, exposed to the gray twilight as a gust of wind billowed into the suddenly exposed interior of the train.  “Yes!  Frostbeams!” Warden pumped his fist.  “We did it—”

        Scootaloo, however, was suddenly gasping.  “Oh Luna Poop!” she cursed.

        “What?!” Warden hopped in place, his heart beating madly.  “What is it?!  Why is Luna pooping?!”

        “Be right back, kid!”  Scootaloo said... then jumped immediately into the detaching body of the second car.

        The green goblin gasped wide.  “Are you crazy?!”  He planted himself on all fours in the separating doorframes like a barking dog.  “Scootaloo, come back!” he shrieked after her, the Wasteland winds kicking at his emerald hair.  “What are you doing?!”

        Scootaloo was frantically digging through the sea of rolling ogre bombs.  Panting hysterically, sweating all the way through to her black arcanium armor, she swam her hooves through the piles of fallen tools and sensitive explosives.  Her scarlet eyes twitched in every conceivable direction as her limbs searched more and more desperately.

        The gap between the second and third cars was widening.  Warden cried again, “Scootaloo!  Hurry!”  His voice was gradually being drowned out by the howling winds between separately speeding halves of the train.  “You'll never catch up with me at this point—”

        The last pony had more pressing concerns.  “Where is it?!  Goddess Entropa, help me—where is it?!”  She sneered through her teeth.  “Dang it, Spike, next time let's put a friggin' bell on the thing—Ah HA!”  Just then, a green glow flickered across her drunken grin.  Parting a pair of large bombs, she exposed the cylinder of emerald flame to her sight.  She snatched the thing up in her teeth, spun around, and galloped towards the front doorframe of the second car.

        The pale, blurring monorail tracks were visible, marking the length of a naked meter between her compartment's and Warden's.  The green teenager urged her on.  His image remained in place as the speed of Scootaloo's gallop matched the rate at which he was drifting away.

        “Come on!  Quick!  Jump over—”

        Scootaloo flexed her legs.  She was almost to the edge of the doorframe when—“Hrmmf!”—she jolted in place, stopping completely.  Eyes twitching above the green flame in her mouth, she flashed an angry look over her shoulder.

        The purple, foot-less goblin was clutching onto her left rear hoof with two gnarled hands.  Under a sheen of sweat, he produced a hideous snarl.  “You're not getting away, glue stick!  I'll drag you to the heart of Dimming's Blight if I have to!”

        Scootaloo hissed into the jar in her mouth.  She yanked and tugged and kicked at the goblin.  The lamed Rust-Bleeder clung to her with a death drip, employing the crook of his elbow.  The whipping wind intensified, blowing at Scootaloo's mane.  The last pony gazed helplessly ahead.

        The first car drifted further away.  The monorail track blurred across two meters... three.  “Scootaloo!  Hurry—”  Warden gestured.

        The pegasus shot her wings out.  “Hrmmmm—Ffffngh!” She flung herself forward in a desperate lunge, catching the air as she dragged a gasping goblin into the screaming madness with her.  For an eternal second, she plunged through the winds, sailing like a stray comet between the detached halves of the train. When she came down, she missed the front car.

        Warden's gasping face disappeared from her sight.

        “Hnngh!”  Scootaloo flung her forward hooves up.  Her body yanked as her upper limbs clasped onto the rear-most edge of the front car's door frame.  She nearly dropped the green jar from her teeth as she felt her lower half shaking violently.  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the goblin's body was being dragged bloodily atop the blurring monorail track behind her.  Petrified by the torturous friction grinding his lower half to a pulp, he clung to her leg—screaming—his arms stiff like frozen tree branches.  The last pony's teeth scraped against the surface of the glass cylinder as she raised her other leg and viciously bucked him in the face again and again.

        Finally, he let go.  His body fell like a wet sack, only to be reduced to red paste by the merciless  grinding of the metal wheels beneath the second car.  With his weight gone, Scootaloo's lower limbs fell all the way.  She met the blurring monorail track with the soles of her rear horsehoes.  Sparks flew on either side of her hooves.  Her tail flicked amidst the ashes as her upper body struggled to pull the rest of her up into the car.

        A pair of green hands clasped her upper torso.  Using his entire weight, Warden tugged and tugged, giving her just the boost she needed.  Timing her legs with his yanking motion, she kicked up and flapped her wings one time, flinging her body safely into the interior of the front half of the train.  Warden tumbled into a metal crate.  Scootaloo rolled and landed upside-down against the wall, her rear horseshoes heatedly steaming from her near-death.

        “Don't... ever do that again!” Warden exclaimed, clutching his breathless chest.

        Scootaloo spat the green jar of flame onto the floor.  “I'm sorry.”  She somersaulted onto her hooves and trotted towards him.  “It's my first runaway train.”

        “Whatever.  The job's done.”  Warden shivered as the golden glow of Petra wafted ominously across the two of them as they looked out onto the blurring monorail track.  “Can we please fly away now?”

        Scootaloo blinked, gazing numbly at the second car full of bombs.  They had succeeded in detaching it from the runaway engine of the train, but at this rate there was no chance of the speeding car full of explosives coming to a stop anytime soon.  The inertia was just too much.

        “The job's hardly done,” the last pony murmured.

        “Wh-What?!”

        “We're practically a foal's sneeze from Petra,” Scootaloo spoke while flinging herself down to her haunches.  She emptied all the remaining pockets of her ramcraft armor and fished for a special runestone.  “If we leave now, I swear, those bombs are gonna get flung into the impcity.  We would have done this grand dance all for nothing!”

        “Th-Then what do we do?!”

        “I got it covered!” Scootaloo smirked, dragging her copper rifle towards her.  She pulled a hollow dart out from her pile of haphazard ammo and stuck it into the barrel of the gun.  Next, she held a red runestone up before Warden's eyes.  “I've been saving this for a rainy day.”

        “What is it?”

        “Something that would evaporate all the rain.”  She slapped the runestone into the front of the gun's magazine, ahead of all the normal ammo.  “Hopefully, in this situation, it'll be enough to knock the car full of bombs clear off the tracks.”  She cocked the weapon, aimed it towards the doorframe of the second car, and growled, “H'rhnum!”

        Warden watched as a red plume of bright mana surged into the dart.  The capsule was subsequently fired out the barrel of the rifle.  It flew across the space between the cars and embedded—glowing a hot crimson—in the metal surface of the second compartment barely a meter above the blurring monorail tracks.

        “Why's it not exploding?” Warden exclaimed.

        “The rune's destructive mana is pressurized,” Scootaloo exclaimed, already raising the bracelet of hooves to her lips.  “I just gotta say the right word to collapse it—”

        The green goblin suddenly shrieked.  “Look out!”

        Scootaloo looked up.  Her eyes reflected a dashing, red figure.  Hissing murderously, Razzar was running the length of the second car.  She jumped like a crimson cannonball, her gnawed-off left arm glistening in the twilight as she flung herself madly across the space of the two train halves.  Her last good hand formed a fist as she plowed into Scootaloo, knocking her off her haunches and barreling the two of them across the floor of the first compartment.

        Warden spun, gasping.

        The last pony dropped her gun as she was slammed onto the floor of the car.  The bleeding, raving naga straddled her, slamming her one hand repeatedly over the last pony's skull.  Scootaloo spat blood, winced and pressed her hooves against the reptile's chest.  Abandoning any other recourse, she shouted towards her bracelet of hooves.

        “M'wyn—Mmmmfff!”

        Razzar's grimy hand was covering her face.  Bending her spine at grotesque angles, the naga roped the bulk of her body tightly around the last pony, intertwining her scaled legs with the pony's limbs and wrestling the muted equine to the ground.

        “No more spit, sister!”  The mercenary hissed into her ear.  Using her jaws, she wrenched the bracelet of hooves off the pony's leg and flung it to the far end of the car.  “No more magical spit!  Only your blood!  Your blood and mine!”  She raked the claws of her lower feet across Scootaloo's flank.

        “Nnnnngh!” Scootaloo hissed into Razzar's palm and slammed the joints of her upper limbs into the reptile's chest.  The naga merely absorbed the blows and wrapped her weight tighter around the pony's spine.  Warden charged in from behind, swinging both fists across the back of the naga's skull.  Unaffected, the reptile angrily hissed and uncoiled one leg to kick the teenager in the chest.  Warden gasped, his petite body flying into a wall on the far end of the car and slumping hard to the floor.

        Scootaloo bit desperately into Razzar's fingers, producing blood.  The one-handed shape-shifter didn't even budge.  She hissed pleasureably from the pain and opened her own razor sharp jaws wide.  In a flash, she bit down onto the stretch of arcanium weave armoring the last pony's shoulder.  The naga's teeth icily sliced through the ramcraft material, knifing painfully into the pegasus' skin.  Scootaloo let loose a muffled scream into Razzar's palm, her nostrils flaring as she cast a forlorn gaze across the lengths of the car.  The golden glow of Petra was blinding now.  She could smell the imp city's smoke and steam from beyond the naga's fingers.  The grinding sound of thousands upon thousands of machine parts rivaled the screaming weight of the runaway train engine.  In a matter of seconds, they would slam into a stalk of metal, and the bane of Petra would explode into the rear of them.

        “H'rhnum!”

        Razzar was first to gasp.  She released her jaws from the black arcanium weave of Scootaloo's shoulder.  However, it was not the last pony who had uttered that runic command.  The wide-eyed naga glanced behind her.

        Warden was wearing the bracelet of horns around his neck.  Standing at the doorframe of the compartment, he aimed out the back with the copper rifle, taking his second shot at the crimson dart embedded against the detached train car full of bombs.  “H'rhnum!”  The manabullet ricocheted closer towards the fragile capsule of explosive mana.  The small imp cocked the gun and aimed once more.

        “Hnnngh!” Razzar disentangled herself from the pony and dove towards him.

        Scootaloo twisted her blood-stained legs, fiercely tripping Razzar before the naga could finish her dive.  The lizard fell hard to the floor as Scootaloo tackled her from behind, holding her in place for Warden to take his third shot.

        “H'rhnum!”

        The bullet flew, struck the jar of compressed red magic, and ruptured it.  The resulting crimson flash was blinding.  Warden flinched and stumbled backwards as a rapidly expanding ball of fire erupted beneath the second car.  The monorail track crumbled beneath the rear half of the train.  Soon, with a groaning of metal parts, the two runaway cars plunged murderously towards the Wasteland surface below.

        All sound and chaos was briefly drowned out.  Then, once the tense five or six seconds consumed themselves, an even greater explosion rocked the world.  The car full of fire granite bombs ignited, and a gigantic plume of golden plasma billowed skyward, sending shards of rock and earth flying high enough to rival the spectacle of Petra.  The sundering of the earth didn't stop there; fiery waves billowed in all directions.  A pure wall of flame was threatening to outrace the runaway train.  The monorail track lifted up like a flung hose, and soon the tracks beneath the engine and the first car briefly lifted in a monumental lurch.

        “Aaagh!” Warden fell straight back as the rear of the compartment lifted straight up.  In the meantime, shards of burning debris flew through the doorframe, bathing the interior of the train with soot and ash.  The metal shell of the car bent and warped.  Scootaloo and Razzar were violently separated, their bodies flinging to the far ends of the collapsing vehicle under a shower of sparks.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Raimony was halfway through scaling a steep flight of metal steps atop Strut Four when a sonic boom struck her blue, pointed ears.  Nearly thrown off balance, she leaned on the railings of her platform and flung a glance over her shoulder.  Several goblins nearby shrieked and cried in shock as a gigantic ball of fire lit up the west, barely two hundred meters from the edge of Petra.  The smog above was illuminated in a platinum wave, like a brief tribute to a dead sun.

        From afar, a broad stretch of the monorail track could be seen crumbling to dust.  Across the remaining length between the explosion and the depot, a runaway steam engine lifted off the tracks and tilted at an angle, grinding sideways over the platform with a flying sea of sparks.  The car directly behind it tilted in the opposite direction, so that both pieces of the suicidal train sped like crumpled, metal wings towards the helpless structure of the train depot.


~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo fell on her back, wincing.  Her ears stung from the grinding noise of burning metal on all sides of her.  The second car had flung to its side, but it was still speeding madly towards oblivion.  The golden aura of Petra strobed all around the crumpled interior.  There was no sign of Razzar, no sign of the green flame, and no sign of—

        “Wart!” she shouted into the bedlam, rolling over, crawling across the rumbling, careening madness.  “Dang it!  Say something—”

        “'Something!'”

        Scootaloo gasped.  She immediately dove towards the noise, her hooves sliding into the body of a quivering imp.  “Wart!  Hang on!”

        The imp was in the middle of fiddling with his vest.  He clung the article tightly to his chest and flung a pair of wide, aquamarine eyes Scootaloo's way.  “Hang onto what?!  We're dead meat!”

        “Story of my friggin' life!”  Scootaloo spun her body against the floor and kicked hard at a collapsed wall of metal.  “Nnngh!”  She bucked and bucked harder.

        “We gotta get out of here!” Warden squeaked, clinging to her and shivering as the golden light was blinding them both.  “We gotta fly!”

        “I'm working on it!” Scootaloo struggled and kicked a few more times at the wall.  It was no good; they were trapped inside the sliding car.  She tilted her head at an angle—then gasped at the sight in front of her.  The bright cloak of the Royal Grand Biv was dangling from a jutting bulkhead.  The flames had long been extinguished.  Clamping her teeth over the burnt fabric, she yanked the stretch of arcanium weave loose and flung the pliable material over her and Warden's bodies.  “Here!  Stay close!”  She hugged Warden close to her chest and folded the arcanium desperately around their every limb.  “Curl your hands and feet inward, towards me!”

        Warden buried his emerald head in her armored neck and squealed, “Is th-this stuff really tough enough to save our hides?!”

        “Guess we're about to find out!”  Scootaloo gulped and held him tight as the screeching noise of the train reached a breaking point.  “Wart, if worst comes to worst, I want you to know that I'm sorry for what I did earlier!”

        Warden nodded, trembling.  He murmured, “Sc-Scootaloo?!”

        “Yes, Wart?!”

        “Is now a bad time to tell you I feel like throwing up?!”

        “Yes.”

        The entire train jolted.  Both souls gasped and clung to each other as their world spun.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~  


        The engine's steaming front had struck a metal stalk lining the tracks.  It pivoted at an angle, snapping clean from the first car that was still fitfully dragging behind it.  The engine rolled over and purely slid sideways, its hulking weight smashing through several more stalks as it entered the body of the depot.

        The collapsing poles fell like meteorites through the body of the first car, smashing the vehicle in two halves that rolled violently across the platforms of the depot as the engine continued its murderous slide, eventually barreling through a collapsing overhang that upended the huge hunk of black metal so that it rolled—smoldering—into the depths of an aluminum warehouse.  From deep inside, the boilers finally burst.

        The warehouse exploded, sending chunks of debris flying so high that they ricocheted off the bottom of Strut Five.  Distant goblins shrieked and ran as a rain of burning shrapnel littered the distant lengths of the platform.  Soon, all parts of the depot that weren't smashed to bits were covered with steaming, hissing chunks of debris.

        At last, the two sundered halves of the first car rolled to a stop—their metal parts groaning as they lurched in on their own weight and settled in the middle of the crater of desolation.  All was quiet, blanketing the collapsed depot with a haunting silence.

        The violent crash had been dramatic, but it was barely one millionth of the carnage that would have been suffered if the fire granite had ignited within the platform, instead of the safe distance where it had exploded several dozens of meters to the west.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~





        High above, on Strut Twenty-One, several Rust-Bleeders gawked in amazement at the fires of the explosion that had decidedly not taken Petra with them.  Half of the clan members cheered in hysterical joy.  The other half—those who were in on Haman's plans—shuffled nervously, exchanging worried glances.

        As for the prime Rust-Bleeder himself, the liver-spotted imp opened his eyes from his brief meditation and timely drank in the fires burning in the middle of the sundered monorail track.  His ear-stalks pricked, taking notice of a sound that his brain could barely register at first.  Leaning curiously towards the edge of the platform, he heard a loud roar drowning out the machines of Petra.  He realized that he was listening to the collective victory shouts of every goblin in every platform of the city, having witnessed such a horrible catastrophe only to emerge with their lives intact.  For all Haman had done for the Mountain Ogres of the Valley of Jewels, he was being engulfed by one singular voice of imp-kind, a unification of joy and amazement.

        As the roar rose to deaffening new heights, the frail elder backstepped from the platform, hobbling away unnoticed through the crowd of his own mesmerized subordinates.  Gripping his cane, he made for the front steps of his metal-framed palace.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Down in the shattered train depot of Strut Four, the roar of Petra was barely discernible above the hissing of hot metal.  One half of the surviving car sat in a crumpled heap.  Briefly, a few shadows darted down from the moutain of fresh debris.  A half-dozen hobs greedily grabbed whatever clumps of shattered metalwork they could get their puny little hands on.

        Just then, a ruptured panel in the side of the crumpled car was kicked loose.  Shrieking, the hobs rolled away on stumpy legs.  With an exhausted groan, the bruised and grease-stained body of Scootaloo slithered out from the wreckage.  She slumped to the debris-strewn ground, lying on her back and tossing her legs like an overgrown, brown cockroach.  Finally rolling over, the last pony flexed her wings under a mane of frazzled pink hair.

        “Unnngh...”  She gazed tiredly all across the steaming, crumpled urbanscape.  “Hmph... Some way or another, it always amounts to a frickin' train wreck.”

        Her ramcrafted armor hung in tatters off her body as she stood up and hobbled across the debris field, wincing with each lurching trot.

        “Nnngh... Wart?!”  She called out, her voice echoing throughout the steaming desolation.  “Wart, where the heck are you?!”  The pony was seething, flexing her muscles, keeping her bloodstream too adrenalized for her mind to contemplate the shivering horror that was slowly creeping up her spine.  “Wart?  Dang it, give a shout out, ya little grass stain!”

        She looked every which way across the depot.  The warehouse was flaming.  Shards of metal were still falling from the sky.  The golden haze of the fireball to the west challenged the glowing height of Petra.  There was no shade of green skin to be found.

        Scootaloo bit her lip.  She was about to whimper something, if only to expel a growing lump in her throat.

        Suddenly, a chunk of metal shifted to the side of her.

        Gasping, Scootaloo spun and looked.  The metal panel shook and shuffled from underneath.  “Wart!” she exclaimed, galloping over and furiously yanking the slab of debris skyward with a pair of gnashing teeth.  She dug into the sea of shrapnel with her hooves.  “Speak to me, kiddo!  Are you in one piece?”

        The last pony eventually unleashed a rainbow bundle of fabric.  Desperately, she unwrapped the last shred of the Royal Grand Biv's effluence.  Lying within the arcanium folds, curled up like a foal, was the bruised, soot-stained, but altogether living form of Warden.

        “Speak to me, kid!”

        Warden hissed through his teeth.  “Owie.”  His eyes bulged, for he was suddenly lifted by a pair of hooves.  A brown face was nuzzling him with a surprisingly warm breath of affection.  “Sc-Scootaloo?” the teenage goblin stammered.  “This is a little awkward...”

        “Shut up, ya scamp,” she muttered, smiling helplessly as she held him close to her.  Her upper body shuddered as she said, “I told you there was a time for sap, didn't I?  Celestia, I'm so envious of you, kiddo...”

        “Envious of me?”  Warden's aquamarine eyes blinked confusedly.  “What for?”

        She planted him down on the ground and sat on her haunches before him, smiling in spite of all her cuts and abrasions.  “It was your first frickin' time.”

        “First time for what?”

        The mare's eyes briefly watered as she ruffled his emerald bangs.  “For doing the impossible.  I wished things were nearly that epic when I experienced it myself.”

        Warden smiled crookedly, hugging his arms across his vested chest.  “Why do I get the feeling you're just being humble?”

        “Heheheh...” Scootaloo let loose a deep breath, her body's trembles calming down.  “For you, kid, I'd be a bucket of oats.”  She rested a hoof on his shoulder.  “I'm... I-I'm just so glad you're alive, Warden.”

        “I'm glad I am too,” he murmured, gulped, then leaned forward.  “But... uhm... aren't you forgetting something, Scootaloo?”

        She merely raised an eyebrow.

        The goblin bit his lip.  He stopped hugging himself, and in so doing he unfolded the inside of his vest.  A bright green glow wafted over the two souls as he exposed the safely smuggled jar of green flame.

        Scootaloo stared into the emerald tongues of reverse-time.  Her lips pursed.  “Frostbeams,” the last pony cooed.

        “I think this belongs to you,” he said.  After gulping, he added with a nervous smile, “Unless, of course, you're wanting to pay me with it.  I am earning my strips still, aren't I?”

        Scootaloo smirked wide.  “I'd say.”  She then blinked, for a warm drop of liquid had landed on her wings.  Warden glanced up; she did too.  Half of the wrecked train car loomed over them, but one patch of metal seemed strangely darker than the rest.  Suddenly, another trickle of blood fell from the patch.  Scootaloo gasped.  She made to move—

        “Haaugh!” the patch of metal leaped down, materializing into a battered naga with a drop-kick flung across Scootaloo's face.

        The last pony spun twice from the blow.  She landed hard in a mound of metal shingles.  Warden shrieked and angrily charged into Razzar's side.  The fuming, bleeding naga merely back-handed him.  With a cry, the green teenager tumbled off and landed under a collapsing heap of garbage.  The cylinder of emerald flame rattled ineffectually into a crook of fallen debris.

        “Hmmm...” Razzar squatted down on coiled muscles as she glared in the last pony's direction.  She brought her left arm up and nibbled briefly on the meaty stub.  “Trying to find an elaborate way to bury yourself, four hooves?”  Her twitching eyes darted all across the steaming wreckage.  “You could have simply asked, yes yessss...”

        Scootaloo snarled.  Hopping up to her legs, she clamped her teeth over a loose panel of metal and flung it in Razzar's direction.  The one-handed naga absorbed the blow and backflipped across the wrecked depot.  Enraged, the last pony broke into a full gallop, charging her.

        Suddenly, halfway through the trot, Scootaloo fell flat on her face.  Her front right horseshoe had flown clear off.  “Oh friggin' A!”  The battle-scarred article rolled, tumbled, and clattered to a stop two meters away.  Just as the wincing pegasus was about to get back up, a red-scaled figure charged into her with a heavy kick across the equine's chin.

        “Rrrrgh!”  Razzar kicked, then kicked again.  She shivered and leered above the painfully sprawled pony.  “Look at this Wasteland within a Wasteland!”  She pointed with her one good hand while her eyes flared like lanterns.  “You wrecked Haman's train and ruined all my chances at getting silver!  I like you!”  She hissed and kicked Scootaloo the hardest in the chest.

        Scootaloo wheezed, her eyes tearing.  She curled inward, her legs pressed against her bruised belly as her whole body stung from Razzar's merciless pummeling.  A ringing sound of scraping metal filled the air.  Razzar had picked up a long, rusted shiv in her right hand.  Marching over, she palmed the weight of the sharp spear and spat a dribble of blood onto the sundered platform.

        “Such a shame that we cannot live with the things that we like.  Such a bleaker shame that you have starved me of the one thing both you and I can afford.”  She aimed the sharp end of the shiv at Scootaloo's neck, but suddenly paused.

        A distant murmur was filling the air.  The naga glanced over her shoulder in time to witness several shuffling bodies of imps crawling down the walkways and stairs of Strut Four.  Goblins of all walks of life—bearing several different colors of countless clans—were descending upon the wrecked scene, hoping to get a good look at the train collision that had transpired.  The population of Petra wanted answers, and the shape-shifter was about to give them one.

        “This never had to get personal, sister,” Razzar lisped.  She relaxed as her battered and bleeding body slowly, liquidly unfurled from top to bottom.  The rough image of Miss Ryst once again stood in the golden glow of the imp city.  Her mutilated left arm proudly displayed the yellow band of Rust Blood.  “You could have held your distance, like I did.  Our hearts are not meant for such blemishing politics of boomers, only our bullets.  What more can be asked of the last two fossils who can still bleed?”

        Scootaloo weakly looked up, only to have the pointed edge of the shiv thrusted up against the nape of her neck.  She gulped, too beat up and exhausted to bother parrying the means of her untimely demise.  The crowd of imps gathered thicker and thicker.  They all stopped and gazed down from a ring of solid balconies overlooking the train wreck.  Among the many colored clans, the unmistakable red of Hex Blood shone in the light.  Scootaloo could spot Raimony from afar, and Raimony spotted her.  A frightened breath was shared between the distant souls.  It suddenly felt like Scootaloo's last.

        “Hear me, my fellow imps!” Razzar shouted boldly into the hiss of burning metal.  Her tan ears and green hair struggled to stay in the mode of Miss Ryst as she kept the shiv affixed to the pegasus' flesh.  “What has transpired here is a travesty of the most wicked sort!  This insufferable pony, a Wasteland vagabond hired by none other than Devo of Hex Blood, has delivered Petra a violent blow!  However, thanks to yours truly—and the divine intervention of Rust Blood—I have stopped this sky stealer's evil plan to tear Petra to the ground!”

        The overlooking crowd of imps murmured in shock and horror.  Several angry faces fell onto Scootaloo.  The Hex-Bleeders glanced at each other nervously.  Appalled, Raimony glared furiously at Miss Ryst and opened her mouth to shout in objection.

        Razzar's booming voice drowned everything out.  “Is it enough that the Hex-Bleeders sabotaged the steam foundries of Glass Blood and slaughtered Franken and his brothers?!  Is it enough that Devo insults the council with his subversive ideas of unification?!  Dear imps, Hex Blood has done nothing but bring the Dimming's Blight upon us.  Allow me, your loyal Rust-Bleeder, to end this pestilence once and for all... by ending this pony!”

        Scootaloo gasped sharply as the metal shiv clung sideways to her throat.  With just one yank, Razzar would slit her jugular.

        The shape-shifter's eyes briefly morphed into green slits.  “Boomers will be boomers, and corpses will be corpses, my dear sister.”  The voice that came out of her was quiet, truer to her reptilian self.  “Don't worry.  Where I'll be sending you, there won't be crows to eat the flesh.”  Her hands tightened to the metal weapon.

        The last pony calmly closed her eyes.  Just then, there was a metallic clatter.  Her eyes flew back open.

        Razzar spun and looked aside.

        Warden had broken free of the mound of garbage.  Sprawling out on all fours, he breathlessly looked at Scootaloo, at the metal shiv, then at the tan goblin shape wielding it.  His aquamarine eyes flared, and he immediately sprinted forward.

        “Bad boomer!”  Razzar spat, twirled, and flung the shiv at him like a javelin.

        “Wart!” Scootaloo cried.

        The teenager was already holding his breath, rolling forward.  The shiv sliced down his back, grazing his skin, slicing his vest in half.  At the end of his tumble, he reached down and grabbed the first thing he could find.  A jagged horsehoe glinted in his grasp as he crossed the rubble-strewn distance between himself and Razzar.  The angry “Miss Ryst” spat at him, flinging her left foot and her one fist.  Warden dodged both of these, for he had jumped high, bounded off her waist, and reached for her skull.  Hoisting himself by her right ear, he swung up so that he mounted her neck, screamed, and shoved the horseshoe down into the mercenary's face.  The air sang sickly with a pair of popping noises.

        “Nnnnngh-Giyaaaaaa!”  Razzar screamed loudly, for the razor-sharp ends of the horseshoe had punctured both of her eyes.  “Aaaaa-gaaaaaahh!”  She clutched her skull, teetering backwards from the weight of the teenage goblin on her shoulders.  Rivulets of blood dribbled down from where the horseshoe was viciously embedded in her sockets.  Before the sight of hundreds of goblins gazing above, the mercenary's tortured skin flickered and unfurled across several different facades, from Miss Ryst to Devo to Raimony to Haman to Franken to Warden and back to Miss Ryst.  “Aaaah!  J-Juices!  Juices!  Graa-haaaaugh!” the mindless reptile meatedly screamed, finally surrendering to the agony as her body slumped to a sheen of dried red scales.

        At the end of her color-changing sideshow, a growling Warden yanked the horsehoe viciously out of her skull.  Streams of ragged eye-muscle poured out of her.  She fell to the ground in a slump, clutching her face with one good hand while kicking the ground with her remaining limbs.  The hyperventilating green goblin stood above her.

        Scootaloo coughed, sputtered, and gazed weakly up at the scene.  “Nnngh... H-Holy crud, kid.”

        Seething, Warden looked at Scootaloo, looked at Razzar, then up... up at the crowd.  The entire ring of gawking goblins had their eyes locked on him, on his figure, on the shameless branding across his thigh.  Spitting into the air, Warden's eyes brightened with righteous fury as he raised the very same symbol in his grasp, stained with the guilty blood of the shape-shifter.

        “This!” he shouted with a sudden strength, his shivering body embolded by a monumental surge of goblin pride.  “This is the true color of Rust Blood!  Haman's family is tainted with the reptilian fluids of a naga saboteur!  You've seen with your very eyes how his most trusted associate tried to deceive you!  All of you!  It was not the pony or Hex Blood that tried to blow up Petra with this train!  Nor was it Hex Blood that caused all the mayhem against Glass Blood in Strut Eleven!  It was all Haman's doing!  Rust Blood is out to destroy Petra!”

        The many goblins listened in awe, their pointed ears twitching upon each and every booming word that the enraged teenager assertively tossed their way.  The entire time, their eyes were locked on the bleeding image of the horseshoe.  It burned into their eyes with the same fury that it once burned into the young goblin's skin.

        “My name,” Warden refilled his lungs and shouted, “is Warden of Stock Blood!  Some of you may call me a no-bleeder.  I call myself lucky!  Lucky to be alive, lucky to be bathed in the blood of Petra's enemies, and lucky to be sharing it with you all now!  We have it within ourselves to be more than a bunch of lame clans squabbling with each other!  We are all goblins, we are all brothers!  Let us bleed together from our hands blistered with the manifestation of Petra, not from beating each other to pieces!  The ogres and the harpies and the dogs of this world want to devour what we have made here, but must we let them?!  I am asking you—begging you: let us boot out the last kink in our armor!  Let us do away with Rust Blood, and make this City something that no nasty creature will ever again dare to attack!”

        At the end of his echoing cries, the many goblins above shared nervous glances.  His words were digested, but few of them were capable of matching the intensity of his beating heart.  Scootaloo glanced worriedly from face to face, until her gaze met Raimony's.  The daughter of Devo saw the pony's eyes.  The pegasus slowly, slowly nodded.  Raimony's jaw tensed, and after a knowing look, she cupped her hands over her face and shouted, “Hooooray!  Warden of Stock Blood!”

        Every goblin spun and glanced at the shouting goblinette, including Warden.  Raimony hopped down to the wreckage and swiftly ran over to the petite imp's side.  She gripped his wrist and almost lifted him off the ground as she raised his bleeding horseshoe higher into the air.

        “Let us hear it for Warden, slayer of nagas!  Our city's been saved, and we owe him our lives!”

        A roar of booming voices echoed from the crowd as the many imps smiled and shouted and pumped their fists in the excitement of the bloody moment.  Several goblins jumped down and rushed the scene.  For the first time in countless stormfronts, the colors and armbands and bandannas of the populace blended together, mixing the clans into a colorful sea of singularity, forming a rainbow circle around Warden as the young imp and his bloodstained weapon of pride were raised high atop the imps' shoulders.

        “Petra bless us all!”

        “Warden speaks truth!”

        “Praise Petra for the Stock-Bleeder!”

        Warden was hyperventilating.  His bruised and scuffed body couldn't have shone any brighter in the golden light.  Every square centimeter of his skin had been electrified, as if he had become an adult in one single shout.  If he had wings, this would have been his first flight.  Branded with the image of sky-stealers, he received the worship of every goblin within eyesight, a delightfully impossible thing.  He sliced his fist through it—and the bloody horseshoe matched his gnashing teeth.

        “To Strut Twenty-One!” he screamed.  “Let us rid Petra of the true traitors!  Who is with me?!”

        “For Petra's glory!”

        “Down with Rust Blood!”

        “Down with Haman!”

        “Every goblin, defend your city's sanctity!”

        “Listen to the Stock-Bleeder!  The Wasteland will not win!”

        The crowd surged thicker and thicker, all the while marching furiously towards the inner stalk of Petra and the multiple lifts that would take such a righteously enraged army towards the top of the golden megastructure.  Scootaloo could only watch from afar as the green shadow of her tiny cohort was carried away to a glorious new destiny.  She gasped at the feel of several hands lifting her up.  She glanced over her flank.

        Raimony and several smiling Hex-Bleeders were there.  The daughter of Devo helped Scootaloo to her legs and produced a gentle smirk.  “I'm sorry to steal your thunder, pony.  I'm sure even you would agree that this moment had to be his, not yours.”

        Scootaloo slowly nodded.  “I've already had my time in the spotlight, ages ago.”  She stared off as the crowd marched away with Warden on their shoulders.  “This was hardly my main event.”

        “Yeah.”  Raimony folded her blue arms and stared towards the stalk of Petra.  “So what do you think of our cute little riot?”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “I think that was a darn good shoe.”

        “They sure do grow up fast, don't they?”  The goblinette ran a hand through her brown threads and sighed.  “Children of the Dimming, that is.”

        “Too fast,” Scootaloo murmured.  She smiled, but it was a jaded thing.  The distant image of Warden finally vanished beyond sight, and the last pony's warm breath left with him.  “Still, it's nice to know that something can still grow in the Wasteland, and beautifully too.”  The pony's lips curved placidly at the thought of that.

        It suddenly didn't feel so lonesome to be the last steward.




        Scootaloo didn't see Warden for the next few days.  Strolling through the streets of the impcity's many golden platforms, Scootaloo could easily understand why.  Petra had become alive overnight.  Children and adults alike ran giddily through the streets, singing tales of a young goblin who had skewered the face of a traitoroous clan leader's secret weapon.  The wounding of the shape-shifting mercenary was the subject of dramatic gossip, and several imp tongues jubilantly shared the account, coloring it with greater and greater epic details upon each retelling.

        In the light of Petra's most recent salvation, Goblins had stopped bickering with each other.  They had stopped beating and bullying each other.  The only guns or machetes brandished in the streets were done so in the direction of frightened Rust-Bleeders who, under the glare of insurmountable numbers, surrendered their arms to a dramatically multiplying group of imps emboldened by a brand new cause.  The metallic districts vibrated under a brand new crusade of cleansing, a passionate campaign that sought to sweep Petra of all heinous goblins attached to the conspiracy that almost sent a train full of ogre bombs into the heart of the city.

        Marching through the streets, her limbs and flanks bandaged in several places, the last pony gawked at the transformation of the urban scenery around her.  Gone were the several clashing colors of the different imp clans.  In their place, a common banner was being hoisted atop every street corner, something that was as frighteningly colorful as it was swiftly illustrated.  In every platform, in every street, the image was slightly different, but generally depicted the same sight, that of a goblin hand gripping a jagged horseshoe... a horseshoe soaked in blood.

        The last pony blinked in shock.  A week ago when she walked these same streets, goblins were bumping into her, jeering at her, and even tossing their own filth at her.  Now, it was as though the pegasus was practically invisible.  The cheers that swam through the streets were deafening.  The goblins weren't celebrating so much as they were rallying.  In rapidly growing clusters, differently-banded goblins of diverse clans met and talked for the first time, sincerely approaching each other's faces when previously they had relied on the useless rhetoric of their family representatives at inane council meetings.  Among the various exchanges, smirks and laughter were also shared, followed swiftly by trade agreements and plans to defend the outer platforms from Wastelander incursion.

        The goblins' eyes were bright, as if they were alive for the first time since the Dimming, and not just pretending to be through their animation of perpetual machinery.  As the banners blanketed building after building in every strut, the colors on the imps' bodies were soon obscured by the same horseshoe image, joining every bleeding family with the commonality of Warden's symbolic gesture.

        Scootaloo gazed in numb disbelief as her frantic march slowed to a leisurely trot.  For the first time in her entire life spent in the Wasteland, she felt like she was somewhere safe.  A few passing goblins even smiled at her, gesturing towards her horseshoes and cheering as they ran off with fellow half-lings to make their gigantic city more glorious and secure.  Somehow, Scootaloo thought, if all the world's armies of ogres attacked Petra, not even a dent would be scratched into the structure's golden surface.  The imps' resolve had become iron-clad, stronger even than the arcanium weave that Scootaloo had donned to attack a steam train head-on.  With the death of the Royal Grand Biv, there came a rebirth—a goblin renaissance that the last pony never once contemplated ever being an accessory to.  This city full of rapture was not the past, it was not Dredgemane, but for the briefest blink in time it resembled the warmth and color of Equestria, and Scootaloo didn't even need to shine a single ray of sunlight to make it happen.

        Perhaps it always had been that easy, she pondered.  Hope was not nearly as impossible to spread as it was to forsake.

        The pegasus took a deep breath, smiling painfully—but proudly.  There had been some bumps in the road, some rocks and shoals across the shoreline of her existence, but she had recovered at the last second.  She knew that what she did to stop Haman's train was the right thing, for it was the sincere thing.  Clinging to hope, instead of to Razzar's words, she had exercised loyalty.  It wasn't that she was loyal to the goblins, but rather she was loyal to herself.  Like a certain prismatic idol had once told her, everything else just came naturally.

        Scootaloo paused briefly in the streets, shutting her eyes so capture the golden excitement under her moist lids.  She may have buried Rainbow Dash years ago, but nothing—not even the Cataclysm—could contain her awesomeness.  It shimmered brightly across the desolation, more intense than a golden fireball in the middle of a monorail track, and now Petra was blossoming in the glow of it.





        Several platforms above the wrecked train depot where one goblin would change the city's spirit forever, the palace of Haman loomed atop Strut Twenty-One.  Dozens upon dozens of yellow-banded imps laid down their arms and surrendered to a thick crowd of goblins who marched furiously into the interior.  Their colored armbands were covered with the unifying image of a horseshoe painted over with blood.  Bearing more frowns than steam rifles, the sea of imps marched into the center of Rust Blood's headquarters and burst the doors open to a certain elder's luxurious office.

        “Haman of Rust Blood!” a goblin at the front of the mob shouted, palming a metal club in his grasp as his brothers stood tall and threatening on either side of him.  “We represent the Stock-Bleeder, slayer of nagas.  Every imp in this city knows that you, Franken, and Waven were in league with the Mountain Ogres!  We've come to hold you responsible for plotting the death of Petra!”

        “Hmmm...”  A pair of yellow ear-stalks pricked up at the sound of the goblin's voice.  Slowly, a deadpan Haman spun around to face the unified crowd.  “The death of Petra...”  He held a steam pistol in his four wrinkly fingers.  “You don't say?”  With that said, the clan leader calmly raised the pistol to his own head... and pulled the trigger.






        “It was his choice, not ours,” Raimony spoke.  She and Scootaloo stood in the center of Devo's warehouse.  Outside, the districts of Strut Eighteen rang with hundreds upon hundreds of imps.  Crowds of goblins were clambering to get inside the heavily guarded building, desperate to have a word with a certain green teenager.  So many souls of Petra wanted to hear what the symbol of the imp city's inexplicable renaissance had to say.  “He asked for sanctuary within Hex Blood's property,” the goblinette continued, smiling awkwardly.  “It's funny.  In one week, the little guy has become five times as powerful an influence than this clan's prime bleeder could ever be, and still he trusts my father so much.”  She sighed long and hard, but it was a warm gesture.  “It's humbling, to say the least.  I'm not sure what Warden thinks he's accomplishing, but it's utterly saved my family from political annihilation.”

        “He's a loyal soul,” Scootaloo murmured, gazing off across the dimly-lit recesses of the metal warehouse interior.  The excitement of petra echoed against the bulkheads, vibrating the city to its core.  “He's worth more than your fellow imps could ever pretend to praise him for.  I hope someday they realize that.”

        “He's not the only one who's loyal,” Raimony said, smiling gently at the last pony, a gesture that she was getting gradually used to tossing the pegasus' way.  “You had every reason—not to mention every intention—to leave this city and let us suffer the fate Haman had in store for us.  What made you change your mind?”

        “I don't know how long you've been exposed to the Wasteland beyond these walls, girl,” Scootaloo muttered, staring tiredly at the daughter of Devo.  “The mind is something that's lost forever in such desolation.  It's the heart that stands to be scavenged from it all.  When it is, that's when magic happens.”  She smiled painfully, her cheeks suddenly warm.  “And then it's almost as if Equestria is alive again.”

        Raimony tilted her head to the side, her thin green eyes washing over the sight of the pony.  “I feel horrible.  After all these years, I scoffed at my father when he spoke kindly of your race.  For a moment there, I thought that I had every reason to hate you in all the ways my father didn't.  But you came through for us in the end, when creatures who you couldn't possibly give a crap about needed you.  That's a quality I've rarely been blessed to see, and I can only envy my father for having the tenacity to see it through all the steam and grime.”  She bit her lip, then reluctantly spat forth, “I'm sorry, pony.  I'm sorry for doubting you.”

        Scootaloo shifted where she stood and murmured, “Well, it's easy to doubt that which doubts itself.  You've lived a very gritty and regimental life, Raimony.  I can't blame you for only seeing things through silver and sweat, because I've worn such lenses myself.  But you see...”  She smirked devilishly.  “Hope is a business that requires patience, but it's totally worth it in the end, because when you profit it... those around you profit too.  I almost gave up on it all, but then I remembered what made me sign such a contract to begin with.  After that, I had no choice but to go after Warden and the train.  If I let him die, I don't think I could ever have profited from hope ever again.  Even if the warm land of Equestria was to miraculously come back, I'd be living within the shadow of myself, devoid of colors.”

        “What reminded you, if I may ask?”  The goblinette asked.  “What reacquainted you with hope?”

        “Oh...” Scootaloo breathed deeply, stroking a hoof over the blue feather strung to her ear.  “Small things.  Silly things.  For instance, can I tell you a secret?”

        Raimony blinked, shrugged, then uttered, “Shoot.”

        Scootaloo smiled.  “I really like your name.”

        The female Hex-Bleeder squinted her eyes.  Slowly, she smirked.  “Yeah, well, can I tell you another secret?”

        “By all means.”

        “I really like your mane.”  Raimony pointed.  “It's... It's pink.”

        The last pony stared at the imp.  The imp stared back.  Scootaloo was the first to make a sound—a snorting thing—and soon she was awash in a sea of her own giggles.  Raimony joined the mix, and soon both sisters of the Dimming were briefly reunited under an air of delightful absurdity.  They barely stopped in time to hear the rusted door to Devo's office creaking open above them.

        “Wowsers,” Warden murmured.  He wore a brand new vest sewn together by one of his suddenly countless waves of admirers.  A bleeding horseshoe illustration was patched to each sleeve, and his bare thigh brandished the original image as he slowly marched down the steps in a swaying, exhausted fashion.  “Did they pump some silly gas into the steam or what?  What's up with you two?”

        “I was about to ask the same thing,” Scootaloo murmured.  “You look dead on your feet, Wart.”

        “Nnnngh... I've talked to no less than fifty clan leaders in the last eight hours alone.”  He ran a green hand over his face, groaning tiredly.  “I keep telling them that I don't know a thing or two about building bulwarks of defense against harpy intruders or refinancing Strut Eleven.  All I did was stab a naga in the face and yell a lot.”

        “You did more than that, kid,” Raimony exclaimed with a proud smirk.  “What matters is that you've become a symbol for what my dad's been trying to get this city to do for years.  There's no stopping unification now.”

        “Good.  Then can I be that awesome symbol in my sleep?”  Warden's ears curled back as he yawned wide and leaned against the railing of the staircase with a drunken smile.  “I just wanted this city to avoid crumbling to bits.  That was Scootaloo's doing, not mine.”

        “A pony can't be what you are, Warden,” the pegasus gently said.  “Revel in it.  You're a legendary hero whether you like it or not.”

        He gazed down at her, his expression suddenly soft and vulnerable.  “How can I find time to be a hero?  I'm busy being a certain Wastelander's assistant, aren't I?”

        Scootaloo said nothing to that.  Her jaw tightened as a sullen breath left her.

        Raimony cleared her throat and suddenly walked towards the far end of the warehouse.  “If you'll excuse me, I've got to see how my guards are holding off the crowd outside.”

        As the goblinette marched away, Warden stepped down the last rows of steps to join the pegasus.  “Why do you look so glum all of the sudden?”

        Scootaloo avoided his gaze briefly.  Her response was also something elusive.  “I heard that Haman bit the dust.”

        Warden smiled awkwardly.  “Oh, he bit more than that, alright.  Still, you wouldn't believe all the junk that my new 'Stock Blood Brothers' found in his escape zeppelin.  The old fart had even more silver than he let on about.  The poor imps of Strut Twenty-One were discovered to be practically empty-pocketed.  Not only was Haman a traitor and a slaver, but he was robbing from his own family.  It's pathetic.”

        “Most things are in this world,” Scootaloo said with a nod.  “And what of everyone's favorite lizard?”

        The green goblin winced before saying, “There's been no sign of the mercenary since yesterday.  The cell that she was being held in was found empty.  Many think that the shape-shifter got away.”

        “Jee,” Scootaloo droned, “why does that not surprise me?  Still, I can't imagine she'd get very far with two eyes and a hand missing.”

        “There's no sign of the Mountain Ogre army that was supposedly going to attack us from the east,” Warden added.  “Devo's guessing that they learned of Razzar's and Haman's failure and retreated back to the Valley of Jewels.  That's the best possible sign; it means that Petra is now a force to be reckoned with, and in a matter of time this place will be a frostbeaming fortress.  Just you wait and see!”

        “Hehehehe... I can imagine it already,” Scootaloo said.

        “I... uhm...”  Warden fidgeted, fumbling with his brand new vest, however no longer attempting to hide the burn mark on his thigh.  “I finally met with my uncle in the lower struts.”

        “Oh yeah?” Scootaloo's ears flicked eagerly.  “What became of that?”

        “He was happy to see me, I guess.”  He clutched his other shoulder and gazed towards the floor while his green ears drooped.  “He suggested that I try and do something worthwhile now that so many goblins are willing to listen to me.  He said I could probably have enough influence to lead a team of armed imps to the townships west of the Briar and avenge my dead family.”

        “Really, now?”  Scootaloo leaned forward  “And what did you tell him?”

        “I told him... that I just wanted to protect Petra.  I t-told him that I was s-sick of violence, that my life has been so full of blood.”  He sniffled and finally gazed up at her with glossy eyes.  “But when you did violent things, it was to save stuff that otherwise would have been destroyed forever.  You saved me time and time again, Scootaloo.  I-I wouldn't be here if it wasn't f-for you...”

        “Oh Celestia dang it, Wart,” Scootaloo sighed and scooped him towards her with a pair of forelimbs.  She smiled and nuzzled his shivering neck.  “If you aren't just a friggin' bucket of warm fuzzies, I don't know what else is.”

        He clung to her, murmuring sadly into her coat.  “Everything is wonderful, b-but everything is finished.  Petra's safe, but there's n-no reason for you to be Devo's Outbleeder anymore.”  He parted the hug and stared tearfully in her face.  “My life's about to be surrounded by tons of revolutionary goblins who worship me, but I already feel so alone... because somehow I g-get the feeling that you're about to leave, and I-I'm not sure how I can be so awesome without you.”  He gulped and whimpered, “This is all because of you, Scootaloo.  I'm n-not the hero... you are...”

        The last pony opened her mouth to speak, but froze upon that numbing moment.  She raised a hoof up and wiped the tears off the goblin's face, like a blue limb had once smeared the stage makeup off of hers.  The fractured mirror of the cataclysmic world had spun around, and somehow the adult mare felt far stronger for it than she ever forlornly imagined she would be.

        “Being a hero is a crazy thing, accidental and brief at best.”  She gulped and smiled as she brushed his green bangs aside and stared into his eyes.  “Being awesome is something that lasts a lifetime.  I came to this city looking for one thing, Wart.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would run into you, but I'm glad that I did.  I'm envious of how awesome your life is, and what it's about to become.  Once again, I'm challenged to do the impossible, and I find it exhilarating.”  She cracked a devilish smirk.  “You see, lightning can strike twice... even way more than twice.  This may feel like the best day ever, but it can only get better.  I have faith that you and I only have a lifetime of best days ahead of us, because I've been there before, and even in a world of darkness... things have a way of becoming brighter.”

        Warden digested all she had to say.  Still, he teetered off the precipice of a lingering sob.  The teenage goblin murmured, “How can I live a bright life on my own?  How can I manage... without your colors?”

        She gripped tightly to his shoulders and pierced his eyes with hers.  “You make your own colors, Warden.  And you share those colors so that those younger and hungrier than you can bring beauty to Petra.  You're hardly the no-bleeder scamp that I swept of the streets a week ago, kid.  You're a brave steward, and so long as you're alive in this desolate world, you have my hope.”  Her eyes briefly watered as she found the words that she always wanted to hear, but tossed them his way before she could bother to indulge in them.  “And you have my pride.”

        Warden bit his lips.  The last tears sprang from his face as his body shot forward, wrapping his arms around her neck as he buried his face into her mane.  “Thank you so much, Scootaloo.  I-I think I can live off that... Heeheehee.... Yes... I-I really can...”

        The pony closed her eyes and murmured softly over his shoulder, “You and me both, kiddo.  You and me both.”





        Petra was alive with rebirth, excitement, and goblin renaissance.  None of these dazzling things could be sensed from two kilometers to the south, beyond the steaming pools of burning oil, where a shivering naga was busily crawling her way over the mounds of dry, scorched rock that blanketed the Wasteland.

        “Nnnngh... Hckkkt...”  Razzar heaved, pulling herself by one good arm.  Her red face was doubly crimson from the dry rivers of blood spilling out from her meaty eye sockets.  Her every muscle quivered in desperation as she made her awkward escape, clambering over the dead mounds of granite.  Her senses were blind and numb to the golden glow of the metastructure that lit up the deadscape behind her.  “Stupid, sm-smelly boomers... Stupid, horrid, soulless boomers.  Those w-were my juices, not yours.  Yes yes yesssss... Nnnnngh... M-My juices... Unnngh...”

        A loud roar suddenly emanated from the sky above her.  The twitching shape-shifter paused in her fruitless crawl, tilting her head of dried skin into the air.  Her nostrils flared, and she gasped immediately at the scent.

        “Not the feathers...”

        With a metallic clang, a set of razor-sharp talons gripped her skull and slammed her to the ground.  The naga lady let loose a long, muffled scream of anguish before tilting her face aside and hissing under the weight of the limb pressing down on her.

        “How... H-How did you find me, Gilda?!”

        “Razzar, Razzar...”  The leader of the Golden Gang paced towards where Stowe was pinning the mercenary to the ground.  The roaring VTOL engines of the Talon hovered distantly overhead in the snowy air.  “You know, you surprise me.”  She stood icily above the shivering, mutilated reptile.  “If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it's that you can kill anybody.”

        Razzar gulped and trembled under Stowe's talon.  “Th-The Fire Ogres,” she murmured defeatedly.

        “No, actually, it was the Mountain Ogres, your former employers,” Gilda remarked, raising her silver goggles to expose a pair of cool, amber eyes.  “It seems that once you failed them, they set up a bounty worth three times as many strips as what their goblin insider was prepared to give you.  So don't pretend like you can haggle your way out of this, Razzar.  I know you haven't got a lick of silver on you.”

        Razzar hissed and sputtered.  “You... Y-You didn't do anything, you giant, spitting albatross.  Hckkk... It was... It was all four hooves... It was all the pony's dirty work...”

        “Hmm... Fancy that,” Gilda murmured with a nod.  “And to think that you couldn't possibly get any lamer.”

        The naga exhaled, shuddering into the hard stone she was pressed against.  Her meaty sockets brimmed with fresh blood.  “No... No, I suppose I couldn't end any muddier than I began.  She's spectacular, you know.  I tried to kill her so many times... and it hurts more than anything else right now to remember that...”

        Gilda exhaled long and hard, her eyes falling to the dead wastes beneath the three of them.  “I understand exactly, Razzar.”

        “Do me a f-favor...” The mercenary spat.  “Chop off my head when you're done.  I d-don't want the ogres playing games with my mouth.”

        “Sure thing.  Will do.”  Gilda nodded Stowe's way.  “If you would do the honors.”

        The scarred griffon smiled wickedly.  “I thought you'd never ask.”  With a rattling of her bone necklace, she stepped off of Razzar and reached for her steam pistol.

        By this time, the naga was hyperventilating.  “You... You have to understand...”  Bravely, she clutched the ashen rock, her body curling inward as if returning to the egg.  “I was only hungry,” Razzar whimpered, two crimson streams pouring down her dried face.  “I was hungry, and th-they tasted like crows...”

        “Shhh-Shhh,” Gilda uttered, one Wasteland ghost to another.  “I know, Razzar.  I know.”  She turned and gave Stowe a somber salute.

        Stowe not-so-somberly cocked her pistol with a grin and propped the barrel against the back of Razzar's skull.  A minute later, the two griffons carried a headless chunk of meat up into the hangar bay of the Talon.  The airship of the Golden Gang roared off towards Mount Ogreton, the griffons' bounty in tow, their business concluded.
        





        “It is a new day,” Devo said, smiling as he did so.  Bandages randomly covered stretches of blue skin as he leaned on a pair of metal crutches and stood across the desk from Scootaloo in his crimson-lit office.  “I, like you, remember the sunrise, pony.  If we still had the celestial bodies to bask in, I'd say that this would be a delightfully rosy morning indeed.  My clan's been absolved of any wrongdoing in Strut Eleven.  Rust Blood no longer has the power to conspire against Petra.  The entire council is seriously considering reunification in light of this revolutionary excitement filling the streets.  On top of all that... heh heh... we still have a majestic city standing straight and tall around us, and most definitely not in a smoldering ditch.”

        “Funny how things just happen to work out for themselves while you're lying half-dead on a cot,” Scootaloo murmured.

        “And what's more...” Devo spoke, undaunted.  He hobbled over towards her side of the desk and stared her dead-on.  A forest of white dreadlocks faced his gently smiling face.  “...a certain relic of her race decided to come back.  I could have sworn you gave up being Hex Blood's Intercessory Outbleeder, pony.  I could have sworn you had left us for dead.”

        “Let death render the dead,” Scootaloo said.  “I'm alive, and I make mistakes.”

        “As do we all, pony,” Devo replied with a nod.  “My first mistake was blindly shoving you in the thick of business that was hardly worth your getting shot at, if not worse.”

        “That's the thing about business,” Scootaloo said.  “It's all about taking risks.”  Her nostrils flared as she briefly tossed a guilty glance toward the floor.  “The hard part is knowing which risks are the ones worth taking.  For the longest time, I was uncertain whether I should have risked myself for Hex Blood or for myself alone.  But that wasn't the bad part.  My crime was not confessing such uncertainty to you.  I apologize for that.”

        “Honesty is the least dependable quality to lean on in the Wasteland, I imagine,” Devo said with a knowing glance.  He pointed a hand over one crutch.  “And yet, you have always and continue to be a creature of honor.  The world's not quite so dead as long as you're alive, I think.”

        She smiled bitterly at that.  “I believe that more and more with each passing day.”

        “So do I, pony.  So do I,” Devo remarked.  “You are a beacon of hope.  You were the very same beacon years ago, in the pits of the pegasus city, of course, but now... now that Petra has survived a second Dimming and my goblin brothers are on the verge of erecting a civilization that was too fractured to blossom until now, I know that I must give you what you deserve, what you've always deserved.”

        “Things are so crazy now,” Scootaloo muttered with a sigh.  “I'm glad you still want to help me, Devo, but even if you could—I imagine it's going to be a week before I can get into the pits.”

        “Not the reward I was thinking of, but also quite relevant,” Devo said.  He hobbled on his crutches towards the other end of the cramped office where a tall stretch of metal lockers resided.  “As a matter of fact, it may intrigue you to know that the pits have been utterly abandoned for the last three days.”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow at that.  “They have?  What for?  Because I totally smashed that one monorail track?”

        The blue-muscled elder chuckled.  “No, pony.  There are many other train tracks just like that one.  Mining operations haven't stopped for lack of transportation.”  His eight fingers fumbled with the combination lock hanging off the locker door's handles.  “Much rather, the passion of this entire impcity is being aimed at something other than profit for once.  Every goblin clan is attempting to get their act together, so to speak.  What you and Warden have done is phenomenal, and it's served as a wake-up call, alerting the thirty-five platforms of families that we can no longer afford to live so divided.  Haman's traitorous mechanization died with him, but there are still ogres and other horrible creatures to contend with.  The difference is, we now have a chance to prepare ourselves as a unified singularity of goblin force.”

        “Fantastic.  Kudos to you and all that jazz.”  Scootaloo cleared her throat and leaned forward.  “The pits...?” she hissed insistently through clenched teeth.

        “Funny thing about Warden taking up sanctuary with Hex Blood...”  Devo finished unlocking the handles.  The elder slid the creaking doors to the locker open before glancing over his blue shoulder.  “It's given me a remarkable bit of influence.  So, at the first opportunity, I suggested that the city establish a holiday to celebrate this monumental occasion transpiring all around us.  To my surprise, every clan agreed.  The pits are empty, pony.”

        Scootaloo gulped.  “Even of trigger-happy gremlin partols?”

        Devo chuckled.  “Yes, even of trigger happy gremlins.  I even went as far as to warn the families of your impending journey.  No imp will stand in the way of Hex Blood's Outbleeder.  After all, this is tantamount to your 'payment'.”

        “Well, that's certanily nice to know,” Scootaloo said with a dry smirk.  “Think you can toss in a bag of oats and a bottle of sarsaparilla while you're at it?”

        “Heheh.  No, but I will give you some advice.”  He leaned on his crutches and gestured with his hands.  “Take the platforms leading down into the pits from the third railroad junction along the south cliff-face.  Head north, descend about thirty meters, and you'll find the southern edge of Hex Blood mining property.  I assure you, the plateau where your companion is buried is quite untouched.”

        Scootaloo's eyes twitched at that.  Her lips parted ways as a cold breath left her.  “You... Y-You know about... about the grave?” she stammered.

        “Yes, pony.  I know.  For over two decades, I've known.”  His rich copper eyes stared across at her, weathering every shiver suddenly bolting through her stunned frame.  It was as though he anticipated this very moment, this very conversation, this very breath billowing through his lungs.  “When you discovered your gift of flight and gave us our tools, my surviving brothers and I made it out of the pits.  When we reunited with the pilgrims of several distant townships, we were swift to make a first claim to the basin of salvageable sky marble.  I took it upon myself to mark the nightmarish bowels of our two-year plight as Hex Blood property.  I didn't do that because I felt the gesture was poetic.  I knew that such a sunken depth of earth was more valuable to one soul than all of the world's silver combined.”

        “And... And all this time...”  Scootaloo murmured dryly.  She gulped, her lips quivering.  “You.. You guarded it?  You kept the grave untouched...?”

        He nodded to confirm her heart-pounding suspicion.

        She exclaimed, “But why?  We hardly knew each other.  I left you the very instant I could—I wanted nothing to do with you...”

        “You were a symbol of hope in the crumbled sepulcher of a dead world, pony.  Yes, you left us, and I felt as though I had sinned... because I did not give hope its just reward.  I kept the grave intact out of faith, and my faith was rewarded.  You came back, and your hope had transformed into something on fire, alive.  Perhaps it's hidden under all of that blighted skin you've grown throughout the years, but I know now—without a shadow of a doubt—that you are the one I was told to give this to.”

        “Give... G-Give what...?” Scootaloo nervously exclaimed.

        Upon that utterance, Devo turned around.  The elder leaned on his crutches—wincing—but managed to pull something down from a shelf inside the confines of the locker.  Scootaloo glanced at it, and in a single blink she was brought back to the anguished shell of a nine-year-old filly, battered and beaten on the marble plateau of Cloudsdale's ruins, staring into the backpack strapped to the back of a white-haired goblin.

        Devo laid a black tin box atop the desk between them.  A white, painted stripe glinted from the red light above the container.  “Long ago, I was told something, something I would never forget.”  He cleared his voice and recited something that must have danced through his head a million times.  “'When Petra has blossomed under one blood, then you will know it's time to give a pony her colors.'”  The elder's face calmly smiled, his body momentarily framed against a fresh banner of a bloody horseshoe that had been hung across his office wall the day before.  “I thought that the phrase was mad, a load of gibberish.  After all, it was a pony who told me such a thing.  She was one of two equines who had made a difference in my young life, and thereby taught me a thing or two about the power of integrity in this doomed world.  Still, in hope that those words would bring as much prosperity as those ponies did, I kept this in my possession.  Through the Dimming and the birth of my daughter and the manifestation of Petra, I held tight to this, until I knew it was time to give it away.  That time is now, pony.  Neither you nor I can deny the fateful strings of hope.  I'm happy to have provided you a way to go see your buried companion, but I'm positively rapturous to be handing this to you now.  This is more than the culmination of our business.  This is the end of an era.  Hopefully, it will make as much sense to you as it has brought me solace throughout all these long years of waiting.”

        Devo generously slid the unassumingly simple tin box across the desk towards her.  The scraping sound was deafening, for the room had fallen silent, as if all movement had been sucked away under the currents of green flame.  Scootaloo stared numbly at the white-striped container.  When she reached a hoof towards it, it was a pensive gesture, as if the cryptic container would somehow somehow shatter her with the concealed breath of Princess Entropa.  Under the watch of Devo's enthusastic grin, Scootaloo finally lifted both hooves and grasped the box.  She slid the thing towards her, her heartrace increasing.  She briefly envisoned Spike buried deep beneath the mountains of Canterlot, playing hide-and-seek with his past self.  Everything was worth coming here to this city, and yet it briefly felt like none of it was.  Scootaloo couldn't tell; she could hardly think.  With a sudden shiver, she made to open the container...

        Then something slithered out, something small and fragile.  Scootaloo paused, her hooves lingering above the box's clasp.  She narrowed her eyes upon the very lid of the box, focusing on what had just fallen through the crease.  Her left ear twitched upon the examination.

        It was a blue feather.  From the lightest touch, Scootaloo could swear it was softer and brighter than the three pieces of Rainbow Dash she had carried with her all her years in the Wasteland.  The flimsy thing spoke volumes with a mute flutter of its sapphiric strands.  Scootaloo felt that with one of its threads alone, she could bathe the skies above Petra blue again, or even cleanse the sludge out of the depths of Dream Valley.  All it took was a single glance, and Scootaloo smiled; she got the message.  She remembered that she came all the way to Cloudsdale's depths for one thing alone... and yet for everything else at once.

        Before a blinking Devo, Scootaloo tucked the blue feather back into the box, and slid the striped container back over the desk towards the elder.  “Keep it for a little longer,” she murmured in the calmest of voices.  The orphan of time backtrotted a few steps away from the sight of the container; she was too loyal to do anything else.  “ I will be back for it.”

        The prime Hex-Bleeder's copper eyes twitched noticeably.  It was confusion that blemished his face more than shock.  “I... I don't get it, pony.  Don't you want to know what it is?  Don't you want to open the box?”

        Scootaloo smiled serenely as she looked Devo in the face.  “I have to close it first.”






        Warden was asleep.  He sat, slumped, in Raimony's lap as the young Hex-Bleeder cradled his slumbering form with a pair of soft, blue arms.  Several imps of like-blood stood along the fringes of the lower warehouse, smiling and sharing tales fresh from the streets of the changing imp city.  There was a series of clopping hoof-steps, and every single goblin—Raimony included—glanced over.

        Scootaloo descended the stairs from Devo's office.  A gust of steam vented beside her, kicking at her pink mane as she trotted over towards where Raimony and the unconscious little teenager were huddled.

        Raimony smiled sweetly, her ears twitching at the sight of the last pony.  “He's plum exhausted,” she murmured quietly in a gentle breath that betrayed her usual gruffness.  “The poor thing has barely gotten a wink of sleep these past few days.  So much has happened, and he's in the spotlight of it all, whether her likes it or not.”

        “We rarely ever ask for the spotlight,” Scootaloo said with a gentle nod.  She squatted down beside the two.  “But some of us are born to be natural show-stoppers.”  She paused to gaze deeply at the slumbering youth's green face.  Her eyes rounded moistly as a breath escaped her lips.

        Raimony saw the look in her face, but then saw something deeper.  She swallowed and braved a smile.  “I will look after him,” she said.  “He may be the symbol of a new and glorious Petra, but I'll make sure nothing bad comes to him.”

        “You'd have better luck looking after a minefield,” Scootaloo grunted.

        Raimony giggled breathily.  Warden stirred, his lips murmuring something... then turning still again.

        Scootaloo stared at him, filling her scarlets with his image.  The parts of her that had lived so long knew that it would be the last time.  She made to stand and trot away... but suddenly lingered.  After a blink, she performed her next act with a grace that even surprised herself.  Her hooves unlatched the blue feather from her ear.  Gently, so as not to wake him, she dragged the string over the length of his pointed ear.  The sapphiric threads dangled from the youth's cranium in the sway of his sleeping breath.  Swallowing a sore sensation down her throat, Scootaloo leaned in and ever so softly nuzzled the nape of his neck... before finally standing up and making for the exit.

        Halfway through her departure, Raimony craned her neck and whispered, “What should I tell him?  What should he hear when he wakes up?”

        Scootaloo paused in her tracks.  All of the goblins' eyes were upon her.  Eventually, she turned around and smiled under a glossy pair of eyes.

        “Tell him that I will never stop being proud of him.”  She shuddered, then smiled harder.  “And when I'm finally gone, even death won't take that pride away.”







        “Wave goodbye to the one and only Wonderbolts, ya little squirt!”

        A seven-year-old Scootaloo dangled in the forelimbs of Rainbow Dash as the two hovered in the glittering moonlight of Equestria.  “Goodbye, one and only Wonderbolts!” she flapped her hoof wildly and grinned through the high winds bordering Canterlot.  “You're totally going to let Dashie in on the team now, right—?”  As she said this, the golden wings of the Best Young Fliers' slid goofily over her face.  “Whoops!”

        Spitfire and the rest of the uniformed pegasi chuckled merrily.  “We'll see, kiddo!  Stay frosty!”

        “Good bye, Rainbow Dash!  I'll never forget what happened today!”

        “Seeing the Sonic Rainboom up close was like an out-of-body experience!”

        “Yeah.  Thanks for saving our teammates' lives and jazz!”

        “Hahaha!”

        “You're pretty awesome, Rainbow Dash.”

        “Thank you.  I know.”  The blue pegasus waved back with a wink, clutching Scootaloo to her hovering chest.  “Now go back to the castle and practice for the next time I whoop your tails in a race!”

        “Oh ho hooooo!  Come on, guys!  We totally gotta ditch the airshow in Fillydelphia for that!”

        “That's up to Spitfire, but I don't think she wants us getting banished to the moon.”

        “Hahaha!”

        “Take wing, Wonderbolts!”  Spitfire shouted as she rocketed towards the jagged horizons of the Canterlotlian Mountains and the majestic unicorn city resting thereupon.  “We've got a busy day ahead of us tomorrow!”

        Under a gleeful cadence of last goodbyes, the six legendary ponies soared eastward, disappearing in the glorious vista of Equestria's capital city.

        In the meantime, Scootaloo pushed the crown back up her forehead with one hoof while clutching the battered metal tray to her chest with the other.  “Uhm... Dashie?” she looked up at the pegasus holding her high above the clouds.  “I don't get it!  Weren't they going to—?”

        “Wow, I'm beat!”  Rainbow Dash yawned and fluttered the two of them down towards a wispy, cumulonimbus cluster hovering beneath them in the moon's pale glow.  “What say we grab ourselves a nightcap before I drag your sorry flank all the way back to Ponyville.”

        “Uhm... Okay,” Scootaloo murmured with a nervous smile.  Rainbow Dash lowered them onto the cloud.  The filly winced slightly the first moment her bandaged leg met the misty bed.  The older pony steadied her, and with Rainbow's help the foal folded her limbs comfortably underneath her.  “Still, Dashie, I'm confused.”

        “Ugh, can't you be exhausted instead?  I really need to get a crash nap if I can get us home by sunrise.”

        Scootaloo gazed up at the pony.  “All the times we've ever hung out together, I thought you said you were practicing your flight moves so that the Wonderbolts would induct you!”


        “You’re right; I was,” Rainbow Dash said, stifling a yawn as she sat down beside her.  The two ponies—young and old—cradled themselves atop the cloud overlooking the glittering expanse of Equestria.  The world stretched out like a crystalline pond beneath them, and the moon was gracefully showing them all the rich depths to which they could adventurously plunge.  “That was the plan.  I don’t remember anypony changing the plan.  What are you now, head organizer for ‘Wonderbolt Wrap-Up?’”



        “But the Wonderbolts are leaving!” Scootaloo exclaimed, breathing with a frantic shudder that was brought about by something other than the freezing altitudes.  “They haven’t even bothered to ask you!”





        “Yeah, so?”  Rainbow smirked.  “Maybe they’re off to secretly plan my induction party—”





        Scootaloo didn’t let her finish.  “Dashie!  Go after them!  Tell them how much you deserve to be on their team!”  She hopped and bounced in place, her eyes bright and earnest.  “I-I can stay here on this cloud just fine!  I’ll be safe until you come back!  Just go!”





        Rainbow Dash exhaled long and hard through a tiring smile as she gazed off into the dark layers of the nigh.  “It’s okay, kid.  I’ve pestered them enough.”





        “Dashie!  You can’t let them get away!  It’s not like you to settle for less—!”





        “Look, just cool it, will ya?!” Rainbow Dash exclaimed, her smile briefly breaking to reveal harder lines beneath her face.  “I... I had a great day today.”  She chuckled.  “The best day ever.  I want to keep it that way, until I have an even better day... heh.”  Her smile returned, but was an exhausted facsimile of her day’s worth of grins preceding it.  “You don’t run an awesome thing into the ground, kid.  You keep on beating your wings until you go higher.”





        Scootaloo gazed at her for the several seconds it took for the truth to sink in.  Her tiny wings drooped as she allowed the contemplation to manifest itself in a murmur.  “You knew, didn’t you?”  She paused, swallowed, and said in a shakier voice, “You knew that you weren’t going to be asked to join the Wonderbolts all this time...”





        “Hey—I knew that I would knock the goggles off them!”  Rainbow Dash said.  “And all things considered, that’s what I freakin’ did!  No doubt about it!”





        “But—”





        “But what?”  Rainbow Dash reached over and snatched the golden crown off the foal’s skull.  She planted the Best Young Fliers’ article on her own head and smirked, her eyes pointed towards the heavens beyond the trophy’s golden wings.  “You think I bought this thing at a souvenir store?  I won this by being the best at what I am.  All of that practice helped after all, kid.  Don’t think for once that I’m settling for less.”





        “But... You saved three ponies today and pulled off the Sonic Rainboom in front of Princess Celestia!”  Scootaloo’s face pouted.  “You deserve to be on the Wonderbolts.”





        “Nopony deserves stuff unless they can earn it, pipsqueak,” Rainbow Dash said.  She bore a briefly solemn face as she gazed down to where her hooves played with the fluffy edges of the cloud.  “I’ll have a chance to get into the Wonderbolts in the future.  I’m sure of it.  For right now... heh... I’ve got quite a bit to go on.”





        “Then...”  Scootaloo bit her lip, her violet eyes awash in a glossy sheen of guilt.  “Then today really was your one chance to spend with the Wonderbolts.”  She sighed and curled up on the quilt-like surface of the white mist beneath them.  “And I had to come and ruin it...”





        “Hey! None of that junk now, you hear me?”  Rainbow Dash frowned, nudging the foal in the flank.  “You’ll never get anywhere in life if you trash a good moment when you see it.  I had a blast today.  And you wanna know what?  It wouldn’t have been half as fun if you weren’t there to share it.”  She winked, hoping it would convey the message.





        It didn’t.  “I don’t get it...”  Scootaloo blinked innocently at the mare.  “I’m nothing special.  I no Wonderbolt.  You trained for months to get close to Spitfire’s team.  Why does it matter if I was there or not?”





        Rainbow Dash sighed long and hard.  Her blue wings curled tightly to her sides.  “Seriously, kid, do I have to spell it out for you?”







        Scootaloo exited the Hex Blood warehouse of Strut Eighteen, and when she did she saw something that made her pause.  Every single imp that formed the thick crowd in front of the building stopped chatting, stopped laughing, stopped moving and simply stared at her.  For once it was not a look of hatred or distaste.  Instead, pure wonder and reverance washed over the faces of the populace of Petra as they were blessed by the presence of the pony who had helped Warden stop a speeding locomotive.  Undaunted, Scootaloo wasted no time.  She trotted towards the nearest lift that would lead her down to her airship's hangar.  As she did so, the entire crowd parted ways, clearing a respectful path as they quietly watched the last pony march off into obscurity.

        “You marched clear across Equestria just to see me.  I kind of want to kill you for that, but still, it took guts.  And I like that.

        Scootaloo trotted up towards the wall of the Harmony's cabin above her workbench.  Every souvenir that she had collected from the ruins of the past had been improvised in providing her an explosive entrance into the the train full of bombs.  One souvenir, however, still remained.  Scootaloo smiled warmly at the colorful crayon-strokes of Suntrot's priceless masterpiece.  With a warm breath, the last pony produced a banner that she had scavenged from the streets of Petra.  The image of Warden's hand holding up a bloody horseshoe hung parallel to the illustration from Stonehaven's Immolatia Ward.  Scootaloo drank the both of them in with the same, sacred breath.  Quietly, she turned around and marched into the Harmony's cockpit.

        “You built some really wicked cool goggles for me to wear at the Competition.  As a matter of fact, they were so awesome, that I couldn’t be allowed to sport them or else the judges might think I was a friggin’ daughter of Nebula.  Heh.

        With a swinging of two levers, Scootaloo dipped her airship down towards the southern edge of the gaping ruins of Cloudsdale.  Several clusters of mining equipment rested under falling streams of Wasteland ash.  The site was utterly abandoned, just like Devo had said.  With a satisfied smirk, Scootaloo lowered the Harmony to the scorched bosom of the world, mooring her ship via metal claws to a towering platform.  She hopped out of her seat, collected a leather saddlebag, and reached across the workbench for a long cylinder of emerald flame.


        “You’ve sat down for afternoons at a time and graded me on my stunt moves in practice.  Sure, you may have been a teeny bit biased with your opinions, but at least you sat through and watched me do my stuff.  Nopony else in Ponyville has that kind of patience?



        Scootaloo flung a canvas mask over her jaws and marched firmly against a thick flurry of snow.  The great gray abyss of Cloudsdale loomed before her.  Passing by several crates of abandoned goblin tools, she trotted onto a metal platform and navigated a complex series of lattices, descending into the graveyard of the pegasi for the first time in decades.

        “What’s more, you’re not afraid to change.  I wish I was that smart and creative when I was a pipsqueak myself.  A pony who’s willing to become better than what she is takes the cake in my book.

        Scattered bands of twilight shone across the mare's weathered coat.  Inside the bowels of Cloudsdale, the last pony slowly marched over hills of powder and crushed gravel.  She passed underneath a branching archway of collapsed sky marble pillars and descended onto another plateau with a soft flutter of her adult wings.  To her far left, a tiny cave laced with wooden rubble lingered just beyond the ashen edge of visibility.  Scootaloo didn't bother looking at it; she marched forward into the cavernous depths.






        “You may not be a Wonderbolt, Scootaloo,” Rainbow Dash spoke conclusively from atop the cloud, “But I couldn’t have had somepony better to enjoy this day with.  I’ve told you that already.  What I haven’t told you was that things got all the more awesome when you showed up.  The Wonderbolts—I knew I’d be hanging out with.  You, kid?  Heh... you were some surprise, alright.”


        Scootaloo’s face was furiously rosy at this point.  She cleared her throat, smiled briefly, but ultimately murmured, “I-I’m glad you think that way, Dashie.  But I still think you should have enjoyed your one opportunity to be alone with the Wonderbolts.  It’s... It’s what you earned.  You’re a winner, after all.”





        “It wouldn’t have been the same, kid.  I...” Rainbow Dash sighed and ran a hoof through her mane.  Sitting frozen in the face of a cool breeze, she looked like a shadow of all the world’s colors, an oddly dim thing for Ponyville’s chief weather flier.  “You’re right, I knew the Wonderbolts probably weren’t going to do more than just hang out with me and head back to wherever.  I’m fine with that.  Really, I am.  But if that was all that happened today, I still wouldn’t have felt like I won anything.”





        “Why, Dashie?”





        Rainbow’s face momentarily grimaced.  The moonlight danced over her features like candlelight in a dark hospital ward.  The breath that came out of her was also as gently reminiscent.  “Because as much as I would have won the Wonderbolts’ respect, I knew that I wouldn’t have won their hearts.  That... That wouldn’t have bothered me before, but I’m kind of glad for it.  Yeah, I am.”  She gulped and smiled bravely, as if coming out of that statement was the equivalent to ten Sonic Rainbooms thrown into one.  When she gazed down at Scootaloo, her voice dripped forth another spectacular stunt, “Being around you is the one thing that makes me feel like a winner, kiddo.”

        Scootaloo smiled back at her.  She gnawed on her lip as her eyes watered.

        A brief gust of cold wind danced across their coats.  Scootaloo shivered, and immediately Rainbow Dash stretched her wing out, enfolding Scootaloo in a warm, feathery embrace.  Breathing evenly, Scootaloo leaned into the weight of the mare beside her, nuzzling Rainbow Dash's coat as she closed her eyes and absorbed the soothing whisper of night with a warm smile.





        “That was the moment I knew that I loved you,” Scootaloo quietly said.  She stood before the heap of stones, clustered in a winged shape to cover the soul lying silently underneath.  The same halo of twilight shone over that edge of the plateau, bathing Rainbow Dash's grave in a spotlight that refused to go away.  “It was a love that transcended definition, a love greater than the word itself, a love that made me realize that I was alive, because you gave me a reason to do it and to do it gladly everyday.”

        Scootaloo was already buckling.  Her brown, battered body was covered from mane to tail in leather armor, but nothing could have shielded her from this moment.  Her face tensed and her voice cracked as she summoned the strength to gaze up at the pale rocks glistening before her.

        “Rainbow Dash, I... I-I did not have a home.  I did not have parents.  For the longest time, I did not have food or friends or money.”  She shuddered and swallowed hard before continuing.  “But I had you—your devilish smirk, your jeering quirks, your fearless taunts.  In this deathly day and age, I've been granted the flames of reverse-time, the very gift of Princess Entropa herself.  None of it compares to the tr-treasure I had as a filly, the treasure of your attention and loyalty.  There is no greater hope in the world than the spirit of a pony who knows how fantastic she can be, because she chooses it.”  Her breath escaped her sharply.  She gnashed her teeth, forcing the words out.  “She wills it.  She breathes it with every laughter and shout and sob she challenges the world with, and you were my breath, Dashie, my entire sky, my golden dream at the end of the rainbow.”

        The mare hunched over.  Her breathes were the only semblance of life in the center of the ruins' cavernous hovel.  For a  numb second, she realized it resembled every other disquieting moment of her lonely existence, except for the few blissful days of warmth spent with her.

        “I wonder,” she murmured in a wavering voice.  “I wonder what it would have been like if things were different, if that dark day in Cloudsdale hadn't lost all of its colors, if instead of leaving me alone and safe in the arcane vault...”  She bit her lip, and the next thing came out in a whimper.  “...you would have joined me inside.”  Her breath jolted with an explosive chuckle as the first tears ran down her bitterly smiling face.  “Ohhhh... Heheh... What beauty you and I would have brought to this dead world, Dashie.”  She sniffled.  “Maybe the Wasteland would have been less wasted, to have been blessed for a few dying decades by the Queen and Princess of stewards.”  She paused, lingering on the next utterance, her lips spelling out the name of Princess Entropa's avatar as her throat almost collapsed beneath her.  “However...”  She swallowed hard, and in a low voice muttered, “I am what I am, and this fate is mine and mine alone.”

        She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself, trying to be brave.  The blue pegasus always brought out the best in Scootaloo, which is what made the next few words tear her to pieces.

        “Rainbow Dash, I have tried so hard to keep things beautiful.  I have fought for ages to carry even an ounce of your spectacular awesomeness.  But all I've managed to do is ugly...” She winced, feeling the length of her wounds and bruises aching across her limbs.  It had been over four days since she fought goblins on a train, and still she could smell their blood staining her.  “...and it's made this decrepit world even uglier, to the point that I actually gave into those endless gray horizons of twilight and let it devour my soul.  I can only hope that you can... th-that you can forgive me, because for so long I had forgotten.  I had lost track of your colors, of your hope.  I gave up believing in this world, and I gave up believing in myself.”

        The last pony clenched her eyes shut as more tears squeezed out.  She felt the weight of the glass cylinder in her saddlebag, and it made her whimper like the foal she was once more in the ruins of Cloudsdale.

        “Now, I have a chance to speak with you again, and I haven't a clue as to what I should say.  What could I possibly say?”  She shuddered, her lips quivering.  “I am... not worthy, Rainbow Dash.  I never was.  I may be the last pony, but when I am gone, I will be just a shadow while you will be every dazzling piece of the light.  It's because you are legendary, Dashie, an endless spirit of awesomeness and hope.  I can bring sunlight back to all the corners of this blighted globe...”  She gulped hard and squeaked forth, “But I can never recreate you.”

        That was it.  She stopped fighting.  Scootaloo lowered down onto folded limbs as she gave into the weight that had been pulling at her wings since Spike gave her both his breath of time and his breath of wisdom weeks ago.

        “I love you, Dashie,” she murmured, trembling.  The plateau below darkened from her tears.  “I always have.  I wish you were my mother, my sister, my goddess—anything but what you are now, and what I had to bury.”  She gritted her teeth and blurted forth, “But I can't change that.  I can't change anything except for how much I adore you, and wish—as I have always wished—to make your pr-proud of me.”

        She sat there, breathing deeply, as if weathering a fall from an enormous height too tall for the twilight to contain.  Sniffling away the last of her tears, the scavenger reached into her saddlebag and produced the glass container.  A warmth of green light briefly bathed the two reunited pegasi as she held it before the grave and spoke.

        “I don't know what is in store for me, for you, for either of us as soon as I bathe in this flame to haunt you, but whatever it is—I promise...”  She frowned with the effort it took to produce these words.  “I promise with every iota of my being that I will make it worth your while, that I will shine back the light that you have anointed upon me, that I will give wind to your wings as you have lifted mine, that I will give you the full spotlight to fly your colors—in every hopeful shade—even if it is your last time...”  She added with a bittersweet smile, full of adoration and warmth.  “For I know it will be our last time.”

        Scootaloo briefly hugged the cylinder to her chest.  Eyes shut, the pony calmly murmured into the lonely air.

        “Equestria ended decades ago, and this is the end of something too.  I think you would like the feeling, Dashie.  After all, impossible things have happened colorfully before.”

        After a few meditative breaths, she planted the jar down and practically dove into the somber task ahead of her next.  With swift grace, she removed the stones of the grave one by one, so that she could have access to the bones of Rainbow Dash, and provide the green flames with the reagent it needed for anchorage.




        Twenty-three years ago, a young Scootaloo stood in that exact same spot, adjusting the stones so that they stayed firmly in place over the sacred grave.  The last pony stepped backwards, wearing a leather cowl with goggles over her shaved mane.  Her scarlet eyes took in the pale sight of the rocks, and she brandished a smile, a devilish smirk.  Sliding the goggles down, she flung her brown wings out and shot skyward, effortlessly exiting the pits of Cloudsdale to become one with the gray clouds of the Wasteland once more.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Journal Entry # 2.

        Two years have passed since I first started this thing, and I have learned and lost so much.  I'm sure that it will show in my words.  I have nopony to write to, so there's really no point to this.  But I am not going to abandon this journal.  Giving up is the very essence of defeat.

        


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Years later, Scootaloo sat—hunched over—beneath an overhang of rocks several kilometers west of the Cloudsdalian abyss.  She finished charging the energy core of a welding tool she had engineered with her own two hooves.  Sliding a thick sheet of dark glass over her face, she proceeded to fuse together the sundered pieces of a royal airship.  Slowly, bulkhead by bulkhead, the last pony worked on the brazen task of building a zeppelin for herself.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~





        I have learned to fly, but that is not enough.  I must live as I do, and do as I live.  This Wasteland is a stupid fossil of what Equestria once was.  I have every right to not live in the garbage that the Cataclysm has left behind.  If nothing else, a high altitude will give me a better perspective, and I can then find the things that are worth preserving.







~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        More years had passed.  Scootaloo sat in a cockpit seat, piloting the Harmony through the snowy mists flurrying beneath the height of Griffon Mount.  She leaned back, calmly gazing at a map balanced on her lower legs while one hoof casually gripped a lever, drifting her aircraft forward into the southwestern heights of former Equestria.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Like my life—that is also something worth preserving, for I am the last pony.  I know this.  I cannot deny this.  Even if some other equines were to exist in some far corner of the globe, I cannot pretend to depend upon them.  I am alone, I am alive, and I can do this.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        With a rattling of leather armor, the last pony finally broke down the grand white door to Princess Celestia's royal chambers.  Marching over the bodies of dead guards, she marched into the luxurious interior, shining her lantern-yoke across the heart of Canterlot's Royal Palace.  She blinked beneath her goggles, noticing that the Goddess' personal mirror was gone.  As she shone her light across the room, something else reflected with ten times as much brilliance.  The mare's lips parted and she breathed in awe as she trotted up towards a pedestal, atop of which was positioned none other than Celestia's sacred journal.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        I owe it to more than myself to live on.  What I take from this land, I give back to the legacy of those who came before me.  What I pilfer and steal, I do so because I am attempting to rebuild, not to rob.  If any creature tries to stop me, curse them.  If any monster hates and berates me, I don’t care.  I am all that matters in this world, and I am awesome.  What's more, I know this.




~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Atop the mountains overlooking the Everfree Briar, Scootaloo briefly paused in scavenging.  She marched onto the shattered promontory of what remained of Nightmare Moon's Castle, the former holding place for the Elements of Harmony.  Dropping her canvas bag of gathered material, she stood upon the very edge of the ancient structure.  Before her, the Wasteland was covered in a shiny, silken overcast of clouds.  The pale gray twilight conveyed a subtle brilliance as it glittered off the rolling mists of ash below.  The last pony took a moment to drink in the essence of her life.  She closed her eyes as her brown feathers billowed in the wind.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~





        I will find beauty, or else beauty will find me.  What I can't get by asking, I will take by force.  This world was built by the spirit of Alicorn Goddesses, and it shall be a pony—the very essence of their glory—that has the last say about what is remembered and what is forgotten.







~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Several years had melted by.  Older and more sullen, an armored Scootaloo marched through the dark, rusted hallways of a floating battleship.  Flanked by canine guards, she emerged onto a bridge laced with iron-riveted bulkheads.  Several dirigible dogs turned to glance at her and the pony's shiny rifle.  Through the center of the mangy group, Gilliam hobbled.  He smiled eagerly, his teeth brimming with rubies, as he produced a leather sheet from his belt pocket and handed the pony a complex contract detailing the types of flames he and his brothers desired.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        And at the very top of that list is the legacy of a pony who is mightier than I.  Her name is Rainbow Dash, the chief weather flier of Ponyville.  She is the legend that will last longer than the dying lengths of this world, for she is what I have to bestow this land, and nothing else.







~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Scootaloo tugged at the metal lever once, twice, and finally the lattice full of flamestones lit up.  A bright rainbow arched through the gray ash of the Wasteland.  Drinking the sight in, Scootaloo leaned briefly on her copper rifle and ran a hoof over her neck, almost surprised that her pink mane from childhood was gone.  Two decades had burned away in a blink, and yet seeing this signal brought her ever so gently back, everytime, so that she was sitting once more on the cloud, protected under Rainbow Dash's soft blue feathers.  The last pony smiled gently, clutching hard to her rifle, smiling into the sea of colors.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        For it was Rainbow Dash who won my heart.  And I carry her with me, in my heart.  I am but a vessel, a means of transferring her colors into the gray desolation that is bold enough to think it can drown all that's good in the world.  And when my heart stops beating, and when there is no pony left to wander this sacred land, her spirit will leap out from me.  It will whisper into the ears of every creature left to linger in darkness that there is a reason for their tears.  It will tell them, “Something magnificent has passed on, and the world will only be as spectacular as it can summon the gall to remember it.”  I shall be that reminder, even if it takes every bone in my body to carve it.  This I pledge, before anything else I write in this journal, before any other piece of me fades into the shadows.

        Rainbow Dash was here.  Know her name, and then know what it means to be nothing.

                -End of Entry





        Harmony's black mane billowed in the wind.  She plummeted, her eyes shut and her lips pursed, as several clouds blurred past her.  She murmured something, perhaps a name, perhaps a prayer, and then the golden streaks in her hair showed, glistening in bright sunlight.  Her copper coat was instantly toasted.  The warmth opened her amber eyes, as if waking her from an immortal slumber.  Blinking, she glanced fitfully across the lengths of her fall.  She was surrounded with sky, an eternal sphere of pearlescent blue.

        A thunderous burst of air rippled past her.  Harmony turned her neck to see.  Her eyes rolled back, and something bluer than blue burned across the ether above.

        With a rocketing streak, a living rainbow broke the sky.

        A tear rolled down the pony's Entropan cheek.  Her breath left her as her wings found her, flapping, tilting her copper body up so that she was barreling towards the colors, surging skyward.  She suddenly clenched her teeth and flung her body straight ahead, blurring her wings behind her in desperation as her legs went through the foalish motion of kicking at an invisible earth.  She panted and strained with the effort, her lungs bursting under her soul-self as she desperately broke through the clouds.

        On the other side, the air was rupturing, bursting at the seams with explodings mists.  A bright blue pegasus was kicking the clouds, exploding them one by one, shouting brazenly with a raspy voice, her voice.

        Harmony bolted towards it, hyperventilating, desperate to close the fragile lengths between her and her anchor, no matter how buffered by the power of Spike's breath.  When she came close enough to count the shades in the pegasus' mane, an errant cloud was thrown her way.  Amber eyes flaring, she tightened her face and broke through it like the bow of her airship, emerging victoriously on the other side with a showing kick of her four legs.

        She had to hover to a stop, because Rainbow Dash was right there.  Rainbow Dash was alive.  She flung a pair of ruby eyes towards the shell containing Scootaloo's soul, and the devilish smirk crossed the cold veil of time to grace the last pony once again.

        “Heheh... Not bad!  But can you kick clouds with the best there is?!”  She gave a wink, and the mare darted towards the stratosphere like a prismatic comet.

        Harmony gazed up at her.  Her teeth showed through a wheezing breath.  “Y-Yes,” she pathetically squeaked.  “I can.”  Another tear fell, only to be washed away by a smirk of her own as Harmony soared on copper wings toward the ceiling of the world.

        Above her, Rainbow Dash was spiraling in a wild arc, shredding banks of cumulonimbus into aromatic chunks of madness.  Life was a contest, a breathtaking race towards the shores of oblivion, and Rainbow Dash was reminding her then and there.  Harmony smiled, tilted aside, and found her own column of clouds.  She dipped her wing into the bank to her left and spiraled along the entire height of it, carving the pillar of mist hollow, so that at the top of her climb she bucked the top of it and exploded it straight down the center like a gaseous string of firecrackers.

        “You ever seen a pegasus do that?!” the orphan of time barked, grinning.

        “Pfft—In kindergarten!”  Rainbow Dash grinned wide and spun about.  “Watch and learn, girl!”  She stretched her bue wings out as far as they could go, then spun her body like a sapphric drill.  Soaring briskly ahead of Harmony, the twirling pegasus burrowed her way into a dark thundercloud.  The black mist shrunk in on her as she carved it from the inside out.  Condensing, the electricified vapors ruptured, and suddenly the entire cloud exploded from around the shape of Rainbow Dash with her every limb outstretched.  A veritable ring of lightning bolts briefly flickered around her grinning figure, and dissipated.

        Harmony smiled.  “Okay, so you're flashy!”  Her amber eyes glistened as she breathed forth a challenged she had only ever dreamed of.  “Let's see if you're just as quick as you like to show off!”

        “Ooooh!  Is this a challenge?”

        “It's my dust!”  Harmony hissed, flapped her wings, and barreled earthward.  “Eat it!”

        “Hahaha—Oh it's on!”  Rainbow Dash rocketed after her.

        The blue sky was soon sundered by both pegasi as they spun and darted their way down the mountains of bursting clouds.  Vaporous mists parted on either side of them as they skirted down the side of a rippling bank and emerged through a dark patch of thunder with their mane-hair's sparkling with static.  There was laughter echoing between them; Harmony recognized only one of the voices, but it was the only sound that mattered.  She was panting the entire time, her senses doubly numb under the Entropan shroud as she struggled to sample the unbelievable reality of the moment.  When she looked aside in the middle of her flight, all she could see was Rainbow Dash's smirk in return.  It took everything in the future scavenger's arsenal not to break down in sobs.

        Rainbow was her own immaculate self the entire time.  She laughed and let loose a howling whoop as she rolled ahead of Harmony, spinning her way through an ivory archway of clouds and tossing errant puffs of white into the time traveler's face with her hooves.  The last pony effortlessly batted the projectiles away and flew faster, guided by a smile.  Together, the two pegasi spun loopty-loops and orbiting twists, shredding the grayness into a pearlescent blue that brought out the shine in Rainbow Dash's coat.

        “Heheheh—Say, you're not half bad!”  Rainbow Dash saluted back with a grin.  “But you can't beat the best!  Time to bring out the big guns!”  With that said, she beat her wings harder and accelerated at a maddening rate.

        Harmony blinked, and suddenly the smile drained from her face.  She panted, realizing two things: first, what she was there for, and second, what little chance she had to truly, truly outrace Rainbow Dash.  In a matter of seconds, Rainbow's speed could separate the two by an impossible gap, even beyond Spike's two hundred meters that Harmony wasn't yet sure was a safe distance or not.  In a fit of desperation, she gulped hard and shouted into the whipping winds.

        “Rainbow Dash!  Slow down!”

        “Ha!  Not on your life!”  Rainbow Dash shouted.  “You're never gonna win any rounds if you resort to begging!”

        Harmony gritted her teeth, beating her wings as quickly as she could, attempting to keep up.  “I mean it!  I need you to slow down!”

        “Pffft!  Hahaha—You really can't take a hint, can you?  Your loss!”  Rainbow's wings stretched fiercely and her entire body coiled up to burst forward in a lightning-fast lunge.  “Prepare to be smoked!”

        “No!  You don't get it!  I'm here on behalf of Canterlot and, I—Nnnngh!”  Harmony flashed a look to the side.  She was just passing a tall column of clouds.  The copper pegasus angled her wings, hoisted her body sideways, caught the cylinder of vapors, and used it like a springboard to launch her forward.  In a breath of desperation, the last pony caught up with Rainbow Dash... and tackled her full-on.

        “Daah!” Rainbow shrieked, her ruby eyes exploding with surprise.

        Harmony held on tight.  The two fell like a dead weight together, spiraling and spiraling, until they landed smack dab in the middle of a cloudbank with the last pony on top.

        “Ooof!”  Rainbow Dash winced, then snarled up at the other mare.  “Hey!” her voice cracked.  “What the heck gives?!  This is totally not part of the rules, you jerk!”

        “Rules?!”  Harmony blinked awkwardly.  She shook the confusion off and refocused, trying not to be overwhelmed by the living, breathing relic that was in her grasp.  “I'm not here to play games!  I'm a representative of the Royal Court of Canterlot and...”  She panted, trying to seize her words as she struggled to seize this moment.  She had never had Rainbow Dash angry at her ever, and she wasn't about to let such a horrid thing continue.  “And the Princess has ordered m-me to... to do a report on your performance as Ponyville's Chief Weather Flier,” she ultimately said.  Nervously, she produced a copper smile.  “You see... uh... she never got a chance to thoroughly congratulate you for winning the Best Young Fliers Competition, and she's commanded that I interview you thoroughly—”

        “Wait!”  Rainbow Dash sat up, her ghostly-pale face staring down Harmony's.  “Y-You mean to tell me that you're not competing?”

        “Uhhh... H-Huh?”  Harmony blinked confusedly.  “Competing in what?”

        “Horseapples!”  Rainbow Dash viciously shoved Harmony off of her and ran to the edge of the cloudbank, trembling.  “Omigoshomigoshomigosh!  How could I be so stupid!”

        “I don't get it!” Harmony exclaimed.  “What's going on?!  Why are you... uh... stupid?”

        “Do you realize what you've done?!”  Rainbow Dash pulled at her face muscles, moaning fitfully.  With her flank facing Harmony, the last pony realized for the first time that the blue pony's left cutie mark had been covered with a square sheet of paper emblazoned with the number “64.”

        Curious, Harmony trotted to the pegasus' side.  She watched as a broad cloudbank drifted by in front of them, revealing behind it another bed of clouds over two hundred meters away.  The very same field of mist was filled to the brim with pegasi of all shapes and colors, their eyes locked on the patch of air where Harmony and Rainbow Dash had been flying.  What was more, a series of Cloudsdalian tables and equipment had been set up on a floating platform suspended by hot-air balloons.  Seated there was a group of old, graying ponies, and above them was a grand banner that unmistakably read:  “Wonderbolts Intermediary Tryouts”

        Just as Harmony saw this, she heard a roar of thunder.  She glanced aside in time to see a pegasus with the number “40” coming down from a cloud-kicking stunt.  She flew under the banner and landed gracefully on the floating platform, just as a giant hourglass beside her emptied its upper half, followed by a loud bell that rang through the high winds of the air.  The sweating pegasus tossed a confused, worried glance Rainbow Dash's way, then trotted into a cheering crowd just as one of the elder judges shuffled up to a megaphone and shouted forth:  “That was quite the commendable job, Miss Dash, albeit you know the official Cloudsdalian Rules.  Regardless of outside interference, you failed to return to the stage within the allotted time limit.  I'm afraid that you've earned a score of zero for this particular round.  The victory goes to Manehattan's very own Miss Zenith Star!”

        A series of cheering shouts echoed from the many pegasi contenders in the audience.  The air rang with celebration, and none of it was lauding Rainbow Dash.  The blue pegasus in question blinked.  Then her brow furrowed as she slowly pivoted and gave her strange, copper visitor the deadliest of glares.

        Harmony blinked, fell numbly down to her haunches, and then gulped.

        “Hoboy.”


> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - HHH Edition pt 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the Petra arc (Kaizo edition) first bombed, I was both devastated and ashamed of myself.  I decided that I needed "time off" from EoP so that I could collect my mind and attempt re-writing the arc.  About a month and a half later, I dove back in, and this is the result of it.

However, "result" is a rather loose term, seeing as I never finished the second draft.  In many ways, the arc was going to be similar, only I dropped the bulk of the one arc taking place in Scootaloo's past (where she interacts with Rainbow Dash).  What's more, I decided that instead of drawing a parallel between Scootaloo/Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo/Warden, I was going to flesh out Razzar as a sister-figure to Scootaloo.  They were both going to be casted as lone survivors of the Cataclysm--the last of their own respectful races.

To that end, everything was going to be a great deal more psychological and less action-centric.  I felt this "cerebral" approach was way more in tune to the spirit of End of Ponies, and so I called this Second Draft the "HHH Edition" (because HHH is the "cerebral assassin," eh?  ehhhh?).

The plan was to have Warden be a great deal more likable, melancholic, and less of a foil to Scoots.  Also, Scootaloo would become an active partaker in a goblin slave-liberating group.  This meant that there would be action scenes, but the drama contained therein would be anchored to what was at stake, rather than the sheer spectacle of fights.  That way, I got to keep the overall grittiness of the Petra arc, as originally intended, but without having to go full-force in volume.

This meant that I was producing something that could potentially be 30% shorter than the original Petra Edition. Also, the fact that I was reusing previously-written elements made the whole process more like doing emergency surgery than an actual rewrite... at least at first.

But, it was still a rewrite, and at some point I must have lost my focus.  The Applejack arc is an amazing example of dredging a terribad story from the ashes and breathing life into it through new scenes.  This arc?  Notsomuch.  In attempting to preserve previous elements, I had to bend the plot and the characters within ass-over-elbow.  This resulted in some really ugly, unrealistic, and definitively unsexy mutations to the character progression, which my editors were keen to inform me of during moments that should have been stellar.

It became obvious to me that I was making another blunder.  In truth, I could have attempted salvaging the system more.  However, I was far too despondent at the time, and I needed to vent my frustrations.  I did so in the form of a story called "Background Pony," and I've never looked back since.

Well, except for that one time in February of 2013 where I attempted rewriting the arc for a third time from scratch... but simply didn't have the energy or drive.  Where does EoP stand now?  I figure that if I'm to tackle the Petra arc again, it'll be with a fourth rewrite, and--as you probably guessed--I simply do not have the enthusiasm or inspiration to cast Phoenix Down on such an insufferable dragon at this moment in time.

And, besides, HHH only made it far because HBK carried him.  F'naaaaaaaa.






The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Five – The Ashes of the Rainbow




        A quivering, orange hoof hung a smudged shard of Cloudsdalian glass off a metal hook embedded into the rock wall of a claustrophobic cave.  Shakily, the same hoof rose to the glossy surface and stroked several concentric circles, wiping the soot and grime away.  The reflection of a nine-year-old foal came into focus.  The violet-eyed pegasus looked at herself, trembling, her lips parting as she leaned in to examine her reflection, almost startled to find so many bruises and bloodstains across her young face.

        There was a shrieking sound from beyond the dull walls of the place.  The filly's reflection gasped, glancing over her twitching wings as several animalistic cries joined the great cacophony beyond the torchlit hollow that sheltered her.  The world had become an echoing well of thunder, cataclysmic tremors, and monstrous banshee screams.  The pegasus' nicked ears twitched, trying to make sense out of the many chaotic sounds of the apocalypse raging blindly outside.

        She gulped hard, her shivers intensifying as the shrill shrieks multiplied, wafting closer to the camouflaged entrance of her improvised chamber.  There was an undeniable hunger in the creatures' wayward cries; they thirsted for her.  She knew this, and she shuddered at what she had to do next.

        With a quivering lip, she glanced once more at her reflection in the scavenged shard.  Her eyelids moistening, she leaned in closer to the glass and raised a metal piece of shrapnel that she had pilfered from the ravaged world outside.  Tilting her neck to the side, she exposed a long lock of pink mane hair, gave it one last forlorn look, and swiftly sliced the lengths of the pastel follicles away.  Alone with her shivers in the dancing torchlight, Scootaloo dutifully scalped herself clean, removing the scent of ponydom from her body.




        Dozens of hours later, the shrieking noises outside had died down.  A gentle roar of distant thunder permeated the ashen landscape.  Somewhere—in one tiny, frost-blighted ditch out of a million more just like it—a patch of white snow shook loose.  A panel of metal shingles swung free in the chilly air.  A tiny orange pegasus poked her freshly-shaved head out from a dark niche dug out of a mound of ruptured, Equestrian earth.  Biting her lip pensively, Scootaloo scanned the nearby landscape.  She was quietly pleased to find the area devoid of any suspicious movement.  She spent the better part of ten minutes observing her surroundings, until she was finally, finally satisfied that the coast was clear.

        She dashed back into the cave with a single breath.  Less than a minute later, she re-emerged with a tattered satchel hanging off of each blank flank.  With evident trepidation, she trotted one hoof after another until she was completely outside of her hidden habitat.  Giving the landscape another look-see, she swung around and slid the metal door shut.  After tossing a camouflaging blanket of snow over the secret hiding spot, she spun around and—panting frightfully—broke into a nervous canter across the shattered landscape of the Equestrian Wasteland.

        Scootaloo's body was a tiny orange dot in the middle of snow-laden desolation.  At a wide glance, the surrounding vista had been pockmarked with black, smoldering craters and several scattered chunks of ivory debris, forming the grand miasma that was the outer ruins of fallen Cloudsdale.  Every dozen meters or so, a pillar of sky marble penetrated the earth, followed by a plume of flame that enshrouded an otherworldly shard of fallen stone.  A deep fog floated over the landscape, as the many bits of sky marble burst from within, filling the air with dense, compressed steam.

        Above the hovering haze of pale mist, the gray sky was blemished with a perpetual orange hue.  It had been two weeks since the Cataclysm, and all of Equestria was still burning.  Endless flame to the southwest filled the air with a deep black soot, shooting plumes of obsidian above the lengths of the Everfree Forest.  Blazes dotted the dark outlines of the distant Canterlotlian mountains to the east, adding to the holocaustal glow of the sundered planet.

        All of this was pierced with a deep thunder, as several burning streaks of light surged into being overhead.  Moonrocks were falling ceaselessly from the heavens, filling the sky with hot comet-trails that bled into a bloodsoaked crimson, almost drowning out the dreary twilight above.  There was no sun to illuminate this nightmare.  Hour by hour, the world shook as yet another shard of the exploded moon landed far too close for comfort, sending more tremors through the battered surface of the world.

        Through all of this, Scootaloo nervously ran, scampered, stumbled and fled.  She hid under every rock outcropping she could find, hyperventilating as her wide, pulsating eyes took in the burning desolation around her.  Between the curtains of snow and soot, one or two conspicuously large flakes of ash would find her, landing on her coat.  She gasped and brushed the offending slivers off of her, swallowing a lump down her throat, for she knew what it was made out of.  She knew what it all was made out of.  The only way to keep herself from breaking down was to keep moving.

        Watching her flank, taking in the environment with frightful, darting eyes, the little pegasus did just that...





        A huge crash of thunder boomed across the dead world.  Scootaloo froze on top of a hill of doughy earth to glance over her shoulder.  The shaven filly saw a distant cloud of flame and plasma erupting several kilometers away where a giant moonrock had struck the Equestrian Valley far to the south.  She gulped and performed a mental calculation, comparing the visual nature of the collision from how long ago she had heard its sound.  She judged that the landing was no closer than any of the other recent impacts, despite the dramatic sight.

        Gulping, she pushed the apocalyptic image away and turned around to face another one.  Before her, at the base of the hill, the ruins of a Cloudsdalian rainbow factory stretched in open view.  Many of the sky marble structures were intact, and they glistened in the red glow of the burning sky.  Cinching the two satchels on her flanks, she scampered down the snow-pelted hill and eagerly galloped into the thick of the wreckage.




        “Hello?!  Somepony?  Anypony?”

        Her voice echoed against the precariously-leaning, ivory pillars of the place.  Loud groaning sounds filled the hollowed expanse as the weight of the structure threatened to buckle in on itself at any moment.  Undaunted, the shivering filly trotted lonesomely through the center of the crumpled factory, her breaths fogging in the air that was already dancing with soot and ash.

        “Please!  Just shout if you can hear me!”  Scootaloo panted, glancing left and right, gulping hard as her trembling voice reached more and more desperate octaves.  “Anypony?!  Is anypony there?  Hello?!”

        She trotted past several golden basins lying on their sides, cracked and fissured in a dozen places.  An endless stream of cold, dull-colored liquid trickled from every structure.  Long black poles with stirring nets affixed to their ends lay in splintery bits across random spaces of open sky marble.

        “Hello?!”  Scootaloo's teeth were chattering at this point.  She huddled herself next to an overturned rack of shattered glass jars, all of them empty.  “If you can hear me, you're not alone!  I survived and I found a safe place to stay—!”

        There was an explosion of steam.  The sky marble composing one of the ivory pillars had lost is structural integrity, and a billowing fountain of mist filled the entirety of the collapsed pegasus construction.  Scootaloo shrieked, coughed and sputtered for a solid breath, then ran out of the factory on four stumbling hooves.  Once outside, she slumped to her chest—clutching the burned earth with twitching hooves.  As the thick of the steam cleared, she regained her breath, wincing.  Through tearing eyes, she squinted to see a miraculous throng of charred grass wilting directly in front of her.  Instantly, the pony's stomach churned, a violently loud thing.  Biting her lip, she hesitantly lowered her mouth to the thin brown blades.  She took one bite, and instantly spat out the brittle, burnt material.

        Murmuring to herself, she stood up on wobbly legs, gave the steaming factory one last, helpless look, and trotted towards even more wreckage with a lonesome breath.




        “Hello?!”

        Scootaloo's voice was almost muted from the thunderous roar of burning Equestria and the dozens upon dozens of impacting moonrocks flashing across the crimson horizon beyond.  Her tiny body strolled down an eerily preserved city square of Cloudsdale.  Upon landing, the once-suspended block of urbanscape had folded in on itself at a thirty-degree angle, so that the courtyard resembled a bent, gray croissant in the middle of the Wasteland.

        “H-Hello?!”

        Scootaloo glanced left and right, spotting the many shattered storefronts, peering into the numerous hollow buildings with caved-in roofs of sky marble.  With each passing minute, her violet eyes glossed over more and more.  She bit her lip under a petrifying cloud of panic.  Her freshly-shaved pink stubble stood on end as she ducked into a half-crumbled store, her tiny hooves stepping nervously over shards of broken glass and dilapidated plaster.

        She shuffled to a stop, her body shivering in the bands of scattered orange light from the burning Wasteland outside.  Her next breath was muffled, bleeding defeatedly out her numb lips.

        “Is anypony there...?”

        After a deep sigh, Scootaloo let her violet eyes drift towards the length of the floor.  Amongst the wreckage of the store, she saw... things, tiny, seemingly insignificant, utilitarian things.  She saw nick-nacks, corkscrews, pocketknives, bottlecaps, loose springs, metal screws, and more.  She saw sudden and inexplicable tools where—beforehand—there was nothing even remotely noteworthy.

        In a firm breath, the little survivor knelt down, opened one of her satchels, and began pensively—but dutifully—collecting whatever she could get her hooves on.




        Under the broken wings of a Princess Nebula statue, Scootaloo struggled, grunted, and finally overturned a pegasus chariot.  Several broken bits of brass had fallen loose from the carriage.  Many of these bore sharp, pointed edges that glinted in the orange hue of the apocalyptic deathscape.

        Scootaloo ripped the upholstery out from the bottom of the chariot.  Carefully, she bundled the sharp brass bits like a cluster of knives, wrapping the fabric around them five complete times before safely depositing them into her satchels.  She then proceeded to yank the loosest of the chariot's wheels free from the vehicle.  The bolts and fasteners fell free.  She collected these along with a few wooden spokes from the structure.  Once she had successfully pilfered what she could from the chariot, she adjusted the weight of the bags along her flank, and trotted off for the next cluster of ruins.






        Inside a snowflake factory that had landed sideways, Scootaloo climbed marble shelf after shelf, grunting with the effort, twitching her wings as she reached for one intact glass jar after another.  These containers, she slid into her bags before hopping down, navigating a pile of smoldering debris, and investigating another rack of random tools.

        Once done, she crawled through a tiny hole and slid her way into an upside down shop full of dangling, foalish marionette puppets.  Unfazed by the eerie sights, she climbed her way to the back of the collapsed Cloudsdalian toy store and snuck into the stockroom, where she found several measuring tools, three cutting knives, and—to her delight—a working compass.




        The magnetic needle on the device guided her north towards where a wide swath in the wreckage had opened before her.  Trotting up to the edge of a sudden cliff, she gasped and found out why.  Gazing with wide, violet eyes, Scootaloo discovered an enormous crater—several kilometers wide—that had opened up in the middle of the Equestrian landscape.  Clutching an ivory pillar, she bravely tilted forward and looked straight down.  The world jutted open beneath her like a sudden esophagus, and the walls of the inexplicable pit were filled with chunks of sky marble and a cyclonic assortment of unnatural waterfalls spilling down into the black depths of it.

        Scootaloo realized that the bulk of Cloudsdale had fallen into the landscape before her, and the collective weight of the once-hovering city had bored a gigantic hole in the flesh of Equestria.  How deep this gigantic chasm was, the orange filly had no clue.  From simply gazing at the casastrophic site, she had no doubt that the entirety of the pit was filled to the brim with the densest wreckage of Cloudsdale she had witnessed thus far.  All she had explored prior to now was just the outer ruins of the pegasi's city.  This crater before her was the inner ruins, and if there was anything—or anypony—to be found, they would undoubtedly be in there.

        The orange filly bit her lip.  Her tiny, flightless wings twitched fearfully, hesitantly.  In a wise breath, she stepped backwards from the sudden, deathly dip in the landscape, turned about-face, and trotted back in the direction from which she came, all the while trusting the compass, her only friend.




        Scootaloo's hooves splashed in a shallow current of liquid rippling downhill as she ascended a solid slope of fallen skymarble.  She judged that the many chunks of vaporous ruins were still condensing, and the coalescing water from the whole mess was forming a collective stream that fell down into the gigantic pit that she had just discovered.

        The pony walked up the slope of the fallen city district and glanced every which way.  Random storefronts smoldered from endless flames burning within.  Others were bathed in rising white mist as random clusters of sky marble dissipated underneath their crumbling foundation.  The air was a mixture of black soot and ghostly white gas from this absurd contrast.

        Navigating the outer ruins, the filly paused—gasping—to see a collapsed restaurant resting beyond a shattered water fountain.  Her hooves plodded through the thin, wet river.  She galloped desperately in through the bowed doorway and nearly collapsed inside the interior.  Breathlessly, she glanced around, her eyes twitching in last-second surprise.  She had caught sight of the kitchen beyond a charred serving counter.  Hopping briskly over the structure, her satchels dangling at her side, she slid on her knees before a collapsed array of containers and feverishly flung them open, one clattering lid at a time.

        Scootaloo practically shrieked with joy as she found a jar full of preserved daisies.  The flower petals had fallen loose and the stalks were beginning to bend into brown strings, but none of that mattered as soon as she had crammed the vegetation deep into her equine mouth.  The bites were soggy and pathetic sensations, but they were heavenly nonetheless.  The stuff was edible.  The stuff was food.  Scootaloo was eating.

        She scarfed as much as she could.  Leaves were fluttering out of her chomping jaws, but she didn't care.  She opened jar after jar, flinging half of the contents into her mouth and the other half into her satchel.  How she stored this amazing bounty wasn't nearly as important as how much of it she could acquire.  Scrambling on all fours, she slid across the kitchen floor, uncovering cans of soup, a bag of oats, a jar of flour, loaves of bread, a half-decayed pony skull—

        “Aaaugh!”  Scootaloo wailed and flew back, slamming herself up against a metal cabinet with a bang and covering her mouth with a pair of shivering hooves.  A metal pot slowly rattled to a stop beside her.  The filly's violet irises shrunk into pinpricks inside their twitching sockets as she sat—petrified and hyperventilating—staring at the deathly grimace glancing back at her.

        It was the head of a pegasus stallion—half of its flesh hanging off the skeleton—the other half reduced to powdery dust that was blowing away from the air that the orange filly had suddenly exposed it to.  A great black hollow formed in the center of the calcium frame, through which the twitching pegasus could very clearly make out meaty cartilage and spongy brain matter.

        The quivering filly slid away from the corpse, her face wilting, until a freshly chewed flower petal spilled from her lips, followed by another, followed by a thick dribble of bile, followed by an ocean of vomit as she keeled over in the corner of the kitchen—shrinking away from the odorous remains—spilling loose the first decent meal she had scavenged in days.  Her retching was only punctuated by a random sob or two as she fought an uphill battle against giving the corpse another glance... ultimately losing, until her tears blinded her to the horror.




        On wobbling limbs, Scootaloo trotted away from the restaurant, her satchels twice as heavy as her stomach was empty.  There was no appetite that could satiate the aching pit in her stomach.  She put the thought of it into the darkest recesses of her mind as she put the sight of another crumbling building in the forefront of her vision.  Limping forward, she looked for a way to enter the building, when her ears suddenly pricked.  She froze in place, for the distant thunder of the burning Wasteland was suddenly... not so distant.

        In a frightful breath, she glanced over her shaved mane.  She gasped to see a huge plume of burning orange light billowing straight towards her location.  A chunk of moonrock was coming in fast.  The air heated up.  The river of trickling Cloudsdalian water started to form steam.  Frantically, Scootaloo galloped straight towards the building ahead and leaped through the nearest windowframe she could find.

        The world had become a deafening scream by the time she scurried inside and curled up against a wall.  She braced for anything and everything, expecting her body to be crushed to a smoldering pile of meat at any instant.  Instead, the sheer weight of the moonrock pulled it far ahead.  It wasn't until ten seconds later that the impact transpired, and when it did it was no less thunderous than she had expected.  The building rattled over her quivering body.  Chunks of debris fell down in a rain of steam and ash.  However, the ivory structure had remained intact.  To Scootaloo's undeniable luck, it was another part of the outer ruins of Cloudsdale that got reduced to a crater, and not her location.

        She glanced up, trembling, and realized that she was inside a lopsided library.  Rows upon rows of shelves had collapsed in on each other like wooden sandwiches.  Shreds of paper filled the extremities of the dusty place.  For the first time in two lonesome weeks, Scootaloo thought of Twilight Sparkle.

        Suddenly, something slapped against her shaved head.  Scootaloo's impulse to shriek was only slightly overwhelmed by her impulse to curse.  Grunting, she rubbed her head and glanced down at the offensive object.  She saw a thick brown tome; it had evidently fallen off a shelf and bounced off her skull.  On a curious whim, she opened the thing, only to find that every single page was blank.  Unenthused, she contemplated tossing the thing away into a corner of the dilapidated place.  For some reason, however, she stifled such an impulse, and instead stuck the thick, empty book into one of her satchels.

        Getting up, rebalancing herself on numb limbs, the tiny pegasus marched out of the library and into a brave new world of soot and ash from the fresh moon crater.  With the compass as her guide, she marched herself through the obscurity and trotted her way home.




        Scootaloo sat in the middle of her torchlit cave, laying out her many fresh tools before her, separating things in order of importance and necessity.  As the world howled and thundered outside, she rummaged through her newly scavenged things with an invigorated spirit, engrossing herself in stockpiling the many nick-nacks into their appropriated corners.

        All the while, the brown tome rested on the edge of a half-shattered arcane vault dredged from the wreckage of the Cloudsdalian airship.  Scootaloo glanced at it briefly, but with disinterest, instead occupying herself with finding a spot to store her foodstuffs and setting upon a plan for rationing what little she had to consume for the next foreseeable... month?  Year?  Decade?  Lifetime?

        The last filly took a deep breath, briefly losing track of what she was doing... what she was thinking... what she was contemplating, until her hoof grasped ahold of one item she hadn't realized she had dropped into her satchel.  It was a jar full of pens, and many of them full of ink.

        Blinking, shifting nervously, she glanced back at the torchlit sliver of arcane metal atop which the blank book rested.  She glanced once more at the many pens, took a brave breath, and pulled one of the writing tools out.

Squatting on a bed of bundled, patchwork fabric in the corner of the cave, warmed by two glowing torches, the lonely pegasus spread the book in her lap.  She bent over and fitted a pen between her teeth.  The last time she ever remembered scribbling anything down was one chaotic week when she tried her hoof at songwriting.  It was hardly a successful endeavor, and she couldn't pretend to expect anything to come of this.

        But the need to produce something, anything, was there.  She followed it, like a creature follows the instinct to live, in spite of the inherent absurdity of it all.  Slowly, Scootaloo wrote:




        Journal Entry #1

        Hello.

        My name is Scootaloo.  I am nine years old.  At least I think I am.  Something bad has happened.  Many ponies have died.  Cloudsdale fell and most of Equestria is on fire.  I do not know why.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Hello?  Anypony?”

        Scootaloo stood atop a hill.  Moonrocks fell in bright orange streams on all sides of her.  The world burned in indifference as she explored the latest wreckage she had discovered, this time armed with more than just a compass.  She had bundled several bands of brown canvas around her upper and lower limbs, forming a very flexible armor that also insulated her from the pelting snow and ash.  Sheathed into a pocket along her right forelimb was a sharp metal shiv that once belonged to a chariot.

        “Is anypony there?!  I'm all alone!  Can you hear me?”

        She panted and traversed crumbled block after block of collapsed Cloudsdalian sky marble, looking for signs of life, finding nothing but flame-dancing bands of her own lonesome shadow.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        I am alive.  I am alone.  I am looking for ponies.  I need help.  There are scary things outside my hiding place.  I think they want to eat me.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo trembled.  Scootaloo shivered.  She flattened her flightless wings against a tiny alcove of rock and clutched the metal shiv to her chest.  She had a canvas mask enshrouding her mouth, muffling her panting breath as her twitching eyes danced across the extremities of her sockets.

        Above her, clawing across the top of the earthen outcropping, a body of pale leather sniffed and hissed at the air, detecting a faint scent of equine warmth.  The creature's beady eyes darted across the burning, crimson horizon, and soon the monstrosity wasn't alone.  Another abomination joined its side, then another, and another.  Soon, an entire phalanx of trolls sauntered up to the top of the cliff-face just above where the frightened pegasus was hiding.  The drooling creatures growled amongst themselves, until a frustrated series of blows were exchanged—splashing the air briefly with cold sweat and ink-dark blood.  The monsters shrieked and whooped at each other like hyenas, before cackling devilishly and marching downhill... away from the lonesome filly.

        Scootaloo gulped and clenched her eyes shut.  Tears trickled down her cheek as she murmured breathlessly to Goddess Epona and ran a joyous hoof over her life-saving, shaved mane.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        I have looked everywhere.  Where Cloudsdale crashed into the ground, there are broken buildings and lots of junk, but there are no ponies.  At least, there are no ponies who are alive.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's violet eyes were large, round saucers.  Slowly, she pulled the canvas mask down from her mouth.  A vaporous breath misted out of her as she sauntered forward—one trembling hoof after another—and entered an upside down temple that had fallen from the clouds.

        In the scattered rays of snow-kissed twilight, dozens upon dozens of petrified pegasus bodies dangled, hanging from their wings off of shattered sky marble or skewered by the jagged teeth of broken pillars.

        In a sickly halo of gray light, Scootaloo slumped numbly to her haunches, her body bathed in the drifting ashes of the dead equines.  She gazed hopelessly up at them, murmuring a slew of unintelligible words as lonesome as her tears.  Her only answer was a strobe of orange light as more moonrocks christened the dying world outside.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        I saw a huge hole in the ground.  It is a huge pit full of wreckage and falling water.  Most of Cloudsdale is in that pit.  Maybe there are surviving ponies there too.  If they haven't flown out by now, that means they must need my help as much as I need theirs.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Scootaloo stood on a mound of crumpled ivory.  A cold, icy mist rose above her hooves as she wore a newly-woven assortment of canvas armor.  She stared down a spyglass that she had scavenged from a fallen pegasus guard tower.  The giant crater of Cloudsdale's inner ruins loomed far below.  The landscape roared from the collective waterfalls cascading inward from all edges of the gaping crater.

        She studied a northwestern slope that descended gradually into the abyss.  From her lofty perspective, it actually appeared climbable.  Lowering the spyglass from her gaze, she took a deep breath, knelt down, and drew a map on a wide cloth sheet, plotting out a course for her to take.  As what was once just an idea bled into an illustrated reality, her limbs started to shake from the sudden comprehension of what she was about to attempt.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        I have to find other ponies.  Something bad has happened to all of Equestria.  I think even the whole world is in trouble.  I can't survive on my own.  I need help.  I need to find somepony so we can survive together.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo stood in the middle of her hovel, bundling up a thick coil of rope.  She packaged this next to several woven satchels that she had combined to form an elaborate saddle, complete with metal shivs conjoined at just the right angles to resemble climbing gear.  In the mdist of gathering her many things for the next day's brave sojourn, she paused, slumping against a spear she had carved out of rainbow factory nets.

        She leaned her forehead against the dull weapon, clenching her eyes shut, stifling an urge to whimper that refused to go away.  In the flickering dance of a dwindling torchlight, she sniffled, put the last of her things away, and crawled into the far corner for a nightless, moonless attempt at slumber.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Most of all, more than anything, I need to find Rainbow Dash.  She will know what to do.  She always knows what to do.

        I need to find Rainbow Dash and I need to tell her “Thank you.”  She saved my life.

        If I should die soon, I need to write this so that somepony will know that I am here because of her.

        Rainbow Dash, if it is you who finds this and I am dead, I want to thank you.  Thank you for everything.  I am doing my best to make you proud.

        -End of entry


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        She tried.  Scootaloo tried sleeping, but like so many things in her bitter decade of existence, what she asked for never came.  She had to struggle for it.

        So, into the thunderous ambiance of the apocalypse, Scootaloo struggled.  Scootaloo searched for sleep, and in the midst of it—squeezing tears out of her eyes like so many a lonely night before—the filly fought, and lost.  The shame of her defeat wasn't so painful, though, for in the climax of those sobs she squeaked forth a name that brought solace to the whole trembling debacle.

        “Dashie...”

        She whimpered and caved in on herself, curling up into a fetal position and hugging the last surviving colors of her dreams before they too faded away.

        “Dashie... please c-come and find m-me...”

        Scootaloo quivered and reached blindly for warmth...







        ...until the gentle rays of sunlight glistened across her copper coat.  Reaching a hoof around a glass of ice water, Harmony raised the beverage to her lips, took a sweet sip, and exhaled blissfully into the salty breeze.  Her wings flexed and unflexed as a pleasant smile graced her features.  She sat on the rear patio of a hotel overlooking a sun-kissed beach resort.  She wasn’t alone; two other ponies listened to her giggle and say, “Heehee... A girl could get used to this.  Ahem.”  She planted the glass back down onto the tabletop before her.  “However, nothing lasts forever.  Alas, my duties to the Canterlotlian Court are finished, and I must bid you both adieu.”

        “You speak of your royal duties as if that's all you came here to do, Miss Harmony.  And yet, you have accomplished so much more.”  Bon Bon sat across from the pegasus.  The sound of the ocean waves provided a calm background to their chat, “Was it really stargazing that brought you here?  Or was it fate?”

        “Fate is only predictable to those who bind themselves to it.”  Harmony smiled wide, her teeth showing.  “I would think that the last few days have taught the two of you that, if nothing else.”

        Bon Bon blushed, hiding a shy face behind pink-and-blue bangs.  “If the last few days have taught me anything, it's that truth is stranger than fiction.”

        “I'd say!”  Lyra jutted into view, her turquoise face beaming under a fountain of gray-streaked hair.  “We both elope on a cruise of the Eastern Shore, only to have some parasprite-sniffing jerk of a captain strand us on a desert island to fend for ourselves!  Why, girl, if you hadn't dropped in to save our tails, I'd have sued that creep for every golden bit stuffed under his poop deck!”

        “Yeah, well...”  Harmony chuckled nervously, brushing a hoof in lazy circles across the tabletop.  “I don't deserve all the thanks for getting the two of you off that island.”  Seagulls cawed overhead while random ponies frolicked and jogged gleefully up and down the hot sand dunes behind her.  “Most of the gratitude should be aimed Beachcomber's way.  If it wasn't for her and her friends, the two of you would be sunburnt husks by now.  I wouldn't be that much better off either.”

        “Yeesh!”  Lyra rolled her orange eyes.  “Yeah, so we owe Beachcomber's bosom buddies our thanks and all.  But did they have to sing so freakin' much?  I've got those dang musical notes stuck in my head!”  She hissed and pointed at her golden lyre of a cutie mark for emphasis.  “Music... stuck in my head!  Do you realize how pitiful that is?”

        “I'd say it was worth it.”  Bon Bon winked one of her blue eyes.  “If nothing else, we were treated to the most fantastic underwater dance number I've ever seen.”

        “You mean the only underwater dance number you've ever seen,” Lyra retorted.  “It was slightly bearable for the first bubbling hour or so.  But by the time that  purple sea serpent joined in with his falsetto, I wanted nothing more than to take a baseball hat to my horn.”

        Harmony winced.  “Yes, well, there are some sights and sounds that few mortals are blessed—or cursed—to witness.  I'll reserve the word 'lucky' for this right here.”  She smiled and leaned forward against the table.  “In spite of all the bizarre ups and downs, I am very... very happy to have spent the last two weeks with the two of you.  Joy just shines when you're both around.  I still can't believe you helped me with my mapping of the stars.  That was so very generous of you.”

        “Generous?”  Bon Bon blinked.  “Miss Harmony, if you hadn't dropped in on our lives, we'd have more than sunstroke and seaponies to contend with.  That egostistical ship captain was prepared to spread a bunch of seditious lies about the two of us when you dropped in and threatened to turn his career inside out for what he did to us.”

        Harmony shrugged.  “Eh... If there's one thing in life I don't appreciate, it's cowardly bullies.  You both came here to enjoy a little slice of heaven.  I wasn't about to let anypony get in the way of that, no matter how many tiny little 'anchor' pins he's got on his collar.”

        “It's...”  Bon Bon fidgeted bashfully.  “It's not often that we have random strangers come to our rescue, and all from the kindness of their hearts.”

        “Well, Ms. Bon Bon, you've been through a lot.”  Harmony smiled sweetly.  “The way you two were stranded out in the middle of nowhere just sickened me.  It was like kicking a good pony when she's down.”

        “There've been tough times lately, for sure.”  Bon Bon nodded.  “Ever since our biggest clients from Dredgemane stopped ordering supplies from the novelty store, I've been having to scrimp just to get by the past month.  Still, Lyra and I have been looking forward to this vacation for as long as either of us can afford to remember.”

        “Darn tootin'.”

        “Shhh!  Will you let me speak?”

        “Er... Eheheh... By all means.”

        Bon Bon stifled a giggle and glanced back Harmony's way.  “I knew that, no matter what the future may bring, our time here was going to be special.  You can live an entire life of hardship, of ponies misunderstanding you or even treating you like you don't exist, but what matters is that you have one moment, one happy place that defines you—that you can always return to when the stress of existence gets too great...”  She turned towards her companion and softly smiled.  “...where you know that you'll never be alone.”

        “Awwww...”  Lyra smirked back.  “Love you too, ya little fluff ball.”

        “What comes next for you two?”  Harmony inquired.  “Any plans after your... vacation plans?”

        “Well, life won't be the same for us now, no matter how we look at it.”  Bon Bon fiddled with a half-empty drink before her on the table, her blue eyes falling briefly.  “When we get back to Ponyville, there will be no more hiding.  Lyra and I decided on that long ago.  We will have to deal bravely with an entire town full of ponies who have one typical, age-old opinion on...”  She bit her lip nervously.  “...on interracial matrimony.”

        “And we all know what that opinion is.”  Lyra rolled her eyes.  “Yeesh!  It's as if unicorns and earth ponies are doomed to explode upon contact.”

        “Your courage is inspiring,” Harmony said.  “If it wasn't, I wouldn't have been motivated to hang around as long as I have.  If I may speak with some Canterlotlian wisdom...”

        “You may try,” Lyra said, squinting at Harmony wryly.

        Harmony smiled.  “Your Ponyvillean friends know you for the souls that you are.  They know your gentleness, your kindness, and your generosity.”  She lingered in mid-speech, her amber eyes dipping into the well of the past.  She once again envisioned Ditzy holding her beloved child, a product of calamity and yet a bundle of joy all the same.  “When you return home... when you return together, I have no doubt that they'll embrace you no differently.  You'll be the same souls you've always been, only you'll be complete.  That completeness is an inspiring thing, a spirit that can bridge so many intimidating abysses.  You think that being accepted by your peers is impossible?  Ms. Bon Bon, Ms. Lyra, you both have the power to move mountains.  Everypony can make the impossible happen.  All it takes is true commitment.”

        Bon Bon bit her lip as a tear rolled down her cheek.  “Oh, how I wish it was you who performed the ceremony and not that disgruntled captain...”

        “Yeah, well...”  Harmony chuckled and swirled her glass of water.  “Her Majesty has invested me with many clerical duties, but none of them grant me the authority to do something so sweet and honorable.  Still...”  Her copper cheeks turned slightly rosy as she murmured in a girlish breath, “I never thought I would have been the maid-of-honor for anypony, even if it was last-second.”  She gave a slightly embarassed giggle.  “I'm not going to say that it was some friggin' dream come true...”  She gazed at them with tender eyes.  “But it was something close to it.  I am honored, deeply honored.”

        “Gah!  Enough sap!”  Lyra barked.  “How about a toast?  I hate to soggy up a beautiful, sunny day with misty eyes!”  She reached her limb towards the cocktail in front of her.  The unicorn's hoof hovered a bare centimeter before the glass, and yet she grunted and made strained expressions as if something was wrong.  “Dang it... Come on... Why isn't this working?”

        Bon Bon rolled her eyes.  “Lyra, honey, we've talked about this.”  She leaned over and pushed her companion's limb so that the crook of Lyra's hoof cradled the glass.  “There, like that, darling.”

        “Oh!  But of course!  Eheh...”  Lyra let loose a drop of sweat.  “Where I would be without you?”

        “I shudder to think.”

        “Ahem!”  Lyra stood up and raised the cocktail drink high in the sunny beach air.  “Here's to Harmony, pegasus extraordinaire!  Never before was a deus ex machina so resplendently chivalrous and full of spunk!”

        “Ugh, Lyra, honestly!”  Bon Bon blushed for the umpteenth time before standing up and lifting her own glass.  “Here's to a honeymoon that never ends, so long as our hearts are magical.”  She smiled with a twinkle in her eye.

        It was Harmony's turn.  With a devilish smirk, she stood up and raised the glass in her copper grasp.  “Here's to making the impossible happen.”  She exhaled and gazed off into the salty air, as if looking for a rainbow.  “It is ever a labor of love.”

        The three mares clinked their glasses together.  After a mutual guzzle, they exhaled as one... until Lyra's belch punctuated the scene.  A giggle was shared between the three, a pleasant chorus that pierced the roar of the sapphiric blue waves crashing behind them.

        Harmony placed her glass down and performed a regal curtsey.  “Well, ladies, goodbye, farewell, and amen.”

        “And all that jazz,” Lyra droned.  She leaned against Bon Bon with a smile aimed Harmony's way.  “Try to relax, heroine.  This was our vacation you dropped in on.  Unless stargazing was your way of loosening up, I think you could stand to kick your horseshoes off and wiggle your toes in the wet surf.”

        “'Toes'... Right...”  Harmony gave the unicorn a cock-eyed glance.  “Got it.”  She cleared her throat and smirked at Bon Bon.  “Try not to let her get too carried away.”

        “Heeheehee...”  Bon Bon nuzzled her companion and responded to the time traveler, “You know I'll fail.”

        “Heh...”  Harmony spread her wings, spun about, and soared skyward.  The two ponies waved as the copper pegasus banked over the beach, twirled through the golden rays of the sun, and flew towards the far end of the six story hotel.  Once she was out of sight of her anchor and the earth pony's loved one, she accelerated into a faster climb, barreling skyward as fast as her feathers could take her.  The world twitched before Harmony in a billowing curtain of emerald.  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and calmly let the immutability of time take its course.

        The world bled into a gigantic corridor of ghostly echoes as reverse-time pulled the mare back to the future.  Her coat quivered from mane to tail as Harmony felt the layers of her soul-self peeling away one copper blanket at a time to expose her true, brown flesh beneath.

        Then something happened that broke the meditative tranquility of the moment.  At first, it sounded like a low, bass hum.  Harmony briefly imagined that she had been bounced back to the shores of Dream Valley, for she was hearing the crashing of waves once more.  However, the future scavenger never knew ocean waves for having a constant, thunderous vibration... something that shook her to the very core as if she was riding a wagon down an endless, bumpy slope of pebbles.

        She couldn't help it.  She fluttered her eyes open halfway between amber and scarlet.  What she saw stole the breath from her incorporeal lungs.  From beyond the refracting mirrors of numerous green hues, a dark copper shape was staring down at her.  With heart-stopping pulses of awe, Harmony realized that this holy silhouette was moving towards her, marchng on gigantic, sinewy limbs that glistened with brass-horseshoes so immaculate that they could have been carved out of pure flame.  The immaculate muscles of this being's frame flexed as it knelt down and tilted a dark, obscured face toward her.  There was no discerning the shadow's facial features, for Harmony's startled mind suddenly become reacquainted with her infinitesimal mortality.

        She almost died the moment the shadowy equine stretched a pair of copper wings out, majestically brimming with cogwheels, springs, and celestial spindles.  The hum that filled the corridor morphed into a meticulous ticking sensation, as strong as a titanium heartbeat, perfect and immutable in its rhythmic precision.  Its eyes flickered, highlighted by otherworldly, copper irises that spun like immaculate gearheads.  The spirit's muzzle lowered, and when its lips parted, Harmony thought she might explode.  The orphan of time was drowned in the sound of deafening bells, louder than all the world's clock towers combined, heavenly in grandiose thunder.  Then, before Harmony could even bother to comprehend the spaces between the majestic figure's otherworldly heartbeats, the green corridor bled away, and the rhythmic noise between the fading bells softly coalesced into a flimsy fascimile of that radiant time-keeper.  Rows upon rows of brass clocks ticked across the lengths of the subterranean laboratory, and a thirty-three year old Scootaloo sat breathlessly in the midst of them like a long-lost prophet to something that had come and gone, and still had yet to transpire.

        “Ah, you're back, old friend.  Fantastic timing.”  Spike strolled nonchalantly past the alchemic circles the pegasus was sitting upon  He shuffled a roll of parchment in his claws.  “I've been working on my memoirs while waiting for you, and I must embarassingly admit that my literary expertise vastly pales in comparison to my scientific prowess.  You're a well-read mare, Scootaloo.  Tell me, is 'clamor' spelled with a 'b' or without it?”

        “Uhm...”  Scootaloo blinked numbly, the mechanically-winged shape still burned into her scarlets.  She ran a hoof over her trembling face as a long mane of pink hair settled down from a magical wind, draping over her shoulders.  The last pony took a deep breath, then awoke to respond, “It... it depends on how you're using it.  Are you describing a sound or a physical action?”

        “I'm writing a humorous anecdote depicting this one time that I and my past self played a whelpish game of hide-and-seek with one another.  There's a moment where I describe myself as having stumbled up a steep incline of Canterlotlian rocks.”

        “Then you use a 'b' followed by 'e' and 'r'.  'Clamber.'  But don't overuse the friggin' word, Spike.  There are plenty of fish in the sea, and when I say 'fish' I mean 'verbs.'”

        “Ah.  Much thanks, old friend.”

        “Seriously, Spike.  You're three hundred years old.  Couldn't you have scavenged a thesaurus during one of your many, reverse-time expeditions?”

        Her large, draconian companion smiled with iron jaws.  “And relinquish myself of the ease of depending on such a gracious editor as yourself?”

        “You're writing for a dead world, Spike.  You could pick phrases out of a hat and slap them together into a tome that's large enough to fill the vault of Whinniepeg, and still—by sheer existence—it would become a masterpiece.”

        “Your nihilism, as always, has a sprinkle of charm to it, dear child.  I do not know about you, but I intend to leave more for this world than a restored sun and moon as a testimony to our existence.”

        “Yeah...”  Scootaloo exhaled and slicked her long, pink hair back with a shaking hoof.  “More power to ya.”

        Spike glanced narrowly at her sudden shivers.  His emerald eyeslits glistened.  “Scootaloo, did you have a... traumatizing experience?”

        “Oh.  H-Hardly, Spike.”  She smiled softly at him, her scarlets sparkling.  “Those two were undoubtedly the sweetest ponies I've ever had the grace of spending time with.  Bon Bon is a complete angel, and Lyra is an absolute hoot... even if she says things from time to time that'd even make Pinkie Pie's head spin.”

        “And were you successful in hunting down the constellations?”

        “Absolutely!”  Scootaloo giggled and pointed towards a wide banner hanging across the far wall of the subterranean laboratory, obscuring the burnt diagram of the Cataclysmic time-line behind it.  A gigantic map of the Equestrian night sky had been built in several pieces, consisting of conjoined sheets of journal papers taped together to form a grand mosaic illuminated by purple manalight.  A large chunk was still missing along the lower right side of the rough diorama, but the overall design depicted a thick cluster of stars in the center, drowning out the rest of the specks.  “It was just like with Braeburn at Appleloosa and Dr. Whooves in Stalliongrad.  I touched down inconspicuously—well, more or less—and swiftly got acquainted.  I lent a hoof as a good 'Canterlotlian Clerk' and, in return, I was granted a perfect view of the night sky.  Appleloosa gave me a northeast glance at the constellations while Stalliongrad filled in the southwest cluster.  Now, thanks to Lyra and Bon Bon, I've got another map to go pick up, and it should shed some light on the night sky as seen from the eastern shoreline Dream Valley, twenty-five years ago.”

        “Astonishing!”  Spike remarked, his green headcrests perking curiously.  “Dream Valley!  Did you chance upon any—”

        “I do not want to talk about seaponies.”  Scootaloo grunted.  “Not now.  Not ever.”

        “Very well.  My memoirs have enough tangents as it is.”

        “Just how much of your writing involves me, Spike?”  Scootaloo asked with a curious eyebrow raised.

        He smirked at her, coughing up some green fumes.  “Rest assured, old friend, there are quite a few chapters dedicated to the nature of your chronological exploits.”

        “Considering you're over three centuries old, I don't know if that should make me feel flattered or awkward.”

        “Let us venture to say a daring hybrid of both, for posterity's sake.”

        “Yeah, sure, why not.”  Scootaloo said.  A pale sheen swiftly returned to her brown features as she trembled once more, gulped, and murmured, “Uhm... Spike?”

        “Hmmm?”  He stood in the corner, scribbling along a scroll of parchment.

        “What were Princess Entropa's wings made out of?”

        “Ohhhh...”  His nostrils flared in thought.  “That is a question lost to the conjecture of ages, dear child.  Not even Starswirl the Bearded lived long enough to write down that glorious bit of information.  I suppose the only souls capable of regaling history on such a topic would have been Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, and you've had access to their journals, not me.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “I think I may have j-just seen her...”

        Spike glanced up from his parchment.

        “Just now...” the last pony emphasized.  “While coming back from my anchorage to Bon Bon.  I think she appeared before me.”

        “Hmmm...”  Spike uttered, “I was wondering when this would happen.”

        Scootaloo's jaw dropped.  “Spike...”  She trotted towards him, gazing up with bright scarlet eyes.  “You anticipated that she would show up?”

        “Scootaloo, Princess Entropa hasn't 'shown up' to anypony.  Unlike her other Alicorn sisters, she is more than a purveyor of her element; she is the essence of it.  Time is immutable because Princess Entropa is immutable, for Princess Entropa is the very fabric of time itself.”

        “But... I saw her.”  Scootaloo gulped and pointed ceilingward as if gesturing towards an invisible cloud of “time-ness” above the two experimenters.  “I had never seen her before.  I could have sworn that she was looking at me.”

        “And perhaps she was looking at you, child.”

        “But I thought you just said—?”

        “Has it occurred to you that she's always been watching you?  Observing you?”  Spike relaxed on his haunches and lowered his purple-scaled snout so that it was level with the last pony.  “Meanwhile, it's been you who have gotten more and more acclimated with the substance of time and reverse-time.”

        “She's seen what I've been doing this whole time?”  Scootaloo blinked.  “She's observed these last four months that we've been performing this crazy crusade for the Sun and Moon?”

        Spike let loose a deep, bass chuckle.  Fumes of green smoke filtered up to the ceiling as he coughed, steadied the violet pendant hanging around his neck, and then gently stroked the pony's pink mane.  “Dear friend, Princess Entropa sees all.  That is how it's always been and how it always will be.  You once asked me why it is that the Goddess of Time never interceded on behalf of the Cataclysm.  The truth is as simple as it is somber.  She knew it would happen the very moment she was foaled into this universe, even before the very Sundering of Consus.  She was powerless to do anything about it, for to break the immutability of her essence would eliminate her very power over it.  It is something that is hard for mortals like you or I to wrap our fragile minds around, but the easiest way to think of it is that Entropa is the eternal observer of the universe.”

        “An observer...”  Scootaloo murmured.  Her nostrils flared as she stared defeatedly into a far corner of the underground laboratory.  “...just like her avatar.”

        Spike smiled gently.  “Yes.  Just like her avatar.”  He stood up straight on iron limbs.  “And in speaking of her avatar, it can only be natural that she is curious of this blissful moment in a not-so-blissful history, when a mere mortal would happen to be donning her skin—her very coat—to travel back and forth on the streams of her glorious essence.”

        “Is she...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  “Is she jealous of me, Spike?”

        “That depends, child.  How can one be jealous if one lacks the ability—or will—to possess an ego?”  He chuckled, his nostrils fuming with green smoke.  “I would say she's just curious.  That's all.”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “You're right, as always, Spike.”

        “I am neither right nor wrong, old friend.  I am merely educated.  And now you are too.”  He leaned his head to the side with an iron smirk.  “Does this in any way affect our ever-daunting mission at hand?”

        “Heh heh heh... 'hand'...”

        “What is so amusing, all of the sudden?”

        Scootaloo waved a hoof.  “Nothing.  Just thinking about Lyra is all...”

        “You sound like you've had a rather cheerful time jump for once.  Nevertheless, it had to have been a tiresome experience.  Perhaps some rest is in order.”

        “Maybe there'll be a chance for that later, Spike.  Not all of us have the entire fabric of time to sit back and relax.”  Scootaloo hopped over to a laboratory table and briskly strapped a leather saddlebag over her body.  “But right now, I must be going.”

        “And where to, in such a hurry?”

        “Dream Valley.”  She glanced up and sassily tossed her pink mane behind her brown neck.  “I've got the last bit of the sky to pick up.”




        A brown hoof ran an invisible circle across a map before circling a tiny splotch of land that bordered the southeastern seaboard of Equestria.  Scootaloo raised the pull-down map back to the roof of the Harmony, revealing a grotesque horizon of black sludge beyond the cockpit windows.  A veritable ocean of obsidian sediment loomed immensely into view beyond the bow of the aircraft.  Scootaloo grasped her hooves around the levers affixed beside her cockpit and steered her zeppelin down towards the last remaining length of gray desolation before the soupy blackness took over.

        A cluster of shattered beachfront buildings came into focus as the Harmony lowerd to sea-level.  Scootaloo slowed her descent, piloted the vehicle towards a stalk of sundered concrete support pillars, and anchored the craft to them through the use of two steam-powered claws.

        Gathering her belongings, the last pony exited the aircraft and plodded her lonesome way towards the largest of the hotel structures... or at least what remained of them.  Her target had collapsed in on itself, the upper five stories having caved-in on the bottom floor in a chaotic fashion.

        “Whew.”  Scootaloo whistled.  “Good thing I put the crap in the hotel's foundation.”  She smirked to herself, navigated a cluster of dilapidated, overturned carriages, and slid through the sundered front entrance of the crumbling structure.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Nnnngh!”

        Scootaloo pried a large metal bar into the floor of the rubble-strewn hotel lobby behind a wooden desk.  A gigantic concrete tile panel—one of several dozen more like it—peeled free with a groan.  The last pony wheezed with the effort of removing the obstruction, cursing her Entropan double for not anticipating the degree to which her physical body would have to strain in uncovering the capsule left behind for her future self.

        “Hnnnkkkt-Agh!  There...”

        She exhaled and slumped against the wall with relief as the panel finally slid free.  She panted, panted, and giggled pathetically to herself.  Dropping the metal bar to the lobby floor with a clang, she knelt down on her haunches and reached into the dusty crawlspace beneath the concrete paneling.  Scootaloo licked her lips with the effort, blindly hoofing around for a spell.  Finally, she felt what she had come there for.

        With a victorious grin, she pulled her limb back up, cradling a long, ivory seashell.  The natural object was almost cylindrical, and its alabaster surface had been tainted with the mildew and soot of ages.  Gnawing on her bottom lip, Scootaloo slid her hoof up along the stalk of the thing until she found a crease.  She twisted at this spot, and the makeshift container snapped open.  Pulling the “lid” off, Scootaloo turned the entire thing over and gave it a shake, her heartbeat briefly stopping.

        Then, in immaculate grace, a rolled-up sheet of parchment effortlessly fell out of the elongated seashell.  It had been perfectly perserved throughout the decades.  Scootaloo exhaled with joy as she unrolled the scroll and held before her goggles an elaborate sketch of the Equestrian night sky as seen from the southeast continental seaboard.

        “Harmony, you adorkable astronomer, you,” Scootaloo murmured to herself.  With a soft grin, she rolled the parchment back up, sealed it inside the seashell, and stuck the whole thing inside her saddlebag.  “Absolutely friggin' textbook.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Scootaloo layed the entire seashell on a shelf between two clusters of books.  With gentle hooves, she closed the locker doors shut and spoke into the rune, “W'nyhhm.”  The container of scavenged literature locked shut as the moonrock glowed in a purple haze.

        Sliding her copper goggles up to her pink bangs, Scootaloo turned and walked across the cabin of the Harmony.  She approached her workbench, above which many random objects of miscellany had been clustered together over the past several weeks.  Humming to herself, she bore a soft smile as she reached into her bag and produced several new items, adding them to the assortment of timeless mementos.  She placed a cocktail glass atop a shelf, along with a hotel lobby bell, a pile of miraculously preserved sand dollars, and—last but not least—something she had pilfered from the novelty shop at Ponyville, but only now had a reason for putting up somewhere to be displayed.  It was a golden instrument, a lyre with frayed strings, and she hung it daintily above the many tiny objects extracted from the beachfront ruins.

        Taking a deep breath, the last pony stood back and stared across the wall of apocalyptic memorabilia.  Suntrot's foalish sketch hung on the wall above a green beret and the folded arcanium weave of an entire Royal Grand Biv outfit, complete with ruby goggles and rusted cloak-blades.  To the side of this was a cowboy hat, an apple bucket, a railroad track spike, and an elaborate buffalo headdress.  Finally, next to this display was an array of military medals, a brick taken from the Great Wall of Stalliongrad, a golden pocketwatch, and a slender object that vaguely resembled a complicated screwdriver.

        Scootaloo's smile was a placid yet bittersweet thing.  She leaned her head to the side and ran a hoof through the pink lengths of her mane.  Her eyes twitched upon a sheen of light in the amber glow of the ship's boiler.  She glanced to the side.  From a meter away, she saw her reflection staring back at her across a perfectly reflective shard of Cloudsdalian glass hanging above the workbench.  The scarlet eyes that looked back at her suddenly seemed less jaded, as if a touch of violet had come back to refill them.  She felt a sore pit in her throat, but for some reason she didn't detest this sensation.

        Turning about, Scootaloo almost hopped back into her cockpit, when her gaze was once again stolen by the great, inky blackness lingering beyond the anchored vessel's windshield.  Her eyes locked onto the spot where the gray desolation met the deathly sea of opaque sludge.  The pegasus' wings twitched involuntarily, and her nostrils flared for the few lingering seconds it took to vainly fight her next impulse.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Petrified mounds of sand wafted up like so much ash and soot as the lone pony plodded towards the edge of the shore.  Scootaloo walked past the beachfront shells of crumbling hotels, approaching the great, dead ocean.  She glanced to her right and saw a collapsed pile of wood, the ruins of a patio replete with wooden tables.  She looked to her left and saw the remains of a sea vessel stranded in two sundered halves, its rusted contents spilling out onto barren rock and shoals.

        Staring down, Scootaloo found her hooves navigating a sudden minefield of brittle bones.  Several mammalian skeletons were lying on either side of her, their equine skulls attached to bulbous ribcages affixed with cartilaginous flippers.  Curtains of white dust billowed over their rickety spines and hollow tails.  The bones doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in thickness until Scootaloo could walk no further without practically tripping over the impenetrable carpet of corpses.  Before her—bordering the edge of the ocean like a powdery layer of residue—was a solid line of calcified death that stretched north and south as far as the seaboard horizon could be seen.

        Beyond the line of ash-white refuse, an even filthier sight stretched eastward into infinity.  What was once a vast blue ocean of crashing waves had become a frozen soup of jet-black sludge.  If there was any water left to the seas of Equestria, one could not tell from a distant glance.  Something magically horrid in the Cataclysm had long ago dredged the dead matter of all the world's oceans up to the surface, so that a blanket of molasses-thick, necrotic ooze lingered in perpetual viscosity.  The deathly black gunk was randomly dotted here and there with a throng of bones, a bloated corpse, or a jagged fossil, as hundreds upon thousands of sea creatures found their final resting places on the top of the blighted ocean.

        The twilight bathed this deathscape in a gray funeral light, christening the lengths of it with white snow.  Scootaloo had never said it out loud, nor had she the courage to write it in her journals, but she sometimes found a gentle beauty in the endless desolation that encompassed her life, or graced her vision like this.  Just like Spike's memoirs, the Wasteland had little to no audience, so it all might as well have been a masterpiece.  Perhaps, though, it was just that the thirty-three year old mare had come to a point when all that was horrible became all that was beautiful, in that it had taken her two and a half decades to realize that they were both the very same thing.

        Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo glanced aside and found a rickety wooden beach chair that—for better or for worse—had survived the flames of the Cataclysm.  Marching over several brittle skeletons, she lowered herself in the seat, sat in the middle of a sea of corpses, and gazed out onto the dead, black horizon of Dream Valley.  A warm twinkle lit her scarlet eyes, and she helplessly hummed a bubbly tune that felt just as fresh as yesterday.

        There was a sudden breeze, something that chilled the skeletons—and the last pony—to the bone.  She hissed through clenched teeth as her pink mane billowed, reminding her of what she had lost and what she had reclaimed in such a long time... and yet in such a short time.  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.  Then, for a brief moment, she felt as though she heard the crashing of waves.





        So she opened her violet orbs, trembling, as a grand white mist of all of sunken Cloudsdale's collective waterfalls wafted up towards her frail, orange figure.  Nine year old Scootaloo stood upon the northwest edge of the pit.  The inner ruins of the collapsed city looked far more intimidating than the paltry map she had sketched earlier of the great, looming crater.  Her stubby, flightless wings writhed nervously as she gawked at the great depths stretching beneath her, bathed with trickling water from so many surrounding clusters of crumbling sky marble structures.

        “Okay...”  She gulped and panted, her legs wobbling under the weight of her canvas saddlebags full of haphazard tools and scavenging equipment.  A jar of half-decayed daisies rattled on either side of her slender, shaved neck.  “I can do this.  I can do this.  Just think, what would Dashie do?”

        A roar of thunder filled the crimson air of the wasteland horizon.  Scootaloo shuddered, biting her lip and glancing over her shoulder as a distant explosion announced another landing moonrock beyond the mounds of desolation behind her.  She suddenly winced and hissed angrily at herself.

        “Idiot, Rainbow Dash would fly.  I gotta keep it together, gotta do this like I planned.”

        The foal craned her neck and looked directly below her.  Her violet eyes followed the sloping path into the pit that she had mapped just days before.  From far away, the sloping incline appeared navigable.  Standing upon the precipice of the deathly slide, however, Scootaloo couldn't comprehend how any pony—no matter what age—would be able to trot down the thing and reach the bottom of the inner ruins in one piece.

        “Yeah... Y-Yeah...”  Scootaloo gulped and fiddled her hooves towards her rightmost saddlebag.  “This totally calls for the rope.”

        She wished she hadn't needed to rely on the climbing gear so soon, but the little filly saw no other way to safely descend this immedate bank of steepness.  Scootaloo didn't want to imagine how thoughtless and stupid an act it would have been to end herself in a pathetic tumble then and there.  For two and a half weeks, she had been her only friend.  It was only natural that she looked after herself with no less dedication.

        Clamping a metal stake into the stony earth, Scootaloo tested the tightness of the rope tied to it.  Satisfied, she fastened the other end of the cord to her petite waist and let loose some slack.  Trotting backwards, the little filly nervously—but gradually—crept her way down the steep slope.  Flakes of ash and tiny pebbles flew loose from her shuffling hooves, falling toward the gaping chasm below where so many jagged chunks of ivory sky marble lingered like a bed of spikes.

        Scootaloo gulped, stifling a whimper as she gave the rope more slack and slid down the craggy path.  Her violet eyes twitched to see an even platform of segmented rock lingering at least twenty meters below her clambering hooves, flanked by trickling streams of cascading water.  The foal murmured, praying breathlessly that the rope's length would be enough to let her touch down on the brief splotch of even ground.  If she could just make it to that outcropping below, Scootaloo figured, the rest of the descent would be smooth sailing, as she would follow the cyclonic ledge down towards the thick of the inner ruins where she could look for more tools and—more importantly—survivors.

        Just then, there was an intense rumbling.  The Wastelands above shook with a sudden tremor.  The rope holding Scootaloo jostled, and she found herself dangling wildly.  The foal let loose a shriek and clung onto the cord for dear life, her wings twitching instinctually as her body swung from side to side—dipping in and out of a bone-chilling curtain of water that stole the gasping breath out from her lungs.  Finally, Scootaloo shot her hooves out and braced herself against a vertical stretch of sundered rock.  Soaked and shivering, she glanced up through the falling blanket of snow to see a bright red hue bleeding through the gray circle of twilight overhead.

        “Oh, Celestia, save me...”

        A moonrock was sailing towards the edge of the pit.  The air burned under a murderous cacophony of searing hot sparks.  Tongues of flame erupted all along the edges of the rumbling crater of Cloudsdale above her.  Soon, a bright orange blaze caught the rope and snaked down the length of it towards where the vulnerable pegasus dangled.

        “Oh crap oh crap oh crap...!”

        Scootaloo squeaked in desperation and fumbled with dull hooves to untie the rope from her waist.  The rumbling intensified.  The waterfalls around her started to boil.  The flame crept its way down the rope towards her, filling her nostrils with smoke and ash.

        Panting, Scootaloo kicked against the wall, spun like a dizzy spider, and freed her limbs to reach into her saddlebags.  She produced a sharp metal shiv and swung it against the rope holding her above.  A few threads snapped loose, but she still dangled under the falling curtain of flames.  The world flashed in bright plasma, blinding her.  She screamed and swung again.  The last few filaments stretched thin, then snapped, and she fell like a dead stone towards the graveyard of Cloudsdale at the bottom of the abyss.

        “Aaaaaah—Nnngh!”  She jolted as her body ragdolled off a ledge of rock and then landed limply over the length of an ivory pillar embedded into the crater wall.  Scootaloo winced, attempting to pull herself up as a gigantic wave of dust sailed down at her.  She realized without looking that the moonrock had finally slammed into the edge of the crater's mouth.  A gigantic shadow fell over her as several chunks of burning earth and lunar sediment cascaded like a deluge of lava towards her figure.

        In a breathless lunge, she dove from the pillar, fell, kicked off a wall of rock, pinballed off a water-soaked stretch of stone, and tumbled down a long slope of powdery ivory.  Not taking the time to check for broken limbs, the filly squealed and broke into a heart-stopping canter, attempting to outrun the waves of falling, burning moonrock.  She scampered towards a dark hovel beneath a platform of collapsed sky marble.  Halfway through the sprint, her saddlebags got caught on the spoke of a crumpled chariot.  She tugged and tugged and fought back the sobs before ultimately ripping the canvas material in half.  Desperately, she abandoned a good chunk of her precious supplies in the effort it took to dive out of the way of the falling debris, sliding fitfully to a stop beneath the flimsy shelter of ivory marble.

        Scootaloo almost lost all sense of hearing right then and there.  Broken off chunks of lunar material showered the heart of the gaping pit.  The world rolled with deep bass thunder, as if the Cataclysm was happening all over again.  The filly shrieked into the madness, covering her bleeding ears and fighting for a single breath as a solid wall of smoke and dust encompassed her.  She wasn't sure how she did, but she managed to climb out from beneath the claustrophobic space amidst all of the chaos, so that she found herself limping pathetically down a grand, subterranean expanse of gray rubble and slade beneath the vibrating roof of Cloudsdale's inner ruins.

        The little pony lost track of time.  The last few minutes were just as mysterious as length of fractured stone she dizzily covered.  At some point during her shuffling sojourn, she awoke to see her hooves reaching the edge of a vicious gap in the lower ruins.  She blinked, glancing around herself, spotting a translucent haze of settling dust as the thunder from the impacting moonrock finally, finally settled.  Scootaloo regained her hearing in time to bear witness to a great groaning ambiance as all of Cloudsdale settled and shifted weightedly above her.

        The foal's world had become a grand three-dimensional maze of labyrinthine rock croppings and steep, vertical wreckage.  The inner ruins of Cloudsdale looked nothing like the relatively pristine buildings she had explored on the surface of the burning world.  She was now submerged helplessly inside the heart of a grand intestinal mesh of broken ivory and watersoaked sky marble, and every direction looked just as claustrophobically intimidating as any other.

        As the lucidity returned completely to the sweating pegasus, she spun with an impenetrable hyperventilation, her violet eyes widening as she looked all over for a sign of where she had numbly trotted from.  Every gaping corridor that wasn't blanketed in flaming dust was just as gray and foreboding as the several dozens of identical passageways flanking it.  Regardless, Scootaloo galloped down the closest tunnel she could find, emerging barely ten seconds later to find a giant gaping chamber of wreckage just as desolate as the one she had left.  Her breaths reached a fever pitch as she ran down corridor after corridor, finding the inner ruins of Cloudsdale the same twilight-pierced landscape of crumbled nonsense that any other glance could possibly afford her.

        “No...”  She whimpered, spinning around, her lip quivering as she fought the urge to cry.  “No no no... Oh Celestia, please...”  Her eyes glistened as she searched in vain for the remains of her saddlebags, for all of the foodstuffs that she had spent a solid week collecting, for all of the many priceless tools that were now lost to her, as was her hope.  “Nnnngh... Help me...”  She murmured, then spat, then shrieked.  “Somepony, help me!”

        Scootaloo scrambled up to a nearby wall and clawed at it with her hooves.  Dust and ash fell over her face and shaved mane, blanketing her.  She shook it off, panting desperately, then bit her lip as she took several steps back and faced a wide stretch of even rock.  She squatted her body down and flexed her stubby wings, all the while locking her eyes nonstop on the gray splotch of wreckage-filled “sky” above.  After a deep breath, she broke into a running start, galloped, sped, and leaped as high as she could.

        “Nnnngh!”  She strained and strained, barely summoning the dexterity to flex her tiny appendages a few pitiful centimeters.  After a weightless eternity, Scootaloo came back down twice as hard as she had lifted off.  “Ooof!”  She landed roughly against a stretch of rock.  Her eyes welled with tears as she dragged herself back up, flexed her muscles, and jumped up and down repeatedly, beating her useless wings against the snow-laden air.  “Come on!  Come on!”

        The wheels in her head were turning painfully.  She knew that it was an impossible climb—gear or no gear—to get back up to the top of the crater.  She also knew that when the moonrock landed, it obliterated the one single slope of navigable rock that her legs could ever have hoped to ascend.  Now she was nothing more than a lonely, flightless pegasus with no resources at her disposal.  She was a lonely, flightless pegasus with no resources at the bottom of an inescapable pit.

        “Please!  Somepony!  Can anypony hear me?!”  Scootaloo shrieked and sobbed, limping through puddles of Clousdalian water, rippling her reflection into a hundred quivering bands.  “Help me!  Please... Please... I need... I-I need...”  She fell down to her haunches, surrounded in an abyss devoid of color, bathed in dust and tears.  The water in the puddle settled, revealing to herself a sobbing face stained with fresh blood and bruises.  The expression behind the layers of pain was helpless, weak, and pitifully stupid.

        “Please... I need you, Dashie...”  She choked and dug her snout into the cold puddles in a desperate attempt to mask her tears as her whimpering voice echoed across the crumbling, groaning expanse entombing her.  “Pl-Please... Dashie... help me... What should I do?  Wh-What sh-should I do now?”

        Born unto a bitter new helplessness, she hid her heaving face in a pair of water-soaked forelimbs, repeating her mournful words to the nothingness around her.






        “I said, can you hear me?!”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow above her blinking scarlets.  She leaned her face towards the port-side spout that broadcasted her booming voice across the Wasteland clouds, all the while staring intently beyond the Harmony's windshield at the familiar sight of a dark-green airship hovering limply under an array of six bulbous balloons.  What was odd about it was that the side door to the vessel had been yawning open long before the last pony had even approached it.

        “Bruce, are you there?  I've been calling you for—like—five minutes!”

        There was no response.  The airship drifted coldly, limply, like a giant unlit cigar in the frothing gray clouds of forever.

        Scootaloo suddenly felt her heart beating at a faster rate.  The veteran scavenger inside her let loose a retaliatory grunt.

        “Friggin' furball.  Like I should give a crap.”

        Nevertheless, the next breath that came out of her was a shuddering thing.  With a defeated groan, she cut the communicator off.  The sparks died in the tesla coils crowning the device as she bounded across the interior of her cabin with a speed that even surprised herself.  She hoisted a fresh satchel of scavenged items from the workbench, along with an armored saddlebag, and finally her copper rifle.

        With gliding grace, Scootaloo clamped her hooves onto the winding staircase and slid down the railings so that she descended briskly into the hangar bay of her airship below.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's four hooves landed in the doorway of Bruce's gondola.  As soon as she touched the bulkhead, there was a rattling noise.  Blinking, Scootaloo glanced down and groaned to see that her forward right horseshoe had fallen halfway loose.

        “Ughh... Fourth frickin' time this week.”  She grumbled to herself, slightly surprised that she could tell the difference in present time and past time anymore.  She dashed the thought away as she knelt and fiddled with the horseshoe, tightening it against the edge of her weathered hoof while muttering, “I need some new nails or something.  These aren't making the cut.  Hey Brucie!”  She shouted with a wry smirk as she marched firmly into the smoke-hazed interior of the rodent barterer's vessel.  “What are the chances that you have the ingredients for a dang good shoe that only an extinct race of equines could benefit from—?”  She froze in her tracks, her pink mane hair settling like a tattered flag around her blinking face.

        Bruce was staring back at her, his timid expression trembling under a pair of green goggles.  His legs and furry tail dangled, for he was being held a good meter off the floor of the cabin, gripped in the sharp talons of two griffons who were each five times his size.  The twin bounty hunters in high altitude flight gear gazed over their shoulders, their vicious interrogation having been cut short by the sudden appearance of the last pony.  The avian mercenaries were not amused.

        “What are you looking at, glue stick?!”

        “This is Golden Gang business.  So wipe that stupid look off your face and wait your turn.”

        “My... turn...?”  Scootaloo murmured, blinking numbly.

        “Eheheheh...”  The flying squirrel sputtered and coughed under an iron-tight talon encircling his neck.  With tiny paws, he attempted to pull himself up so that his vocal cords could properly sound forth, “Do not be concerned over friend pony.  She is merely business associate.  Ve are both traders of scavenged goods in skies.  Birds of feather, da?”

        One griffon slammed him hard against a metal bulkhead.  “Shut up unless spoken to first!”

        “H-Hey!”  Scootaloo growled.  She made to trot forward, only to be distracted by a loud, sky-splitting roar emanating from beyond the open door to Bruce's cabin behind her.

        “I'm gonna ask you one more time, peanut-brain!”  The mercenary sneered through her beak into Bruce's face, fogging his goggles up.  “Have you or have you not traded merchandise with any reptilian clients over the past five stormfronts?!”

        “Snkkkt...”  Bruce hissed and put on his bravest smile, sweating profusely in her vice grip.  “Nyet!  Brucie knows no reptiles!  Is inborn squirrel instinct not to trust merchant vith scales!  Perhaps griffons confuse Brucie vith furry creature of less intelligence, like raccoon or aardvark!”

        “Intelligence?!”  The griffon glared at him while her companion chuckled, her helmet rattling.  “You fly around in a giant tobacco bong filled with worthless junk from the Equestrian ruins and you call yourself intelligent?!”

        “Brucie never said he vas head of St. Petersbrittle Science Academy...”

        “How do I know you're not a naga in disguise, trying to fool us?”

        The roar outside the airship became deafening.  A mute Scootaloo spun about to look.  Emerging from the clouds, there rose a large, angular hovercraft of glinting platinum metal and serrated bulkheads.  Two pivoting wings fitted with quad VTOL engines spat a deathly heat that evaporated the surrounding mists.  Several large missiles and incendiary rockets glistened in the gray twilight as the Golden Gang's aircraft—a flying weapon nearly four times the size of the Harmony—hovered dangerously between Brucie's and Scootaloo's zeppelins.

        Suddenly, a flurry of gray feathers occupied the last pony's view, followed by a loud clank of talons against metal.  Scootaloo couldn't help it; she stumbled back with a start.  In response, she received a hideous glare.  With a rattling of fingerbone trophies about her neck, Stowe aimed her scarred left eye in the last pony's direction, snorted with indignance, and hissed.

        “Out of my way, blank flank.”  Stowe purposefully bumped into Scootaloo's shoulder, shoving her aside.  She carried her icy grimace across the cluttered domain of Bruce's aircraft until she was staring down her two inferiors.  “What in the tap-dancing crap is taking you two feather dusters so flippin' long?!  We've got loads of sky to cover and you're wasting all the boss' time on this flea-bag!”

        “I can't understand a single word this moron is saying!”  One of the griffons shook a gasping Bruce in her grasp like he was an offensive rag doll.  “It's like interrogating a shrunken Dirigible Dog with marbles in its mouth!”

        “At least Brucie smells better, da?”

        “Sh-Shut up!”  The griffon squealed, then glanced pleadingly up at Stowe.  “Can we just say that we found contraband, strip the ship, and eat the little rat for breakfast tomorrow?”

        “You talk like any of this is up to me.”  Stowe grunted.  “The two of you should know better.  Just find out what the stupid turd has to tell us before we get—”

        At that moment, a radio fitted to Stowe's jacketed shoulder squawked forth in a familiar voice:  “Scrkkk—Hey, Stowe.  Have the girls gotten any info yet?”

        “Nnngh!”  Stowe rolled her one good eye and grumbled.  “When it rains, it pisses.”  She flung a talon to the radio on her shoulder and aimed her grimacing beak towards it.  “Gilda, it's a friggin' squirrel.  This is a godawful waste of our time.  I told you that before we even—”

        “Scrkk—You know, the time that you spend whining like a little brat, you could instead be earning your keep.  Either get your tail feathers in gear or get a bullet to the head, because I'm sick of hearing excuses.  You copy?”

        Stowe weathered an angry shiver running up her spine.  After a deep breath, she finally muttered, “I copy, Gilda.  Stowe out.”  She flicked the radio off and practically spat at the two lackeys.  “Well?!  Will you get a frickin' move on?!”

        “He still hasn't told us if he's dealt with any naga!” the griffon clutching Bruce timidly remarked.

        “Or if he's a naga himself!” the other added.

        “You want to find out if he's a shape-shifter or not?!”  Stowe shoved one griffon away and marched straight up to the squirrel.  “Here!  I'll show you how it's done, you brainless egg-huffers!”  With that uttered, she flung a talon across Bruce's shoulder.  With a slice of glinting claws, she made three shallow cuts across the twitching rodent's coat.

        “Gaaah!”  Bruce hissed.

        Scootaloo winced.

        Fuming, Stowe spun about and raised a talon in front of her two companion's gawking faces.  Copper-red liquid dribbled down her gnarled wrist.  “There!  Ya see?!  Squirrel blood!  Now let's jet!”

        The two griffons nodded shakily.  They dropped Bruce to the floor like a grunting sack of flour and scurried swiftly past Scootaloo and out of the aircraft.  The flying squirrel moaned and clutched his shoulder with a quivering paw while Stowe stepped dispassionately over him.

        “I carry this whole friggin' team.  I swear, Griffonese grit is all but dead.”  Stowe gazed off into a far corner of the cluttered gondola.  She absentmindedly raised the talons to her beak and licked each drop of blood one at a time with a black tongue.  She paused, one talon in her mouth, as her scarred face tilted the last pony's way.  “And you.”  An errant gray feather or two fell from her ruffled neck as she leered above the equine figure.  “Have you seen any reptiles in the Wasteland lately?  Like I should give a crap over what flimsy excuse for 'truth' a glue stick like you has to spit forth...”

        “Can't say that I have.”  Scootaloo glared back at her.  “Though I'm seeing a real snake in the grass right now.”

        “Heh.  Cute.”  Stowe's necklace of fingerbones rattled as she pointed a blood-stained talon in between the last pony's scarlet eyes.  “I should gut you for your friggin' lip, ya walking sack of manure.  If I had my way, I'd stab every single one of your clopping brothers and sisters, if only the Cataclysm didn't take the fun out of it by doing the job for me.  After all, it's because of you frickin' prancing clopjobs that Griffon Mount today is an abandoned tomb full of rock spiders.  Whatever crazy magic you destroyed the world with, it's reduced my species to a gaggle of feather-brained morons who can't even squeeze info out of a talking squirrel!”

        “Is this the part where I'm supposed to feel intimidated?”  Scootaloo droned, her scarlets burning back at the avian bounty hunter.  “Because all I feel is pity.”

        Stowe's beak ground over her mouth.  Her scarred eye quivered as she hissed, “You know what you are?  You are Gilda's pet.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I'm surprised she doesn't just build a nest around you and regurgitate down your throat like the infant you are.  When the day comes that some horrible bullet or blade whacks our captain off in the middle of a bounty hunt, I'll be given the reins of the Talon, and our first order of business will be to finish what the Cataclysm started.”

        Scootaloo leaned back, her eyes thin.  “Well, when that day comes, you'd better bring a bigger ship.  Or did you forget that I once took down Gilliam's battlecruiser before breakfast?”

        The gray griffon glanced at her sideways like a confused eagle.  Her beak clicked on the edge of uttering a garbled sentence, as she mentally digested what was once an unfounded rumor into an impossible truth befitting the endangered specimen standing before her.  All the menace had been drained from the griffon's figure, and she snarled in a frustration that mirrored her two inferior companions.  Following their paths, she marched towards the entrance of Bruce's craft and spread her wings to take flight.

        “Hey, Stowe!”  Scootaloo called after her.  She twirled around, her pink mane billowing from the Wasteland air wafting inside.  “Aren't you forgetting something?”

        Stowe spun a glance over her shoulder and grunted.  “What?”

        Scootaloo stared icily at her.  She raised her left hoof, rotated the horseshoe against a nearby metal shelf, and produced a copper blade.  Unflinching, she brought the sharp object to her right shoulder and sliced a shallow cut against her exposed brown coat.  Blood dripped to the surface, glistening and crimson.  She lowered her horseshoe and pivoted so that the bodily juices occupied the forefront of the disgruntled griffon's vision.

        “Hmmph.”  Stowe merely grunted at Scootaloo's show.  “Please, blank flank, how could you possibly be a more despicable creature than you are right now?”  With that, she took off and soared like an angry gray comet towards the Talon and its roaring VTOL engines.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  Hissing with a belated wince, she ignored the fresh wound in her shoulder and trotted over to Bruce's side.  She helped him up with a gentle hoof.  “It's okay.  I think they're gone now.”

        “Brucie vould be much more relieved if Golden Gang never came to begin vith.”  The squirrel leaned back against his cockpit, clutching the three claw marks in his shoulder and wincing.  “Dey rattle Brucie more and more with each visit.  Is only matter of time before Brucie no longer has silver strips to pay dem off or pony friend to scare dem off.”

        “Please, believe me, I only wish I could scare them off.”  Scootaloo spoke.  She glanced every which way, and finally noticed a white canister resting on the edge of Bruce's dashboard.  She reached for it and opened the thing up.  Sure enough, it was full of first aid tools.  “Stowe's right about one thing.  Gilda, for all of her annoyances, is a crutch.  I'm both blessed and cursed to have ever made friends with her.  As soon as she's gone, I'll have a whole bunch of nasty, slighted griffons to contend with.”  With veteran precision, she unrolled some gauze and began bandaging up the flying squirrel's shoulder.  The petite sky merchant didn't bother to protest.  “Dirigible Dogs and Harpy Pirates are all fun and games, but having the Golden Gang chasing your tail?”  She weathered a deep sigh.  “No matter how many ways I try to shake the truth, time is ultimately not on my side.”

        “Vell, dere is some good news.”  Bruce winced under her administrations, but nevertheless managed a sheepish, incisor-fitted grin.  “Neither Bruce nor friend pony is reptile, da?”

        Scootaloo's lips curved.  She broke into a grin, and that grin spilled forth a girlish giggle.

        Bruce chuckled merrily as well.  He next coughed and sputtered, which was evidently just the reminder he needed to reach into his jacket and pull out a fresh cigar.  While Scootaloo finished fitting the bandage to his talon-wound, he lit the cancer stick and exhaled a puff of smoke into the perpetually hazy gondola.  “Hrmmm... Brucie is no liar, not to pony nor to griffon.  Never have I seen dis 'naga'.  Perhaps Golden Gang is foolish to pick up bounty over imaginary creature?”

        “Nothing imaginary about nagas, Bruce.”  Scootaloo stood back from her companion.  She straightened her long mane and murmured towards the shadows of the zeppelin.  “They're a race of bipedal lizards that hail from the south, beyond the Bay of Nebula—er—what once was the Bay of Nebula, that is.  It's since dried up and become a gigantic salt flat.  As a result, the race of reptiles who depended on the Bay spread out throughout the Wasteland, doing menial tasks in order to be paid with purified water.  It so happens that they can shape-shift and mimic the skin, flesh, and voice of other sentient beings.  It works to their advantage, so long as nobody cuts their flesh.  The trademark, green blood of a naga is a dead giveaway.”

        “Shape-shifting lizards...”  Brucie clicked his incisors together.  “Vould make good party trick, da?”

        “Only you would think that there's anything left in this world worth partying for, Bruce,”  Scootaloo said with a soft sigh.

        He puffed his cigar, exhaled, and smiled through buck teeth.  “Is party whenever pony friend shows up, Brucie thinks.”

        Scootaloo smirked, then suddenly brightened.  “Oh!  On that note.”  She pulled a brown satchel loose from her saddlebags.  “I've got something for you.”

        “Horse brings gifts?”  The squirrel raised an eyebrow above his green goggles.  “Unless pony has big bucket of diamonds and rubies, it vould be better to trade elsewhere.  Brucie has Diamond Dog clients barking up his tail for precious gemstones and market is dry!”

        “Just shut up and be grateful.”  She stuck a tongue out before opening the satchel and exposing several glistening white orbs before the gaping rodent.  “Ta-daaaaaa.  You've been searching for these forever, have you not?”

        Bruce almost dropped the cigar from his lips.  He reached a trembling paw out and grasped one of the immaculate spheres.  “Dis... Dis is Oceanic Snow Pearl.  But... But Brucie thought dey vere all lost vhen culture of seaponies kicked bucket!”

        “Heh... Yeah, well...”  Scootaloo rolled a few of the pearls in her grasp.  “Let's just say that I've done quite a bit of research, and the result is that I got to know the seaponies... mmmnngh... inside and out.  Besides, how I found the pearls is not nearly as important as how frickin’ pristine they are, wouldn’t you say?”

        “Details, details, details,” Bruce spat, then eagerly looked up at her.  “Enough, already!  How much vill dey vound me?”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  “One hundred silver strips each.”

        Bruce froze.  He gazed up at her, his furry face pale.  “Dis is some sort of scam.”

        “Me, Bruce?”  Scootaloo giggled.  “Are you kidding?”

        “Is most certainly joke, friend pony,” he slurred in a breath of suspicion.  “Pearls like dese vould go for four hundred strips each at M.O.D.D.  Vhat does Scootaloo think to accomplish vith such laughable bargaining?”

        “Bruce...”

        “Could dis squirrel merchant suddenly be charity case?!  First you stare down griffons and now you toss pearls before swine—literally!”

        “Brucie...”  She placed a gentle hoof on his shoulder.  A soft smile reflected off his twin lenses.  “Several stromfronts ago, you sold me a pearl, and it made all the difference in the world.  You may not know how much your contributions have meant to me—to all that I've been struggling to do as of late—but I would like to show you.  I would like to give you my thanks.”

        “But... But...”  He bit his incisor into his bottom lip and gazed forlornly at the wealth of pearls just beyond his reach.  “Is not traders' tradition!  Is not Vasteland tradition!”

        “But what if it's pony tradition?”  Scootaloo smiled.  She dropped eight pearls gently into his grasp and grinned.  “Eight hundred strips.  Take it or leave it.”

        Bruce gulped something down his throat.  Whether or not it was something bitter, all of the grime and dust of misery had nevertheless washed away from his furred features.  Reaching into his jacket, he very swiftly dropped the relatively tiny payment into Scootaloo's grasp.  The last pony gently pocketed it away into her saddlebag.

        “There.  Now that wasn't so bad, was it?”  She smirked, performed a whimsical curtsey, and began trotting towards the entrance to the gondola.  “You've been complaining for months that the ogres of the Southern Heights haven't been selling you any of their wares.  Maybe those pearls can finally get you what you want from them, though I doubt it'll be rubies or diamonds.  Still, I'm sure it'll be something just as awesome.”

        “It is funny...”

        Scootaloo paused and glanced back at him.  “Hmmm?”

        He leaned casually against his tail like a fluffy stool, folding his arms across his chest.  “Brucie's day has been one ugly encounter after another.  First, angry monkey merchants nearly run Brucie's airship into a mountain.  Then, bunch of stingy goblins nearly leave Brucie high and dry.  Then there is Golden Gang and angry business over naga.  But pony friend?”  He tilted his head to the side, the green lenses reflecting her pink-mane from afar.  “Pony friend is always ray of sunshine.  Brucie barely remembers sunshine, but Scootaloo is most definitely it.  Da, she is.  Vhat could bring dis to Vasteland so?”

        The last pony grinned.  “I may fly and scavenge in this world just like you do, Bruce.”  She lingered on the next few words, until she defeatedly let them drip from her mouth.  “But that doesn't mean that this is my world.  I can't expect you to understand, or even appreciate what that means, until the day that... that I make this my world again, as it once was, as it should be.”

        He ran a paw across the edges of his fresh bandage and shuddered.  “Bruce vould very much like to live in dat world...”

        “Someday you will,” she said softly.  Turning to the clouds, she took wing, and soared towards the Harmony.  “I promise.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        When Scootaloo landed at the aperture entrance to the Harmony's hangar level, she realized that the loud thunder VTOL engines hadn't drifted away.  She glanced up with a frown to see that the platinum body of the Talon was still hovering above her and Bruce's zeppelins, looming like a giant metal dragon preparing to strike at any moment.

        “What I wouldn't pay to get them to friggin' leave,” she muttered bitterly as she stepped into her craft.

        “What you wouldn't pay indeed,” a chuckling voice said.

        Scootaloo gasped.  In an instant, she bucked, flung the rifle from her saddlebag, and swiftly clasped it in her teeth.  Halfway through extending the copper weapon, she froze, for a feathery figure was already pointing a steam-powered revolver between the pony's eyes.

        “Easy, kiddo...”  Gilda muttered over the hissing gun.  She was aiming the weapon at Scootaloo's skull blindly, not even bothering to look over her shoulder.  Instead, her other front talon was examining a half-carved chunk of moonrock in her grasp.  “You'd think the last pony on earth would be a lot less skittish.  I mean, you know what's comin' to you eventually.  Why freak out at every scary thing that happens?  You know me—I'm hardly life-threatening.  Heheheh...”

        Scootaloo sighed, slowly retracting the rifle and sliding it back into her saddlebag.  “It's not my life that I'm worried about.”

        “Of course it isn't.  No soul in her right mind would experiment with a bunch of ancient lunar hocus pocus without expecting it to blow up in her face.”  She whistled and raised her silver goggles with the barrel of her revolver, getting a better look at the pale rock in her grasp.  “Just what is it that sets these little moon turds off again?  Ahem—'Fuss. Roll. Darn!'  Nope.  Not even a spark.”

        “You... Uh...”  The last pony gulped in the shadow of her feathery “companion.”  “You need a mana battery as a leyline bridge to trigger a runic command.”

        “Mana battery?!  Like what, a wand or something?”  Gilda glanced over with a smirk.  She blinked, glancing at Scootaloo's wings, Scootaloo's hooves, and the utter lack of pointed alicornia in between.  “Oh,” she grunted in a voice that was half as ironic as it was somber.  “Oh, but of course.  Heh.”  She twirled the revolver and pocketed it away in a leather strap surrounding her left rear limb.  “Heeeeeey... Check out the cotton candy flag waving off of your noggin!”  She whistled.  “Tell me, girl, does the rug match the drapes?  Hahahaha—Oh, right, I forgot.  You're a pony; you're nothing but rug.”

        “Gilda, is there...”  Scootaloo shuddered, gritted her teeth, and calmed herself with an inward sigh.  “Is there something I can help you with?”

        “No doubt you ran into Stowe and her merry band of bumbling beak-nicks.”  Gilda sauntered her way across the chemical lab, fumbling over the curious tools and runeforging materials like she owned the hangar bay of the Harmony.  She might as well have.  “I dunno if she pierced her angry equinist veil in time to tell you or not, but we're on the lookout for a naga chick named 'Razzar.'  The Fire Ogres of Lower Mount Ogreton have a bounty on her head so high it'd make my nose bleed.  Heheh... Considering I'm a griffon and I don't have a nose, that's pretty dang high.”

        “What would the Fire Ogres want with a naga?”  Scootaloo made a face.  “Aren't they too busy fighting the Mountain Ogres over the ruins of Trottingham to bother giving out bounties?”

        “Hahahahaha!”  Gilda leaned against a random bulkhead, laughing so hard that her amber eyes teared.  She raised a talon to her feathery face and smirked the pegasus' way.  “Ohhhh do forgive me.  Just... Just the cutesy-wootsy names you ponies gave to the places before the Cataclysm tickle me something fierce.  Ahem.”

        She clawed her way over to Scootaloo, slowly.

        “Yes, I know there's a war going on between the ogres over the Valley of Jewels,” Gilda said.  “The reason behind the bounty is really none of my frickin' business, but if I had to guess, then I'd bet that this one naga mercenary has done something to help the Mountain Ogres' efforts.  The Fire Ogres have lost tens of thousands of their fat-assed brothers-in-arms in the battle for that land, as well as supremacy over Ogreton, so I'm guessing that they took whatever Razzar did for their enemies as a major slap in the face.  Catching that slithering reptile, dead or alive, will mean gonzo strips for the Golden Gang, and a major morale boost for the Fire Ogres' soldiers, yadda yadda yadda.  Whatever—The sooner we catch the stupid salamander, the better for us.”

        “Aren't you afraid of incurring the Mountain Ogres' wrath?”

        “You say that as if me and my girls can't protect ourselves.”  Gilda smirked, suddenly leering over the pony in hulking menace.  “And in speaking of protection...”  Her lion's tail curled tightly through the air as her talons clicked against the bulkhead before Scootaloo's petite hooves.  “It's been twenty-five storm fronts, kiddo.”  Her amber eyes narrowed like tiny, golden fires.  “Twenty... five... storm fronts.  It doesn't take an Equestrian historian to know that counts as nearly a quarter of a year in your outdated horse calender, now does it?”

        “What... Uhm...”  Scootaloo glanced over her shoulder, hearing the lingering thunder of the Talon, imagining the weight of all its incendiary missiles.  The fresh pile of silver strips rattled in her saddlebag, telling her that she was trembling.  “What are you getting at, Gilda?”

        “'What am I getting at'... Hmmm-Heheheh...”

        Gilda marched slowly past Scootaloo.  For a second there, it almost looked as if she was going to exit the Harmony, but then Scootaloo felt a prehensile tail wrapping about her waist.  With a brief cry, she was hoisted into a razor-sharp side hug.  Gilda held Scootaloo close to her, casually caressing the bottom of the pony's grimacing chin with a pair of pointed claws.

        “Do you know what Stowe's problem is?”  Gilda murmured as she “walked” herself and Scootaloo leisurely towards the edge of the hangar bay's entrance.  A rush of cold Wasteland air billowed in from beyond as they stood before the aperture.  A sea of forlorn clouds surged and churned below them as Gilda stood them upon the precipice of the zeppelin's bulkheads.  “She has daddy issues.  Her father was a major member of the Military Academy in Griffon Mount.  Before the Cataclysm happened, and the core of the earth opened and exposed our kingdom to all of the horrible arachnids living beneath our domain, Stowe's father had ascended to the rank of Grand Commander.  He led battles against harpy uprisings along the Southwest Plains.  It was thanks to him—and not to your beloved Celestia of old—that those nasty pirates were blocked from ever invading the pony city of Manehattan.  Well, we all know what became of that, huh?  The Sun and Moon blew up, rock spiders took over Griffon Mount, Stowe's dad got torn to shreds, and the entire Griffon Sovereignty crumbled like a deck of cards.  I don't mean to say it was all a one-sided tragedy, of course.  Manehattan today belongs to the harpies—the parts of it not under water, that is.  And—of course—every other pony but you is dead...”

        “Care to tell me something I don't know?”  Scootaloo grunted.

        Gilda smirked and walked her claws down Scootaloo's side as she held her.  “Stowe thinks that all the crap that happened to her dad—and griffons in general—is the ponies' fault.  Who knows, she may be right.  All that you should be worried about, where Stowe is concerned, is that in spite of all her anger and threats and bloodlust, she doesn't know ponies.  She doesn't know them like I do.  She doesn't know that they're creatures of honor.”  Her claws stopped at the base of Scootaloo's wings and tickled the soft spot beneath the first line of feathers with serrated menace, poking into the mare's flesh emphatically.  “She doesn't know that ponies will become extinct as soon as they give up being creatures of honesty, comraderie, and respect.”  She reached her tail around and tilted Scootaloo's wincing face up to stare uncomfortably close to her beak.  “So tell me, kiddo.  Are ponies extinct yet?”

        Scootaloo sweated, her wings twitching under Gilda's tight hold.  Her scarlet eyes darted away from the griffon's battle-scarred beak, searching the edges of her fitful mind, thinking about Spike, thinking about the green flame, thinking about the warm lands of Equestria and all the stars she had yet to chase down.  The last pony didn't understand what was happening until she was in the thick of it; she realized that she had become a weak creature. 

        What had changed?  This was the same miserable world.  Was she still the same miserable pony?

        She didn't think about the consequences for what happened next, for she realized that there was no preventing it.  Swallowing a lump down her throat for courage, she reached into her saddlebag and produced the pile of silver bits.  Gilda's tail swiped it out of her grasp in a flash.  The pony was dropped—gasping—against the edge of the Harmony's copper aperture.  She panted for breath as Gilda paced away, humming to herself and counting the strips with icy precision... until she froze.

        Scootaloo gazed forlornly, wincing with each bleeding second that ticked towards the inevitable outburst.  It came out of Gilda slowly at first, as a merry chuckle.  The griffon spun about, grinning crookedly, waving the silver strips in her talon.

        “Eight hundred strips.  This here's the equivalent of eight hundred strips, pipsqueak.”  Her voice rang with a sharp, metallic edge, suddenly.  “I do believe I mentioned that it has been twenty-five stormfronts.”  Her amber eyes glinted as she took one talon-step towards Scootaloo, then another.  “If I didn't know better, I'd say somepony has been flying around in the clouds too much.  She's become an airhead.  She's forgotten the value of true protection...”

        “I haven't forgotten anything, Gilda,” the last pony firmly said.  Nevertheless, she scooted back, back from the approaching avian figure, her mane hair billowing like an offensive banner in the cold wind.  She knew that there weren’t even remotely enough bars of silver in the entire zeppelin to appease her “friend.”  She had been so engrossed in the experiment that she had barely scavenged enough things to trade her way towards refueling the Harmony itself.  “I've just been very, very busy lately...”

        “Busy doing what?”  Gilda smirked.  All the while, her talons scraped threateningly against the bulkheads as she towered above the cowering pegasus.  The Golden Gang's thunderous ship hovered high above like a platinum vulture.  The gray clouds seemed darker.  “Chasing butterflies?  Digging up daisies?  Wrapping up winter?  Wake up, sunshine.  This isn't the same colorful world that you used to afford.  There are worse things out there than ogres and nagas.  There are creatures who want you dead even more than Stowe.  Do I need to show you what they have in store for you?”

        “Gilda... You don't need to show me anything.”

        “So you're a know-it-all suddenly?”

        “I know this.”  Scootaloo frowned, gulped, and spoke firmly, “I'm working on something, Gilda.  It's... it's a project.  A major project.”

        “I'm listening...”

        “I can't tell you what it entails, exactly...”

        “Oh ho ho ho ho...”  Gilda clinked the silver bars together and rolled her eyes.  “Ohhhh that's rich.”

        “I'm serious.  It's taking a lot of my money, a lot of my resources and a lot of...”  She winced slightly, but let loose, “And a lot of my time.  But when it's all said and done, I assure you, it will change things—It will change everything.  The very world as you know it won't be the same.  When that moment comes, you and your Golden Gang won't have to chase shape-shifting lizards to get a bite to eat.  You won't have to worry about trolls or harpies or so many other heartless monstrosities.  What's more, I'll be able to pay you back a million times more than I could ever be capable of doing right now.”

        Gilda stared at her long and hard.  She pointed slowly with the silver bars in her hand, slowly and psychotically grinning.  “You...”  She chuckled and shook her head.  “What in the name of all that's holy have you been sniffing, girl?  Heheheh... Ahem.”  She pocketed the silver, knelt down, and viciously gripped Scootaloo's throat with one talon while reaching back for her revolver with another.  “What I think you need...”  She hissed.  “Is some intervention, courtesy of Doctor Gilda.”

        Scootaloo bit her lip.

        Gilda's muscles tightened...

        Just then, a brilliant gust of wind rocked the Harmony slightly.  The ship weaved in the air like it always did on random occasions, only this time something slid loose from beneath one of the hangar bay's runeforging tables.  A metal scooter rolled across the bulkheads and slapped to a stop against the aperture's frame.  Its slender body glinted in the gray twilight drifting down from above.

        Gilda blinked at it, her feathered brow furrowing.  Slowly, a smirk bled across her features.  “Oh you gotta be frickin' kidding me...”  She grinned stupidly at Scootaloo with a breath of disbelief.  “You actually held onto that stupid thing?”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  Her scarlet eyes drifted towards the sea of clouds beneath them both.

        Gilda digested the look, and slowly the smirk melted from beneath her beak as she saw a color in those eyes that she had seen before, but had tried her best to forget over the last two and a half decades.  Slowly, gulping bitterly, she loosened her trembling grip of the pegasus and stood up like an aching fossil of yesteryear.  With a deep sigh, she slid her silver goggles back down before her face could register any true emotion.

        “You... You have her spunk, kiddo.”  Gilda pivoted about and walked to the edge of the ledge.  “Maybe not her spine, but definitely her spunk.”

        Scootaloo rubbed her throat with a hoof and hoarsely replied, “Is that a compliment?”

        “Call it what you want.”  Gilda grunted.  “But next time I see you, I expect more strips.  Be a clever pony and learn to frickin' deliver.”  She slapped a talon over a communicator on her shoulder.  “Grif!  Rev up the engines!  We're taking off!”

        “Scrkkk!  Aye, Gilda.”

        “Get your head back in the game, kid,” Gilda murmured.  “The Wasteland takes no prisoners.  So stop acting like you're in a friggin' cage and fly like you used to.” She soared up towards the Talon and disappeared through a metal door that closed behind her.  With a roar of its engines, the platinum mercenary vessel throttled off, leaving Scootaloo alone with the chilling winds.

        The mare sighed, running a hoof through her long pink mane, something she didn't need to grow out... and yet she did, as if she was proudly displaying the whimsical highlight of a dream that was too fanciful to have been true.  She glanced aside at a wheeled relic of the past, not one born unto green flames of reverse-time, but sweat and tears and victory in the face of perpetual heartache.

        Her reflection glinted off the curved body of the metallic scooter, and in a squinting glance the pony's brown skin almost appeared orange.




        The two moonrock gravestones were dull and dead: a pair of monochromatic memorials for a couple of colorful souls.  With a lasting grunt, Scootaloo gripped her brown hooves over a hammer and pelted the rightmost obelisk into the earth.  Several hours after running into Gilda, Scootaloo stepped back in the center of Ponyville, gazing at the twin graves she had just planted before the collapsed shell of a crumbled novelty shop.  The first flakes of snow fell onto both mounds of soft earth, glinting in the twilight like froth off of a warm beach surf that was lost forever to time.

        The last pony raised her goggles, exposing a pair of soft, sleepy scarlets to the twin stones before her.  In a somber breath, she dropped her tools and then reached into her saddlebag for a canteen.  Unscrewing the flask, she raised it lonesomely before the graves.

        "Here's to making the impossible happen,” Scootaloo slurred.  “A honeymoon that never ends.”

        Under a cold breeze, she took a mighty swig from the canteen of reclaimed water.  She gulped, exhaled, and gazed softly beyond the ruins of the village around her.

        “It is ever a labor of love...”

        Her nostrils flared.  Her eyes took in the ruined shells of houses like so many stars under a freezing, forested night.  Then, with a shuffle of her hooves, she turned around and strolled liquidly towards the bony shape of a charred treehouse library...




        “So?”

        “So what, Spike?”

        He leaned down under a rotating array of brass planetoids and smirked whelpishly at her.  “Did you read what I gave you?”

        “Oh, jee, Spike...”  She hissed through wincing teeth as she stood precariously atop a wooden stool, pasting several large sheets of constellations onto the cavern's wall of stars, one at a time, slowly completing the illustration of the Equestrian night sky.  “I barely had any time!  What: with piloting the Harmony towards the Southeast Reaches and all.  I had to spot from a high altitude the sight of post-Cataclysm Dream Valley before I could even think of finding the ruins of the hotel where Lyra, Bon Bon, and I stayed.  Do you know how hard that is, even for a time traveler?”

        “But...”  His emerald eyeslits blinked quizzically.  “You most certainly utilized your vessel's autopilot for a good part of that lengthy venture, did you not?  I'm quite familiar with the Southeast Reaches of the Wasteland.  Even in the midst of a stormfront, the skies there are rather tranquil, if I may say so myself.”

        “Alright—Alright!”  Scootaloo groaned.  She stifled an exhausted giggle as she slapped up sheet after sheet of illustrated stars.  “I read the snippet of your memoirs that you gave me.  There, you happy?”

        “Most deliciously felicitous!”  The fuming dragon grinned wide.  “Tell me, did you think my prose was too pretentious in addressing the nature of chronological immutability?  Should I leave out the little anecdote about my futile attempt to hide the stash of gemstones from my past doppelganger in the hollow of the Canterlotlian Mountains?  I feel that if I keep my writing indicative of neo-classical literary motifs, I could provide a reading experience that is as equally poetic as it is enlightening.”

        “You... certainly... are... ermmm—poetic, and stuff.”

        He squinted.  “'Stuff?'”

        “Exactly where in the memoirs did you... uh... write that anecdote again?”

        “I do believe it clearly begins at the third paragraph of page one hundred and twenty-one.”

        “Nnnnghhh... Yeah...”  Scootaloo exhaled.

        “Is there something amiss, old friend?”  He ran a clawed hand of purple across his green spines, slicking them back in the twinkling manalight of the laboratory.  “I thought you said that you read my memoirs.”

        “And I did, Spike!  I did!”

        “And you do not remember the anecdote about the gemstones or—?”

        “Okay, so... So I skimmed over a few parts, alright, Spike?”  She gulped nervously and gazed over her pink mane at the towering dragon.  “But—Can you really blame me?  I mean, leaping Luna, do you ever hear yourself talk sometime?”

        “What, pray speak, makes listening to my oration such a detrimental experience?”

        “Exactly!”  Scootaloo pointed a hoof, lost her balanced, and flailed with a girlish yelp.  Spike tapped her ribcage with the thick of his tail.  She regained her hooves, exhaled with relief, and gave him a thankful nod.  “It's just that... well... you're so friggin' dense, Spike.”  She bit her lip awkwardly as she slapped more stars across the wall.  “Your words, that is.  Not your head, of course.”

        “So I gathered.”

        “Reading so much as a paragraph of your stuff feels like running a gauntlet of harpies.  Only, instead of trying to claw my eyes out, the pirates are smacking my skull with dictionaries, and not the marshmallowy kind.”

        “Three hundred years of cyclical existence within a domain defined solely by my own introspection has produced a vernacular that is just as complicated as the draconian mind that has come to produce it.”

        “And I get that, Spike!  I've been known to get rather stuffy in my journal entries as well, but that's because I've only ever written for myself!  If I had the ability to leave something for ponykind, I'd have arranged my words a lot differently, so that they were far more digestible.  One thing I've learned from the tomes of Equestria is that history's best writers weaved their words with their audience in mind.”

        “Hmmm... A very wise sentiment.”  Spike nodded, his violet pendant dangling around his neck.  “Though, I do regret that reality puts me in a rather pathetic bind.  I'm sure you can relate, child.”

        “Who knows, Spike?”  Scootaloo briefly muttered as she plastered up the last of the white sheets.  “Maybe someday, a thousand or a million years from now, a new race of sentient creatures will be blessed with Gultophine's spirit, and they'll have your written memoirs to inform them of what was done here to give them their Sun and Moon.  But if you keep writing as thickly as you have, I fear such creatures will only take a brief look at your scrolls before belching 'Too long, didn't read' and resume slamming rocks against each other's heads.”

        “I suppose it would only be redundant to proclaim,” the draconian elder said with an iron grin, “that the last dragon and the last pony are the best authors of their time, in that they're the only authors of their time.”

        “That's the way to keep your purple chin up, Spike.  Worship yourself, and eventually—by osmosis—the world will worship you too.”

        “Do you sincerely believe that?”

        “Does it matter?”  She stepped down from the stool and let loose a sharp breath, smiling proudly at the elaborate constellation that brightly stretched before the two of them across the granite skin of the library basement.  “Behold, Spike, I give you Epona's Exodus, in all of its glittering glory.”

        “Two-dimensionally speaking, of course,” he murmured with a snort of green fumes.

        “Pfft!  What's that supposed to mean?”  She smirked at him over her shoulder.  Settling down on folded hooves, she gazed once more at the elaborate assortment of starry dots and nebulous strings in her own hoofwork.  “This, right here, is a frozen snapshot in time, a look at a night sky that is forever lost to us.  But you and me, Spike?  We pulled it up to the surface from beyond the Cataclysm.  We scavenged this beauty, and now it's close to giving us answers to what we seek.”

        “About your elusive 'Onyx Eclipse', no doubt.”  Spike nodded, then did a double-take.  “Wait, what do you mean by 'close to giving us answers?'”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared slightly.  She raised a forelimb out from underneath her brown body and pointed up at an off-center gap in the stars.  “You see that spot right there?  I first started sketching that part of the sky from atop Braeburn's stables—”

        “Was that before or after Applejack's cousin summoned the courage to ask you out for dinner?”

        “Yeah, shut up.  Like I said—I sketched it in Appleloosa, because I couldn't see that part of the sky from Pinkie Pie's house in Dredgemane.  However, there was the smoke from the Appleloosan bakeries constantly blocking the way.  Those crazy tree buckers could never stop making pies for one measly second, even if Elektra herself was to come back to earth and slap them for their ridiculous obsession.  Anyways, I always thought I would eventually get around to illustrating that part of the sky.  I even had a chance in Stalliongrad when Dr. Whooves and I were held captive in the State Military Bunker.  But—well, y'know—my Stalliongrad experience was nothing but galloping around like an idiot and trying to keep that silly professor alive.”

        “Are you eventually getting to a point, old friend?  I'm beginning to re-assess your opinion of the density of my memoirs.”

        “The point is this, Spike.”  She glared at him with a smirk.  “I still have a piece of the sky left untouched.  It's close enough to the center of the diagram, and that's where I think I'm finding the most evidence of the Onyx Eclipse.  See how bunched up the constellations are there?  It's so unnatural!  The stars appear to be bending around a fixed location, as if something is exhibiting enough gravity to affect the rest of the celestial matter hanging above our planet.  However, so long as that one piece of the sky isn't mapped, I can't pretend to know how the stars are operating around that part of the cosmos.  There could be a huge slew of clustered specks that I haven't taken into account.  If that was the case, then it might upend my entire theory altogether!  Who's to know?!  I need to find out what's missing there.  I need to cover up for my stupid mistakes.”

        “What, pray tell, is your plan to go about doing this, child?”

        “Well...”  Scootaloo shifted on her folded hooves, exhaling softly.  “I did the smart thing by picking anchors who were traveling abroad just before the Cataclysm hit.  When Pinkie Pie brought me to Dredgemane, I was incredibly miffed at first, but it turned out that dropping in on such a far-off corner of the Equestrian continent was the best thing that could have happened to me.  Visiting Braeburn, Dr. Whooves, Lyra, and Bon Bon gave me an opportunity to map out the stars from completely different locations, so I wasn't just observing from one subjective spot.  However, as awesome as all of that audacious starcharting has been, I think I should perform one last rudimentary check.”

        “Oh?”

        “In Ponyville,” Scootaloo said, gazing up at Spike with a soft smile.  “I mean—Why not?  It's what I wanted to do with Pinkie Pie to begin with, right?  Besides, observing the stars from a spot so close to Canterlot seems like an appropriate way to finish this whole thing, then I can have a succinct map to trace the Onyx Eclipse with.”

        “Dear friend, if I may interject—”

        Scootaloo was too busy with her excitement to register his interruption.  “So, I think anchoring myself to a far more homely companion of yours is in order.  How about Mrs. Cake or Mr. Cake?  You knew them well enough to have a dragon tooth enchanted with their soul selves, right?  Or what about that one earth pony farmer who was always working gardens next to the Ponyville Produce Market?  What was her name...?  'Brusselsprout?'  'Lil Pit?'”

        “'Carrot Top,'”  Spike answered.  In a deep breath, he flexed his iron-thick muscles and murmured, “Scootaloo, as much as I respect the scientific diligence that honorably paints your current zeal, I do not think that you are making any true progress by retracing your chronological hoofsteps.  I can very easily point you to Carrot Top's remains, or to Mrs. Cake's, or to any of several other Ponyvillean mainstays.  But even if I could send you to their souls across reverse-time, I'm afraid that such a trip is going to have to wait for another two days... possibly three...”

        “Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked.  With a crooked grin, she regarded her draconian companion incredulously.  “For the love of oats, Spike!  It's been a good friggin' two weeks in your time since you belched me to Bon Bon and Lyra's beachside honeymoon.  I know you; you could have filled a good three runic jars with your fiery breath by now.  What's the matter?  Cat got your flame?”

        “Hardly the case, my jocular little pony.”  He suddenly stood up.  On thundering limbs, Spike shuffled over to the far side of the lab and gestured towards a series of bubbling chemicals atop a granite table.  “As soon as you left for Dream Valley, I started a little experiment I had always dreamt about, but never could have scientifically applied, seeing as I didn't have a flesh and blood pony like you over the centuries to utilize her equine essence.”

        “I'm a little lost, but I'm listening.”

        “The truth is, old friend, that not all of my baby's dragon teeth were enchanted with the souls of my companions.  A few of them I kept as spares, in the possibility that I might be able to use them as ingredients in a different and far more audacious endeavor.”  He picked up a large crystalline vial of bubbling liquid and swirled it between clasping claws.  “As you can understand, I have very few teeth left to spare, so this is an exercise that I can only do three, maybe four times.”

        “Just what is that stuff anyways?”  Scootaloo asked, squinting from afar.

        “An elixir that I have made,” Spike explained.  “It was concocted by grinding up the spare dragon teeth and incorporating the powder into a potion that I swiftly consumed.  If my alchemic skills prove to be as expert as I spent the last several centuries training them to be, then the enchanted quaff will have filtered directly to the flame glands in my throat, where I regularly stoke the green plumes of magic that make reverse-time possible.  As you can probably imagine, I have been spending the better part of two weeks incubating the next breath, only this time buffered by the experimental quaff that I have thoroughly ingested.”

        “To what end?” the last pony murmured with brief trepidation.  “What's so different about your next breath of green flame that you've been saving up for?”

        “Well, old friend, if my hypothesis is correct, the green flame will bind you far stronger to your anchor than ever before.”  He placed the glass vial down and slowly marched towards her, his scaled features calm and collected as he stared at the pegasus.  “Instead of having only forty meters of room to distance yourself from your anchor, this time and this time only you will have something along the lines of one hundred and forty.”

        “Heh... Yowsers...”  The pegasus smirked, her wings flexing at the sound of that.  “Boy would that have come in handy around Pinkie Pie, or better yet in Stalliongrad when that infernal parade of tanks separated me and Dr. Whooves for a few frightening minutes.”

        “As you can imagine, this next breath—which will be ready in two days' time, I imagine—shall be a concoction you will not want to use frivolously.  I do not think your next venture should be wasted, however good-naturedly, on one of our Ponyvillean companions.”

        “Well, I have to get this night sky finished completely one way or another!”  Scootaloo exclaimed, pointing at the one lonesome splotch of barren white sheet.  “How else am I going to get a firm hoof-hold on the Onyx Eclipse to present the matter to Princess Celestia?”

        “Hmmm... Yes, about that, old friend...”

        “Ah jeez, Spike,” Scootaloo moaned and facehoofed.  “Not again with the lecture...”

        “Do not be so quick to assume the worst, child.  I have long learned to not only accept your theory concerning this cosmic phenomenon; I have learned to embrace it.  However, I reiterate the fact that retracing your hooftrots should not be the next endeavor.  You've spent four completely different time jumps essentially doing the same thing, and though they were noble in having used varied and distant spots of Equestria for observation, I cannot help but feel that you have only afforded yourself a safe refuge from the inevitable task that hangs over the two of us next.”

        “Just what are you getting at, Spike?  How can I map the stars any better than I already have been?”

        “You've constructed for yourself a lovely starchart, Scootaloo.  However, it is most definitely a two-dimensional facade of what we obviously seek to understand.  Even with Entropan eyes, you can only map so much from the naked surface of this once-warm world.  What you need is a sight that is beyond your own, that is beyond my own, that exceeds all of the devices of observation that have blessed the legacy of Equestria long before it was ever constructed.”

        “Erm...”  Scootaloo gulped and leaned her head curiously to the side.  “What sight is it that you speak of?”

        “Tell me, oh learned scavenger: in the many books that you have dredged and read, have you ever educated yourself on the Observatory of Nebula?”

        “Well, the name is certainly familiar,” Scootaloo said with a chuckle.  “If I'm not mistaken, it was the largest telescope ever built after the death of Starswirl the Bearded.  You gotta understand, Spike, I'm an expert on history.  Astronomy is still a new thing for me.  Aside from that one 'magic camp' fiasco that Sweetie Belle once dragged me to before the Cataclysm, I barely had any chance to learn about the nature of Equestrian star charting.  All of this map-making of mine has been a clumsy experiment of errors at best, but I'll do anything to narrow down all of this 'Onyx Eclipse' crap that I first heard from Dinky.”

        “Truly, old friend?”  Spike leaned his head to the side.  “You would do anything?”

        “I do believe I just said that, Spike.”

        “Because if you were to go back in time and utilize the Observatory of Nebula, you would see far deeper into the starry cosmos of Epona's Exodus than ever you have before.  Since you already know where to look, I might even venture to say that you would spot the Onyx Eclipse for your own mortal eyes, assuming there is anything to visualize whatsoever.”

        “Yeah, alright.”  The last pony nodded with a soft grin.  “Sounds like a good idea, actually.  A darn good idea!  So... like... who would I anchor to in order to do that?  Was this big, hunking telescope located in Canterlot or something?”

        “No, dear friend,” Spike gravely shook his head, and in a soft breath uttered, “It was in Cloudsdale.”

        Scootaloo was silent.  Her brown ears wilted like a melting crown, and she let her deadpan gaze fall to the immaculate stone floor of the laboratory.

        “It was constructed out of sky marble and positioned atop the highest reaches of the airborne pegasi maretropolis.  The only thing that exceeded the observatory's altitude was the tall, windy, and unnavigable cliffs of Griffon Mount.  From such a heavenly position as Cloudsdale, the Observatory of Nebula afforded Equestrian astronomers a lofty, pristine look at the cosmos, unblemished by the natural clouds of the troposphere.  What they saw, they recorded and sent via winged messengers to the smartest and most gifted scientists in Canterlot, who took it upon themselves to make beautiful, detailed star charts in time for the next census every two decades.  Obviously, they couldn't fill out such a chart in time for the coming Cataclysm, but you can, old friend.  You know what it is that you are looking for, and if you go to the right time and place, you will have an opportunity to capture it, once and for all.  Then and only then will you be able to construct a case to finally present to the appropriate souls of the past, and hopefully find answers to what leeched the magic from this great, glorious world.”

        “Just what do you expect me to do?”  The last pony mumbled.  “Go back to Fluttershy, interrupt her in the middle of caring for that motherless Capricorn, and somehow convince her to take 'Harmony' on a tour through Cloudsdale?”

        “My good friend...”  Spike smiled gently and knelt down beside her.  “You and I both know that we are not talking about Fluttershy.”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She gazed down at a pair of brown hooves, the same limbs that once scratched at the black bars of an arcane vault, in a time when her coat was orange and her tears were fresh.

        “After all, you could never get Fluttershy to leave her cottage, to part from her precious creatures, to abandon her post as Ponyville's chief animal tamer.”  He managed a deep, bass chuckle.  “And you most certainly wouldn't need one hundred meters—much less five—to maintain such a gentle-spirited pegasus as your anchor.”  He shook his head.  “No, my friend.  In the grand history of the Third Age, Equestria only ever had one soul, one pony, one brash and agile lightning bolt of a spirit who could be in twenty places at once, who could fly from Manehattan to Dream Valley in a day, who could do so many courageous and dashing things that she never grasped how innately she outshone the very same royal fliers that she ever so faithfully idolized.  You know her, Scootaloo, I daresay more than you've been allowed to know yourself.  She was a hero and a villain all rolled up into one devilish smirk.  She only ever awed me during the days I spent living in Ponyville, and I know that she can and will take you to the heights that you need to go, if not for the Onyx Eclipse, then for yourself.”

        “I wish you'd friggin' stop talking about 'myself.'”  She grunted sourly.  “This whole dang experiment of ours is about Equestria, isn't it?  Stop pretending like you know me, Spike, or that what I feel actually matters in the long run...”

        “Doesn't it, though?”  Spike gently reached a hand out and tilted the mare's face up to meet his gaze.  “You are the last pony, Scootaloo.  In a world full of monsters and suffering, you are the last living thing equipped to feel pain from it all.  When history has run its course, and a new sun and moon hover over the scars of the past, this planet may forget that there ever was a Cataclysm.  If that's the case, then we will have accomplished our task most righteously.  But what an injustice it will be when you are forgotten, child.  Make no mistake.  Eternity is a long time, and both you and I will be forgotten.  We have it within ourselves to make amends with a legacy that dies with us.”

        “I'm only doing all of this to fix what the Cataclysm has done to the landscape, Spike,” Scootaloo said, though it was in a disgruntled murmur.

        “What about your own life, Scootaloo?”  He gazed deeply into her with warm eyeslits.  “Has it not been a cataclysm from the very beginning?”

        The mare opened her lips to speak, but hesitated.  She clenched her mouth shut and looked away from him, fighting a sudden bout of trembles.

        Spike gently let his clawed fingers stroke down her mane before softly embracing her shoulders.  “Do you remember what I told you months ago, when we reunited in Sugarcube Corner, dear friend?”

        The last pony shuddered.  “K-Kinda...”  Her voice was struggling to keep its pitch.

        “I told you that you needed to stop running.  You were a brave spirit to have endured all of those years spent alone in the Wasteland, Scootaloo, but you were also a floundering spirit.  You fled from so many horrors and monstrosities because you had to; it was your only strategy for survival.  Then, when I presented to you the nature of this experiment, you very boldly agreed to become the avatar of Princess Entropa.  Though I'm proud to have provided you a new opportunity to employ your amazing talents, I regret that I have only given you another avenue through which to continue running, only this time you have aimed your flight down tunnels of green flame instead of oceans of gray cloudbanks.”

        “What are you g-getting at, Spike?”

        “You are such a selfless and sacrificial spirit.  So many other ponies I've had the pleasure of knowing wouldn't have been able to confront the old phantoms of the past like you so fearlessly have.  In spite of all of your bravery, you need to face the fact that there is something just as important as the Cataclysm that needs to be resolved.  There will only be one end of ponies, Scootaloo.  It would be a shame for that end to be a bitter one.”

        “It is a bitter one, Spike.”  The girl breathily shuddered.  “Nothing can change that.”

        “A life that begins bitterly only naturally believes so.  Don't pretend that you can't afford to stay still for once and realize that you need this, Scootaloo.  You need this, and you need to see to it now or else Epona help you ensnare the Onyx Eclipse with any fervor whatsoever, for all of the peace in your life will have been snuffed out long before you could ever postulate restoring that same tranquility to a world that has been fractured almost as much as your own, precious existence.”

        Spike reached his free hand over to a counter where the scavenger's saddlebag rested.  He dipped his claws into it and pulled loose a dragon tooth hanging from a blue string.  Gently, he held it directly before the last pony.

        “You need to stop running from her, Scootaloo.  As your friend, I implore you, for your sake... for the sake of the last decent soul of ponydom, find her.  Find her and fill up the final gaps of the cosmos while you fill up the holes in your soul as well.”

        Scootaloo's scarlet eyes glistened.  She held the stringed bone matter in her grasp.  She felt every centimeter of her soul being flung forward in invisible winds of speed and adrenaline, like she was falling into a great and deep pit.  The mare nevertheless sat still like a stone mountain and muttered, “I do not need the tooth, Spike.”

        The draconian elder tilted his head aside.  “No?”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  She tilted her face up to stare past him.  “I know where Rainbow Dash is.”





        “Hello?!  Anypony there?!”

        A bruised and bleeding filly limped through the labyrinthine inner ruins of sunken Cloudsdale.  A fine mist from several distant waterfalls billowed through the already freezing depths of the place, chilling Scootaloo to her starving core as she strolled through crumbled burrows of sky marble and a forest of collapsed ivory pillars.  Nothing was alive.  Nowhere was a single speck of color.  Shattered granite and rock hung above her, breaking the twilight of the moon-burning Wasteland so that glowing bands scattered like harpstrings across the dusty, claustrophobic air.

        “If anypony can hear me, I-I need help!”  Scootaloo coughed, sputtered, and struggled her way forward through the three dimensional maze of carnage.  “I'm stuck down here!  I c-can't fly my way back up!  Please, somepony!  Just say something!  I need to see you!  I need to f-find you!”

        Her echoing voice was drowned out by the roar of falling water and the distant thunder of falling moon rocks.  After struggling to climb over a tall mound of black and white rubble, Scootaloo tripped over herself and slid clumsily down a steep incline of pale pebbles.  She slumped to a painful stop on a white plateau jutting over a gaping abyss in the center of the inner ruins.  A black chasm lingered beyond the white dust and ashes falling from the distant surface of the Wasteland high above.  Every pained breath Scootaloo let loose in this place was like a tiny clapping sound at the bottom of a steep sepulcher.

        “Mmmmff... Ughh...” The filly winced as she rubbed a fresh bruise on her shoulder.  Braving so much pain as she had done before, the lonely orphan took a deep breath and bellowed towards the shattered, monochromatic ceiling above.  “Hello?!”  For a brief second, it sounded as if a ring of pegasi was immediately replying, but they all carried the desperate pony's unmistakable pitch.  “Will somepony please answer me?!”  More noise, no solace.  “I c-can help you too!  We can get through all of th-this together!”

        Her panting breaths only grew more and more painful.  Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned her battered saddlebag of belongings, and it only pained her heart to realize that it was forever unobtainable.  Grunting, Scootaloo hobbled back up to her tiny hooves.  She pivoted to face the black chasm beyond.  In desperation, she began scanning the shattered scenery for a possible outcropping that might give her enough room to bravely leap to the other side of the expanse.  In the middle of that thought, she froze.

        Scootaloo's wings twitched axniously.  They were twitching because something had flickered before her eyes.  Breathless and wordless, Scootaloo had spotted color.

        She had spotted color, and it broke the grayness of the crumpled ruins like a torch in the middle of a blackened sarcophagus.  Craning her neck, Scootaloo saw it lying beside the edge of a black chasm, illuminated by a round halo of twilight that was shining down from the sundered world above.  She saw it, and her heart skipped at the realization that it was not one color, but many.  She counted four shades... five... then six, and all of them in a heavenly sequence that filled her lungs with a furious and felicitous fire.

        “Rainbow Dash!”  Scootaloo squealed.  The only thing twitching more than her wings were her hooves, scampering her tiny body desperately down an embankment of shattered sky marble, thrusting her forward by the sheer brilliance of a teeth-glinting smile.  She slid once, she almost fell on her face.  She didn't care.  She ran.  She fluttered towards the halo of light.  “Rainbow!  Omigosh omigosh omigosh!  It's you!  You have no idea how glad I am to see... you...”

        The scraping of her hooves was a noisy thing as she came to a cold stop.  She fell silent upon the precipice of a heaving breath, blinking hard as her smile reached a boiling point, but suddenly froze at the peak there.

        “R-Rainbow Dash?”

        It was in a slow, liquid fashion that her smile faded, like the binding to a brightly paged book being closed slowly, confusedly, as she furrowed her brow in a sudden and numbing perplexity.

        “Rainbow Dash, why are you lying like...?”

        Scootaloo gulped.  Scootaloo gazed, her eyes darting left and right.  The colors ended as soon as they began.  Beyond them, there was too much dust, too much obscurity to make sense.

        “D... D... D-Dashie...?”  the filly murmured, her lips quivering, her eyes flitting sideways until they could barely stay open.  She summoned an auxiliary strength by frowning, creasing her bloodstained brow angrily.  “Th-This isn't funny, Dash.  It's me, Scootaloo.  I need... I-I...”

        A chilling gust blew through Scootaloo as she stared ahead.  Colors that shouldn't have been torn apart separated, along with a flurry of blue feathers, and all of them taking separate paths into the black chasm below.

        Scootaloo saw them, and yet she didn't.  The world around her now was shaking, blurring, buckling as she knelt down and whimpered, “Come on, Dashie, g-get up.”  She bravely nuzzled the colors, only to have them spread from her touch.  She gasped desperately into the powdery mess, barely carrying her words on threadbare strings, “Get up.  You're stronger than this.  You can't... y-you can't... be...”

        She lowered a trembling hoof in front her, and the last of the colors covered her limb, spreading almost as quickly as she was losing the parts of herself, sobbing, falling, clutching the spectrum before her and watching with increasing hyperventilation as she was being blanketed with the residue of the past, the sounds of her voice, and the shine in her eyes, like so much worthless dirt across an abandoned horseshoe.

        Scootaloo sobbed into it, sobbed into her, bathed in her, kept afloat by foalish sobs, sobs that morphed fitfully into bellicose wails that baptized the basement of the dead world.  Each time she closed her eyes, she saw her soaring through the air.  Each time she opened her eyes, she saw her coating her limbs.  There were many tears, and yet not enough tears to wash it all away.  She never wanted to wash all of her away.  She howled names that belonged to her, but now belonged to nothing, as the last remaining colors that covered a brittle and lifeless core flew above the halo of twilight, casting a curtain over the sanctity of the moment, the birth of the last pony unto the ashes of the rainbow.





> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - HHH Edition pt 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Six – All the Colors Died With Her





        Scootaloo was six years old, or perhaps she was seven.  She didn't know how many winters she had been alive; she didn't even know when her foalday was.  All she knew was that she was hungry and there wasn't a single thing she could do about it.

        She limped, one numb hoof trotting after another, into the shadowed alcove of a dilapidated barn.  The structure was surrounded by a forest west of the fringes of Ponyville.  The place was lonely, peaceful, and unassuming: everything that the young orphan had wanted... to hide the fact that she was an orphan.  Nopony strolled by that part of the wilderness.  Nopony came within hearing distance of her fitful attempts to sleep at night, nor her daily struggles with repairing her ramshackle living conditions.  She was happy for the seclusion, except for when she was assailed with pitiful moments like this when her hunger and desperation overwhelmed the enthusiasm that had brought her here to begin with.

        All on her lonesome—with only her wits and a bag full of random tools at the young foal's disposal—Scootaloo had done the impossible.  She ran away from her foster home in Manehattan and performed an insane, eastward trek across the great valley of Equestria.  The voyage was daunting, taking the greater part of four weeks to accomplish.  Scootaloo snuck rides on train cars, hid in the undercarriages of delivery wagons, and navigated forests along the fringes of small towns.  She had endured every hardship with tenacity that she imagined would have made her parents proud.  Her odyssey was an unstoppable thing, fueled by an enthusiastic high of manifest destiny that spoke of great promises once she returned to the village that she knew her parents had raised her in.

        When she arrived in Ponyville, all of those promises crashed and burned.  She had anticipated a lifestyle where hard work and enthusiasm could earn her bits to make a living off of, much like how her parents—through diligence and perserverence—had provided so wonderfully for her foalhood.  Scootaloo soon found that she lacked one thing her parents had possessed: an abundance of years under their wings.

        When Scootaloo heard her own voice—when she saw her reflection or witnessed the bright, pastel hues of her own coat—she did not see a child.  She merely saw a vessel, an equine shell that carried the same pride and strength that energized her parents.  She did not see the tiny, petite, underaged pegasus that so many store owners and laborers in Ponyville rightly turned away when she offered her talents as a workhoof.  For the life of her, she couldn't comprehend the turn of events that she was now being vexed with, a rather realistic series of circumstances that she never anticipated.

        She was in Ponyville, but she was still the same childish soul that urged so many child service ponies to pity her, to take her away from the one town she loved and her parents gave their lives for.  Manehattan ponies had shoved her into home after home in an audacious attempt to force her to accept an alien pair of pegasi as her new guardians.  For two years in the urbanity of western Equestria, Scootaloo had been bounced from house to house at least a dozen times, each occasion far more catastrophic than the previous.  She had been reprimanded several times, called a troublemaker, even a “demon child.”

        How could they understand?  She only had two parents, and as long as they were lying in the earth—the same earth whose infernal mine consumed them—she would never, ever deign to accepting a pair of banal, phantom replacements.  She couldn't convince the social workers of this truth that gnawed at her heart.  She didn't even try.  When the first opportunity presented itself, she burst her way out of her latest prison in Manehattan—like a falcon shattering its way boldly and righteously from an egg—and made a bee-line for Ponyville, where her hopes were lying—just like her parents.

        As her stomach growled, the pit inside growing ever deeper, she realized that she was on the verge of joining her parents, only not in the way that she had anticipated.  Scootaloo was more than accustomed to hardships in life.  However, one thing that she hadn't prepared herself for was failure.  With each rejection that the Ponyvillean residents gave her eager self, she felt more and more shameful, until the guilt practically overwhelmed the pain of her gnawing hunger.

        At that very moment, Scootaloo was crippled by the combination of both.  She ultimately collapsed in the center of the barn, just a meter short of a ladder she had planned on climbing to the second-story loft of the place, where she knew several blankets, a suitcase of personal things, and a photo of her parents waited to comfor her miserable, exhausted figure.

        She wondered how she could have been so foolish to have anticipated the world paying her the same respect she channeled into herself.  If only she was larger, older, disguised by the stretching skin of years, she could have made some progress in Ponyville.  A part of her wanted to curse time, her unwitting nemesis, for not allowing her the grace to do what her parents did: to become a pony who earned what she strove for, to get somewhere in life not by the gifts of other ponies’ pity but by the fruit of her own perserverance.

        Right now, she couldn't think of diligence.  She couldn't think of her Manehattan past or her Ponyvillean future.  In a breath of horror, she couldn't even think of her parents.  All Scootaloo knew was hunger, and it frightened the tiny, trembling animal inside her, so that she stared down at the dirty floor beneath the barn, saw a few blades of tattered glass, and drifted her lips mindlessly towards them.  As soon as her tongue flicked the edge of the banal vegetation, she immediately jerked away—reacquiring sickening sentience.

        She had crossed the great Equestrian Valley on her bare hooves, and yet she had sunken to a level lower than a common beast.  She didn't even realize she was so close to crying until her face scrunched up and blurred her vision.  Scootaloo burrowed her head into her hooves and shuddered.  The first of several whimpers was about to pierce their way up from her lungs, and she didn't know how to stop them.  It felt like a fate worse than death, and she lingered on the crest of her last conscious breath of pride.

        It was then, and no sooner, that out from the great bolting blue there came a rasping shriek, followed by a rush of billowing air.

        “H-Huh?”  The helpless pegasus glanced up through a hole in the roof, only to see a bright speck of random colors suddenly hurtling towards her like a missile.  Any urge to sob was instantly dashed by a violent need to shriek, “Holy crap!”  Scootaloo flung herself to the floor with violently twitching wings.

        “Yaaaaaaugh!”  The hulking body of a sapphire-blue pony bore a hole through the barn’s roof, ricocheted off the loft, and smashed through a rustic crossbeam in the center of the place.  “Augh!  Ooof!”  She landed in a thud, spilling hay and sawdust through the claustrophobic air of the Ponyvillean afternoon.  “Hoboy...”

        Panting, Scootaloo shot up from beneath a bed of straws.  Her eyes widened at the tumbling splinters and wreckage of her once pristine hovel.  “What... Wh-What...?”  She sputtered, stumbled up to her hooves, and barked, “My barn!  What the heck did you do to my—”  The orphan winced in mid-speech, her violet eyes twitching.  “Erm... What I mean was—Ahem—You just totally smashed up this stupid, ugly barn!  Are you insane?!”

        “Nnngh... Not insane... Just dizzy...” The offending pegasus sat up, wincing, rubbing her hoof through a tattered mane of red to green to violet.  “Whew... Eheheh... Guess I'm not exactly ready yet to pull off the buccaneer blitz solo...”

        “Look... L-L-Look at the hole you made!”  Scootaloo squeaked, staring bug-eyed at the offending chunk overhead, brimming with sunlight.  “You could have brought this whole place down, you crazy psycho!”

        “Pfft!  If you love this stupid barn so much, why don't you marry it?!”  The adult pony raspberried and shook the last of several haystalks loose from her skull.  “What were you doing here anyways?  Counting ticks in the hay?”

        “Nnngh-No!”  Scootaloo frowned.  After a blink, she realized that she was scratching her neck.  She flung her hoof down in a furious show of anger.  “Still, who are you to talk?!  I was minding my own business when you suddenly—”

        “Who am I?!”  The pony gasped in disbelief, flinging a pair of ruby eyes in the foal's direction.  “You mean you haven't heard of me?!”

        “Why?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Should I have?”

        “I'll say!”  The pony performed a devil-may-care smirk.  In a gust of wind, she twirled up from the pile of wooden debris and hovered high above the barn's loft, her mane and tail hairs whipping in the breeze like living spectral flame.  “The name's Rainbow Dash!  And I'm only the awesomest, coolest, most talented flier in all of Ponyville!”  She smiled wide, her teeth glinting.

        Scootaloo gazed up at her, silent, blank, and dumbstruck—at least until she stuck her tongue out.  “Pffft!  Yeah right!”  The filly smirked venomously, scoffing, “More like 'Rainbow Crash!'”

        Rainbow Dash's ruby-violet eyes twitched.  She frowned down at the little orange filly.  “Oh, hardy-har-har!  Didja think that brilliant crap up just now, or have you been talking to a few punks around Cloudsdale?”

        “I'm not from Cloudsdale,” Scootaloo retorted, “and even if I was, would I seriously hear ponies talking about a pegasus who's too blind to miss the broad side of a barn?”

        “Hey!  There's nothing wrong with my sight!”  Rainbow Dash fluttered down to the ground, brushing herself off with a blue hoof.  “It's not my fault the barn was in the way!  Who builds a barn in the middle of a forest anyways?”

        “I've got an even better question!  What were you doing flying like a comet into the middle of the forest to begin with?”

        “Jee, I dunno.  Maybe I just have a serious grudge against squirrels.  Besides, who died and made you expert on flight trajectories?—Whoah!”  Rainbow Dash did a double-take, giving Scootaloo the first solid glance since she arrived there.  “You're a filly!”

        The orphan pegasus blinked wide.  She stamped her hooves down and growled, “Of course I'm a girl!  What did you think?!”

        “I guess it's just something about the tone in your voice.  It sounds like you were born to pitch overhoof.”

        “Grrrrr...”  Scootaloo's hunger disappeared in an angry flash as she ground her hooves in the floor of the barn and made to charge the rainbow-maned mare, only to find her limbs shuffling endlessly in place.

        This was because Rainbow Dash had planted a hoof on the foal's forehead and was holding her there.  “Heheheh.  Whoah there, Wonder Whinnie.  I'm just joshin' you.  How about we start over?  I don't like picking fights with ponies unless they're at least twice my size, otherwise it’s unfair.”

        “Well your... your...”  Scootaloo slumped to her haunches, folding her front limbs and blushing in furious frustration.  “Your face is certainly asking for a fight!”

        “Ha!”  Rainbow Dash hovered in place and thrust her grin in Scootaloo's blinking vision.  “That's the best compliment I heard all day!  Heheheheh.  Still, ya gotta be careful, kid.  You say that to just any pony in town and they're likely to give you a clean lickin'!  And I don't mean the type your momma gives you when you're freshly foaled!”

        “I've been in fights before!”  Scootaloo boldly said.  It wasn't so much a lie as it was a guess.  Her memories were about as empty as her stomach at this point.  All she saw was blue, and all of it annoying and inside her barn.  “Don't talk to me like I'm a sissy!”

        “Yeah, whatever.  You got a name, pipsqueak?”

        Scootaloo frowned again.  “Don't call me 'pipsqueak.’”

        “Tell me your name and maybe I won't!”

        “'Scootaloo.'”  The filly frowned.  “There, you happy?”

        “Ehhhh... I think I like 'pipsqueak' better.”

        “Grrrr—Just what's the big deal about my name?”

        Rainbow Dash smiled and laid upside down in midair, hovering lazy circles around the filly.  “I'm always refreshing my list so I can keep track of who's on the 'Rainbow Dash Fanclub.'”

        “You have a fan club?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow, then frowned for the millionth time.  “And why the heck would I want to join it?”

        “Why the heck wouldn't you?”  Rainbow Dash smirked, spun, and performed a few blazing, close-quarter loops around the support beams of the barn's upper loft.  “I'm only the coolest thing to ever happen to this town, aside from the first Hearth's Warming Eve of course.  Heheheh.  I tell you, even windigoes have nothing on this supreme frostiness!”  She kicked off a wall, wrapped her tail-hairs around a horizontal crossbeam, spun around it twice, loosened her tail, and vertically dismounted to the floor, landing and rearing her front hooves in a heroic stance.  “Ha!  Y'know, when I get up in the morning, I only plant one hoof on the ground at a time so I don't upset the Earth's rotation.”

        Scootaloo pretended not to be impressed, though she had to navigate a few stunned blinks before letting loose her next, barking laugh.  “Okay, now you're just being stupid on purpose.”

        “Actually, I was trying to under-exaggerate.  AJ is always nagging me, saying I should learn to brag less around town.”

        “Who?”

        “But AJ's also a goody-goody-fourshoes who probably snorts appleseeds when nopony's looking.  You think she got those freckles on her face naturally?  Nosiree.”

        “The heck are you talking about?  Is this suddenly your world, now?”

        “Well you're living in it, aren't you?”  Rainbow Dash trotted past the filly, stood below a horizontal crossbeam, and leaped up.  Using her front limbs, she started spontaneously performing chin-ups, her blue wings coiled tightly behind her.  “Nnnngh... I'm telling you... nnnngh... twenty years from now... nnngh... fifty years from now... nnnngh... a hundred years from now...”  She grit her teeth through a snarling grin and only just then started breaking a sweat.  “... I'm gonna be a legend, known all across Equestria.  When historians put 'Ponyville' into textbooks, my name will be the first thing to come up, followed by 'smackdown.'  Heck, they should just rename this town 'Rainbow Dashville' in order to contain my awesomeness.  After all, someday I'm going to be more than a weather flier.  I'm going to be a celebrity, an athlete, a Wonderbolt—”

        “What's a Wonderbolt?”

        “Nnngh—Augh!”  Rainbow Dash fell off the beam and landed in the dust, her legs and wings sticking straight up like an arrowed albatross.  Scootaloo winced, then bounced back as the blue pegasus leered over her.  The mare's face was white as a sheet.  “You've never heard of the Wonderbolts?!”

        “I-I've heard of insane asylums...”  Scootaloo gulped, suddenly shrinking away from this blue stranger.  “And p-ponies that should pr-probably be sent there...”

        “But... You... It... They... How... Nnnght!”  Rainbow Dash twitched at the last exclamation, as if the wires in her brain were fusing.  The orange filly imagined smoke pouring out of the adult pegasus' ears as Rainbow Dash took a deep breath, calmed herself, and eventually uttered, “The Wonderbolts are only the coolest, most spectacular, most radical bunch of fliers in all of Equestria!  They perform airshows in every major city and make thousands upon thousands of fans cheer like mad!  They can fly more loops around the continent than Princess Nebula ever could!”

        “If they're so 'cool' and 'radical'...”  Scootaloo glared with a smirk.  “Then how come you're not one of them?”

        “Hey.”  Rainbow Dash glared.  “Shut up.”

        “Heeheehee...”

        It was Rainbow Dash's turn to turn red.  She paced across the barn, dragging her hooves.  “So what if I'm stuck being a boring weather flier for this dull flea-speck of an Equestrian town?  I'm a pegasus, and a pegasus has to do his or her part for the earth.”

        “You mean like slamming full-speed into the earth?”  Scootaloo exclaimed, her limbs buckling as her chuckles intensified.

        “Hey!  I was practicing!”  Rainbow Dash ground her hooves into the floor.  “The day I get to show myself off in front of the Wonderbolts, I gotta make sure I can make their jaws fall through the ground and travel all the way to Chyneigh!”

        “And just why would the most awesome pony in all of Ponyville need to practice anything, huh?”

        “Heh... Kid...”  Rainbow Dash finally managed a smirk of her own.  “You really think too much, y'know that?”  She narrowed her eyes and smugly uttered, “Unless you've ever been awesome, I don't think you should be second-guessing real coolness when it stands in front of you.”

        “Oh, I happen to be pretty awesome myself.”  Scootaloo stuck a tongue out and upturned her nose.  “Thank you very much.”

        “What are you awesome at?  Passing yourself off as a colt scout?”

        “No!”  Scootaloo growled into the echo of Rainbow's laughs.  She smirked devilishly and raised a hoof.  “Check it!”  She scampered over on tiny limbs to the far side of the barn and kicked a metal tray into her grasp.  It was a rusted platform balanced on four squeaky wheels, something she had pilfered from the Ponyville landfill two days previous, when she had first arrived in town.  She brandished the hunk'o'junk before the blue pegasus, grinning.  “You ever seen something like this before?”

        “Er... yeah, the last time I went to a buffet restaurant.”

        “Oh hush.  Take a look at what I can do.”  The little orphan fought a sudden bout of nervousness.  She was suddenly running on a bizarre adrenaline she had never felt before, even in the midst of her hunger and desperation.  All she knew was that she had to get this braggart of a blue pegasus to shut up, to eat her own words.  For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable need to impress somepony, at least somepony who was alive.

        In a bright orange blur, she ran, tossed the metal board in front of her, jumped, and landed on it with four hooves.  Gripping it tightly, Scootaloo scrunched her body down against the metal platform and flexed her wings.  With a buzzing sound that echoed across the wooden walls of the hovel, she shifted her weight to the left and spun several blazing circles around the blue-feathered mare.

        Rainbow Dash produced something that surprised the girl in mid-“flight.”  The mare let loose a whistling sound.  “Hey, pretty nifty.  Though, I gotta say...”  She chuckled slightly.  “You kind of look like a runaway suitcase.”

        “I bet you couldn't do this when you were my age!”  Scootaloo murmured mid-glide.

        “Nope.”  Rainbow Dash crossed her front limbs and smirked with pride.  “As a matter of fact, I was outflying griffons and earning my cutie mark.”

        Scootaloo gasped and glanced at Rainbow.  “You're lying!”  Blindly, she slammed face-first into a wooden column in the center of the barn.  “Oooof!”  Her tray went flying outside and she landed hard on her rump.  Her body rocked from mane to tail, irritating all of the bruises she had received over the past few days.  “Unnngh...”  The tiny filly couldn't help it.  Memories of hunger and blurring foster homes bubbled to the surface, and once again she hung numbly on the precipice of a sob.

        “Whew!  Nice bump there, pipsqueak.  Heheheh—You're pretty tough.”

        Just like that, any hint of moisture lining Scootaloo's eyes immediately shrunk back into the core of her being.  She flashed a surprised look Rainbow Dash's way.  “I... I am...?”

        “I'd say.  When I was your age, I knew many a foal at flight camp who'd trip on a cirrus cloud and go running home, crying for mommy.”

        “Eheheh...”  Scootaloo chuckled nervously, her tiny wing-stubs twitching.  “I guess it was... erm... their fault for having a mommy.”

        “Snkkkt—Haha!  Uhhh... Yeesh, I never heard that one before.”

        “Really?”  Scootaloo broke into a bizarre smile.  She was only vaguely aware of a loud groaning sound directly in front of her.  She glanced up and gasped with foalish fright, for the hulking body of the barn's support pillar—already knocked off-kilter by Rainbow Dash's entry—was falling down over her with deathly menace.  “Aaaaah!”  Scootaloo curled up into a pathetic orange ball, shivering.

        There was suddenly a gust of wind.  The blood rushed to Scootaloo's head, as if the entire globe had spun five times around her in the span of half a second.  She felt a sea of grass blades and feathers settling down across her mane, and then she heard the thunderous crash of the wooden beam, only it was several meters away.

        “H-Huh...?”  Scootaloo slowly, pensively opened her eyes.  She was outside the barn, bathed in sunlight.  She glanced towards the structure in time to see a cloud of dust settling from the fallen beam's chaotic impact.  It wasn't until five seconds into registering the distance she had traveled from such a grim fate that she became aware of a strong pair of blue limbs clutching her from behind.  “Whoah...”  She glanced up breathlessly at the blue silhouette of her sudden savior, her wings still outstretched.  “Did you... D-Did you just...?”

        “Hmmm...”  Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes and smirked wickedly.  “Maaaaaaybe.”

        “You're... You're...”

        “Awesome?”

        Scootaloo gulped.  “F-Fast!”  She was dropped to the ground in a dusty heap.  “Oof!”

        “Heheheh...”  Rainbow Dash trotted away from the collapsed filly, brushing herself off.  “What'd you think?  I said my name was 'Rainbow Dash,' not 'Rainbow Drag.’”

        “Nnngh...”  Scootaloo sat up, shaking the cobwebs loose from her skull.  “I'm willing to settle for 'Rainbow Dunce.’  Still, for what it's worth, thanks for saving me... er... and stuff.”

        “Pffft!” Rainbow Dash raspberried.  “You call that gratitude, ya lil’ pip...”  She blinked, went cross-eyed, then grunted,  “—squeak?!  Feh!  Because of that, I just might not ask you to help me with doing something wickedly fun!”

        “Something wickedly fun?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.

        “Oh, so now you're up for the challenge?”

        “What challenge?  What are you even talking about?”

        “Maybe it was fate that my screwing-up the buccaneer blitz had me almost crash land into the most stuck-up excuse for a fanfilly in all of Ponyville!”

        Scootaloo frowned.  “Who said I was your fanfilly—?”

        “‘Cuz I've been meaning to do business with this one farm mare, and I need somepony's helping hoof, or else the end result is going to be really lame.  You look cute and innocent enough to pull it off, at least when you're not frowning as if a porcupine's sliding down your esophagus.”

        “Pull what off?”

        “Hehehe... What’s with all the questions, kiddo?”  Rainbow Dash hovered in the air and spun lazy circles around random tree trunks.  “ A foal your age shouldn’t have to know everything.  You don’t want to turn into an egghead, now do you?”

        “Uhh...”  Scootaloo nervously gulped.  “No...?”

        “Anyways, you gotta learn to expect the unexpected!”  Rainbow Dash flipped in the air, hovered upside down, and smirked down at the blinking filly.  “Life's too friggin' short to plan to... plan everything!  Come with me!”  She motioned with her prismatic mane and spiraled towards the northwestern edge of the forest.  “I promise it'll be a blast!  Heheheh!”

        “I... Uh...”  Scootaloo shifted nervously in place.  “My parents—uh, yeah—my parents say that... uhm... I shouldn't encourage strangers!”

        “Pfft!  Did I or did I not say that I was Rainbow Dash?!  I'm hardly a stranger here in Ponyville!  If anything, I'm a recipe for fireworks and lightning bolts!”

        “You're a nutcase.”

        “And I think you're just chicken!”  Rainbow Dash scoffed from up high, like a taunting meteorite.

        Scootaloo twitched.  She remembered the words of other young foals in the orphanages she had once dwelled in.  They were words that hurt her.  But now, in the mouth of this rainbow-colored braggart, the insult wasn't so much a dagger of venom as it was a dangling carrot.  More than angry, more than frightened, and more than desperate, Scootaloo was hungry.  She grit her teeth through a fresh and exciting breath of righteous fury, rushed over to her metal tray, and planted it underneath her with a buzzing of wings.

        “I'm no chicken; you're a turkey!”

        “Ooooh... Ouch...”  Rainbow Dash winced as if struck with a mortal wound.  “Yeah, we gotta work on that.  Follow me if you can, pipsqueak!”  And she bolted off towards the gradually-setting sun.

        Scootaloo glided swiftly beneath her, huffing and puffing, sweating up a storm.  All day, she had been starving and miserable.  Suddenly, for the first time since she made the arduous trip from Manehattan, she reacquainted herself with excitement.  Only, this time, it wasn't half as lonely.  She didn't understand it; she merely smirked.




“And so this one time at flight camp, I got into a dare with a pegasus colt named Dumb-Bell.”

        Rainbow Dash smirked in mid-flight, her blue wings flapping majestically over the foal’s head.
        
        “No, seriously, that's his friggin' name, 'Dumb-Bell.’  I think his parents sniffed one too many bands of the aurora borealis at Whinniestock long before he was foaled.  Anywho, he said that I couldn't handle the cold temperatures of high-altitude flight.  I told him he was a pile of crap.  Guess which one of us was being honest?  Heheheh!  Anyways, one thing led to another, and eventually we decided—in front of all of the Young Fliers School's alumni—to fly together towards the edge of the stratosophere.  The first pony to lose their nerves, or bloodflow, would be the loser.  The winner would get the other's lunch money.”

        Scootaloo kicked at the ground, rolling forward on her metal tray.  She gazed up at the shadowy blue pegasus hovering high above, leading the two of them down a dirt path and into thicker and thicker orchards.

        “So,” Scootaloo droned, “was this before or after you bare-hoofedly fought the invading band of harpy thugs and won back the recipe for sculpting sky marble that they stole from the Cloudsdalian Central Archives?”

        “Shhh!  This is different!  Something else that's awesome!”  A crescent moon of a grin glistened overhead.  “Anyways, Dumb-Bell had this thing for sarsaparilla, and I knew it.  So, the morning before our skyward soaring, I made a snide remark about how a high altitude climb can dehydrate a swift flier.  It was total horse hockey, of course.  But, living up to his name, Dumb-Bell bought it, and right before the match he supposedly drank four bottles of the crap.  Anywho, to make a long story even longer, we started the vertical climb.  The two of us soared straight up into the wild blue yonder with all of our friends cheering us on down below.  I was pacing myself, y'know, expecting to show off my sweet moves of acceleration at the last second, just to spite him.  Then, all of the sudden, he fell down past me like a heavy bag of cinderblocks.  Did I laugh at his dumb flank?  Well... snkkt—Yeah.  Hehehehe.  A little.  But I saved him too.  Yup.  I stopped what I was doing, rocketed down at blinding speeds—which was pretty incredible considering how heavily he was falling—and I grabbed him with strong hooves and swooped him up—WOOSH—just seconds before he could become a pegasus pancake against a platform of sky marble!”

        “What happened?”  Scootaloo blinked, gazing up at this pegasus stranger with bright violet eyes.  “Did he pass out or something?”

        “Snkkkt—Heheheheheheh...”

        The filly raised a perplexed eyebrow.

        “I told you that he drank four whole bottles of sarsparilla before the challenge, right?”

        “Er.... yeahhhhh?”

        “Well, about halfway through the climb, we reached freezing altitudes, and he got scared—I mean really scared.  And, well... Heheheheh...”  Rainbow Dash hugged herself and spun in mid-air.  After a chuckling spell, she exhaled and glided down to ground level.  “Ohhhhhh—Whew!  Well, by the time he thawed in the Flight Camp infirmary, the entire cloudbed smelled like a buffet table full of asparagus.  Hahahaha—Poor Dumb-Bell couldn't use the little colts' room for a week without it stinging.  Goes to show he could eat his words, but he sure as heck couldn't drink 'em.  Heheheh..”

        “So, wait...”  Scootaloo, unenthused, made a disgusted face.  “Wasn’t it you who talked him into downing all of those bottles of sars... sarass... saspaaaaa—”

        “Sounds stupid when you say it out loud, doesn't it?”

        “You cheated!”  Scootaloo squeaked.  “You knew that if you egged him on, he'd drink all of that stuff and do something stupid so that he'd lose and you would win!”

        “Hey!  I didn't cheat!”  Rainbow Dash touched down and trotted briskly beside her.  “I improvised!”

        “What's the difference?”

        “The difference is, cheating is breaking the rules.  Improvising is taking advantage of them.”

        “You mean 'bending them.'”

        “No, I mean to say that Dumb-Bell knew all about what we were going to do that day and still he decided to do a stupid thing.”  Rainbow smirked down at the orange filly.  “Whether or not I had a hoof in his stupid decision-making doesn't matter.  He should have had the gumption to know what was a bad idea when it was given to him, as well as the self-respect to not handicap himself when his own ego was on the line.”

        “I still think you cheated.”

        “Heheheheh—Look, kid.  It's all simple.  Can you fly yet?”

        Scootaloo frowned.  “What does that have to do with—?”

        “Can ya fly yet?  Yes, or no?”

        “What does it look like?”  The filly twitched her wings as she scooted along the road on the metal tray.

        “What it looks like to me...”  Rainbow Dash grinned wickedly, nodding with her prismatic head in mid-trot at the little foal's instrumentation.  “...is that nature is telling you that you can't move around quickly, and yet you've given nature the brush-off.  So maybe you’re too young to fly.  You’re smart enough to have found a way to move faster than you can, and that’s pretty cool.  Don’t you get it?  Just because the impossible seems impossible doesn't mean you gotta settle for less than half-awesome.  There are a million stinkin' Dumb-Bells in this world.  The earth is filled with boring ponies who make stupid decisions because they settle for lame and dull when they could really be radical.  Those are the kind of ponies who make themselves lose, whether they know it or not.  Ever since that day when he froze himself with his own... erm... lemonade—heheheh—Dumb-Bell got better scores and eventually graduated in the top  percent of his class!”

        “Are you trying to say that you helped him?”

        “Nah, pipsqueak.  Dumb-Bell helped himself.  Sometimes you gotta do really stupid things to become really smart.  Those are the bumps and bruises of living and crap.  Still, I owe him one.”

        Scootaloo did a double-take.  “What do you mean you owe him one?”

        “Flying into the stratosphere is a huge no-no for pegasi at that age.”  Rainbow Dash smirked slyly.  “If Dumb-Bell hadn't had his embarrassing moment, the two of us could have flown so high we would have frozen to death.  You see, I've been known to do stupid things too.  As a matter of fact, I make a friggin' career out of it.”
        
        “But why?  Why do it and then admit to doing it?”

        “Because the impossible won't make itself happen on its own, now will it?”  Rainbow Dash hovered again, gasping with a wave of sudden excitement as her eyes locked onto something directly ahead.  “Hey!  Lookit!  We're here!”

        Scootaloo skidded to a stop on her metal tray and squinted at a sign that stood before a dazzling array of apple orchards stretching as far as her eyes could see.  “Uhhh... Just what kind of a fruity name is 'Sweet Apple Acres?'”

        “Only the most delicious kind.  And, hey, don't squawk at me.  I didn't name it.  That was all strawhead's doing.”

        “'Strawhead?'”

        “Shhh—You ready to be Rainbow's little helper?”

        “Exactly what do you need help with?”

        “What is this, preparation for a yearly physical?  Kid, stop acting like a scaredy-cat.  It's simple.  Look for a blonde, blonde, blonde mare in an ugly brown hat and ask her about her apples.  Be cute, be innocent, be curious—and I'll do all the rest.”

        “Why do I feel like this is some sort of trap?”

        “Don't even pretend like you're that smart yet.”  Rainbow Dash soared high up into the air, squinting towards a large structure in the distance.  “Ah!  There she is!  Hehehehe—Ahem.  Just walk up the road and head towards the big red thing—”

        “You mean the barn, Einstallion?”

        “Shut up!  Anyways, I won't be far behind.”

        “Hey, uhm...”  Scootaloo nervously fidgeted atop her metal platform.  “Rainbow Deutsch?”

        “'Dash', ya little pipsqueak!  'Dash!'  Do I sound like I'm from Fillydelphia?”

        “What did you do with the lunch money?”

        “Whozzitwhat?”

        “When you... er... improvised to win against Dumb-Bell in the stratosphere challenge.  You said that the winner got lunch money, right?”

        “What's it matter?”

        “I just...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “I'm just curious what other pegasi do with what they've earned...”

        “Pfft—I have cooler ways of grabbing bites to eat.”  Rainbow flung a bored hoof through the air as she hovered and smirked.  “I gave the money to some silly little filly who could barely fly and whose mom wasn't giving the light of day—she still doesn't, come to think of it.”

        “You... gave it away to some random filly?”

        “Ehhh, we got to know each other better since.  She's not so random anymore.  Plus, on the day that I earned my cutie mark, I nearly threw her to a horrible, screaming death!  It was cool!”  Rainbow soared off in a spectral blur.  “Okay, kiddo!  Just as we planned!”

        “Planned?!  But we've hardly planned anything—Ughh!”  Scootaloo tossed her pink mane and frowned, scooting ahead towards the distant farm engulfed in a sea of apple trees.  “Mom and Dad should have named me 'Dumb-Bell;' I'm doing gruntwork for a talking rainbow.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The orange mare was most definitely blonde.  Trotting with weighted hooves, she hoisted a basket brimming with fresh fruit over her flank and onto the back of a wooden wagon parked inside a red barn.  The farm mare was humming a pleasant tune to herself, engulfed in an enthusiasm that made her ritualistic chore appear more like a jubilant hobby.  As soon as she spun about from her latest task, she stumbled upon a tiny orange filly standing in front of her.  Instead of showing shock, surprise, or anger like so many a Ponyvillean local that refused the child some work, she merely smiled with a brightening of her gorgeous green eyes.

        “Well, howdy there, lil’ missy!  What brings a foal yer age ‘round these here parts?”  The mare adjusted the brim of her hat.  An absurdly long ponytail dangled over her neck as she stepped over and squatted so that her face was even with the child's.  “Do yer parents know where you’re at?”

        “I... uhm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted.  She bit her lip as she gazed past the pony and locked her eyes on the mountains upon mountains of apples succulently stacked in the back of the wooden wagon.  She shivered, afraid that her growling stomach would announce itself to the fresh air above the aromatic orchards surrounding her.  “My parents... uhm... they... they're...”

        “Speak up.  I won't bite.”  The freckle-faced pony gave a sisterly smile.  “Ya reckon that yer lost, sugarcube?”

        “L-Lost?”  Scootaloo's violets finally jerked away from the apples, suddenly swimming in a fountain of golden mane hair instead.  “Strawhead...” she absent-mindedly murmured.

        “'Strawhead?'”  The mare spat out an invisible haystalk and chuckled helplessly.  “Just who've you been talkin' to around town?  I haven't heard that since I was about yer age!”

        “I... Uhm...”  Scootaloo gulped and smiled awkwardly.  “I was just... uhm... stopping by to... uh...”  She shook her snout, envisioned a blurred band of rainbow colors, and refocused her sight on the farm mare standing in front of her.  “My parents sent me to ask you about apples.”  Scootaloo bravely improvised.

        “Well, shucks...”  Applejack stood up straight, emerald eyes blinking.  “That's openin' a mighty huge well of discourse, if I do say so myself.  Just what are you hankerin' to know about 'em?”

        “Uhmm...”  Scootaloo winced her way around the edge of a glinting smile.  “E-Everything...?”

        “Heheheh... Well, it's one thang to be chattin' it up about apples in general.  I reckon yer folks must be new tradeponies in town if they're sendin' their young'n to ask about the local market.  It t'ain't all that underhoofed, come to think about it.  Why, I remember my pa sendin' me to get a gander of the Carrot family's crops when I was barely old enough to drink from a trough!  I guess the best way to take advantage of bein' a family of harvesters is to use the family for everythang.  Ha!  Why, I remember this one Hearth's Warmin' Eve dinner when Ol’ Granny Smith invited all of the local Ponyville farmers.  She was merely carryin' on the Apple family tradition of gettin' harvest counts from the local gossip.  The way I see it, you can't be connivin' so long as you're supportin' each other in the end.  Why, without the Carrot family's bounty these last few seasons, we'd be...”

        Scootaloo nodded and nodded, her head spinning from the explosive monologue that she had unwittingly sparked.  She was only vaguely aware of a blue shadow hovering overhead.

        “...not to mention that one blasted winter when our apples nearly froze to kingdom come and Carrot Top herself came to lend us a hoof with salvagin' the orchards.  Of course, she nearly left in a huff when I said that apple pies could beat carrot cake at any bakery competition.  She said that apples were as boring and old as the Third Age itself.  Can you imagine the nerve of that filly?!  Apples are as delicious and as important now to the Equestrian palette as they were in the Second Age!  Why, if it wasn't for last season's bounty...”

        Scootaloo was gnawing on her lip at this point.  Her hooves backtrotted slightly against the metal tray.  She struggled to find a moment in the mare's mountain of speech when she could swiftly and politely interject an excuse to glide away, when suddenly the blue shadow above morphed into a blue pegasus.  She twitched, her eyes widening.

        Rainbow Dash was hovering in a stealthy manner, her flapping wings slicing the air with such grace that she barely made a sound above the chattering blonde.  She cast a devilish glance towards Scootaloo and raised a hoof to her mouth, her lips producing a mute and emphatic “Shhhh!”  With expert hooves, she reached down and grasped onto the opposite brims of the farm filly's brown hat.

        “...Don't forget fried apple dumplings.  Now, I know that it's an acquired taste amongst most ponies, especially those from the city.  But it's a mouth-melting reward in the long run.  You ever been to Manehattan?”

        “S-Sure.”  Scootaloo grinned plastically.

        “I have an aunt and uncle who live in Manehattan.  One summer I invited them all the way over from the city and tried to get them to understand the rich stock that can be taken in apple farmin'.  You know what they did?!  They spent the whole dang week here complainin' about havin' to use an outhouse within range of hearin' the livestock.  Can you imagine the nerve of them folks?”

        Scootaloo watched with a nervous twitch as Rainbow Dash licked her lips and expertly lifted the hat off the clueless pony's mane.  Smiling victoriously, the blue pegasus stifled a giggle and soared off in a blue blur towards a muddy part of the orchards.

        “...As a matter of fact, keepin' pigs around is important to apple farmin'!  My Ma used to say that if the swine won't take a bite of the fruit harvest, then ya might as well be tossin' them apples into a trash barrel because somethin' is wrong with that year's bounty!  Heheheh—My Ma may have been raised to respect oranges, but Pa won her over to the apple buckin' business somethin' fierce!  Why, she learned to kick the fruit off of trees so quickly that ponies around here started callin' her 'Apple Blossom' instead of her real name 'Orange Blossom,’ which I suppose is what got my folks to namin' my baby sister the way they did and all...”

        The orange foal suddenly gasped as Rainbow Dash hovered back.  She covered her lips with a hoof, spasming frightfully upon the sight, for the prismatic pegasus had gathered fearlessly in her hoof no less than five living grass snakes.  The squirming reptiles hissed and twirled in ungainly, scaled ropes around the adult's limb as she breathily snickered, then dropped all five into a writhing pile inside the brown hat.  Biting her lip to contain her giggles, the blue pony hovered down and softly planted the bulging article back onto the farm filly's blonde mane.

        “...which is a funny thing because Apple Bloom's got Pa's hair.  It's her eyes that look so much like Ma's.”

        “Uhhh... Uhhh... Uhhh...” Scootaloo helplessly uttered, her hoof pointing shakily upwards.

        The blonde pony snapped out of it, grinning curiously.  “What's the matter, missy?  You look as though you've seen a snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!”  The mare's green eyes bulged as she flung her hat off and hopped up and down in one place, shaking the leathery things off her with high-pitched shrieks that betrayed the normally strong twang in her voice.

        “Snkkkt-Hahahahahaha!”  Rainbow Dash finally exploded from overhead, lying on a jutting crossbeam of the barn while hugging herself.  “Ohhhhhh—What's the matter, Applejack?!  I thought you were good at spotting worms in your fruit!  Whew!  Look at them suckers wriggle!  Ah ha ha ha!”

        “Nnngh!”  Applejack flung the last of the writhing reptiles onto the ground and stomped her hooves in an impromptu square-dance, frightening the creatures away.  “Rrgghhh!”  She fumed, her freckled face turning red as she flung the empty article over her steaming skull.  “Rainbow.”  She launched a furious snarl towards the top of the barn.  “Of all the gul-dern, insensitive, outright wicked shenanigans—”

        “Whew!  Listen to you go!”  Rainbow Dash hiccuped a lasting chuckle or two, wiping a joyful tear from the edge of her eyes.  “I expected to scare the snot out of you!  Not a year's worth of Apple Family vocabulary lessons!”

        “Did you rope her into this?!”  Applejack pointed a vicious hoof at Scootaloo, before finally staring at Scootaloo herself.  “Did she rope you into this?!”

        “I... I... I...”  Scootaloo shivered all over.  This was not the first impression she was wanting to make in Ponyville, even if Ponyville had dealt her far less joyous cards thus far.

        “You're one to talk about rope, AJ!”  Rainbow Dash smiled wickedly.  “Especially since you're in the habit of tying up more than a hog or two!”

        Applejack did a double-take, her emerald eyes shrinking into twitching pinpricks.  “Is this whole thang about the chariot wrangle joke last week?!  That was Pinkie's idea!”

        “Yeah, but you helped!”  Rainbow Dash stuck out her tongue.  “Tying me up to a royal chariot in the middle of my sleep?  That wasn't nearly creative enough to be anything but lame!  Sure, I give credit to Pinkie!  She had to use a friggin' trampoline to get to my napping cloud.  But you?  You gotta learn to only write checks that your sorry flank can cash, strawhead!”

        “Why you cloud-sniffin' smartaleck!”  Applejack snarled, waving an angry hoof.  “If y'all think for just one second that this makes us even—”

        “Uhhh... I think you missed one, AJ.”  Rainbow Dash snickered and pointed.

        “Huh?”  Applejack turned around to see a wriggling reptile stuck in her tail hairs.  “Land's sakes!”  She spun in cyclonic circles, attempting to fling the thing loose.

        “Hey everypony!”  Rainbow Dash shouted towards the farm air.  “It's Snakes on a Flank!  Starring Ponyville's favorite cowfilly, in that she's Ponyville's only frickin' cowfilly!”

        “Nnngh!”  Applejack flung the offending reptile out of her tail, caught it in midair, and tossed it Rainbow Dash's way.  “Get outta here before I toss ya outta my orchards in pieces, you blue spitwad!”

        “Whoah!”  Rainbow Dash ducked the tossed reptile.  “Yeesh, what would Fluttershy think of you!”  She soared down and clutched Scootaloo by her shoulders.  “Time to skate, kiddo.  Applejack's about to plow the orchards with our skulls!”

        “I'm so sorry!”  The orphan pleaded in the blonde's direction.  “I didn't mean to—!”

        “Don't make this lamer than it already is!”  Rainbow Dash blazed skyward with the shrieking filly in her grasp, navigating a cloud of her own giggles.

        “Come back here, ya varmint!”  Applejack predictably squawked.  “I ain't done yellin' at y'all!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Wooooohooo-Yeah!”  Rainbow Dash touched down immediately after flying over a wooden fence.  “Now that's how you spend an afternoon!”  She stood at an angle, blinking, realizing that she had a bizarre weight hanging off her side.  She glanced down to see a shivering orange foal clutching her right front limb, her eyes clenched shut.  “Ahem.  We're on the ground again, ya lil’ squirt.”

        Scootaloo gasped, her eyes twitching open.  She trembled with every centimeter she had to move in disentangling herself from Rainbow's limb.  “That was the first time... th-the first t-time that I was in the air...”  The tiny pegasus was beside herself with hyperventilation.

        “It's gonna be the first time you get skewered by a pitchfork if you don't stand behind me.”

        “I don't get it!”  Scootaloo took a hint and scurried to the far side of the pegasus' blue flank.  “Why'd we stop here?!”

        “Because this is outside of Applejack's property!  On this side of the fence, it's finder's keepers!”

        “What's that supposed to mean?  Shouldn't we get more distance from—?!”

        At that very moment, a galloping mare's voice angrily barked, “Hey!  I can see you!  Come back here, RD!  We've got a score to settle!”

        “You couldn't catch me if you tried, ya trotting farm plow!”  Rainbow Dash joyously raspberried and made a series of juvenile faces over the edge of the wooden fence.  “Say, nice singing voice you've got!  If I'd known snakes could make you shriek so high, I would have brought bottles of champagne for you to shatter open for me!”

        “Why you—!”  The distant orange splotch of Applejack bucked the nearest tree to her, grabbed a hoof-full of apples, and flung them murderously in the pegasi’s direction.

        “I don't get it!”  Scootaloo stammered.  “What's happening?”

        “Predictability, that's what.”  Rainbow Dash smirked and squatted down on her haunches.  “Aaaaaaaaaaand—”  She leapt up high above a gasping Scootaloo, flung her wings out, and grabbed four whole apples in her feathery appendages.  “—five hundred!  Ha ha!”  She landed in a reverse-slide through the dirt, juggling her victorious bounty.  “Finder's keepers!  Hehehe—See?  I told you that I have cool ways of grabbing bites to eat!”

        Scootaloo gazed up at her, and suddenly her trembles disappeared.  Just then, a smile started to form—

        Her world jolted as a tossed apple exploded across the side of her face.

        “Unngh!”

        “Whoops!  Go time!”  Rainbow Dash clasped the apples under her wings, grabbed Scootaloo by the hoof, and dragged her down the woods bordering the farm.  “Thanks for the snack, strawhead!  We're off to make several gallons of apple juice!  With friends like you, who needs enemas?!  HA!  Get it?!”

        “Y'all come back here!  This isn't over!”

        “You'll get me back!  I'll be waiting for you!  Snkkt-Hehehehe!”  Rainbow Dash broke into a gallop, forcing Scootaloo to glide after her on a rattling tray.

        The tiny filly shook the apple mush off her face.  She could hardly breathe, hardly protest, hardly speak.  She merely clung to Rainbow Dash for dear life, not wanting to let go.







        The ground shimmered with a rust-red color as the sun burned its way past the western horizon.  Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo trotted side by side into the burning gaze of the dying afternoon.  All of Equestria around them hung in a gentle murmur as the bands of night settled over the world like a soothing blanket.

        “Whewwwww... Yeahhhh.”  Rainbow Dash grinned widely, her teeth glistening in the scarlet bands of the sunset.  She clutched four apples in her wings as if they were separate limbs.  “You feel that, ya squirt?”

        Scootaloo limply pushed against the metal tray beneath her, battling a pit in her stomach so large that she wasn't sure she had a stomach left at all.  “Feel what?  It's just a sunset.”

        “Nuts to you, Miss Obvious.  It's an awesome sunset.  It's like the sky saw us owning Applejack and decided to explode fireworks all across the horizon to celebrate!”

        Scootaloo merely blinked at her.  “You're high.”

        “What of it?”  Smirking, Rainbow Dash came to a stop on a hilltop and slumped to her haunches.  She basked ecstatically in the crimson glow, as if it was powering her bright, blue coat.  “Can't a pegasus dig a wicked sunset when she sees it?  I don't take much stake in pretty things, but when nature gives it to us, I'm in no mood to bat an eye.  You feel me?”

        “Jee, I dunno...”  Scootaloo winced, feeling yet another pang of hunger rocketing through her core.  She plopped down, weak and tired, beside the blue pegasus.  “The world's kind of full of ugly things.  It's hard to shake it, even when you are a pegasus.”

        “Yeesh.  Ain't you kind of young to be that emo?”

        “Mmm...”  Scootaloo whimpered and hung her head.  Just then, something bright and red rolled into view atop the grass in front of her.  She blinked brightly and clasped the fresh apple between two shivering hooves.  “Wh-What... What...?”  She glanced aside at Rainbow Dash.

        “It's an apple, smarty pants.  Y'know, the round things that hang off of trees and occasionally get tossed around by angry strawheads with more freckles than boyfriends?”  Rainbow Dash winked across the rays of melting sunlight before taking a luscious bite out of one of the three remaining fruits in her possession.  “Mmmphh... Hmmph... And before you start spreading rumors, Applejack and I don't really hate each other.  Mmmph... We’ve had this lovely little game of 'tag' going on since the dawn of time and today was just her turn to be slapped upside the mane.”  She gulped down the bite and smirked.  “You just got a front-row seat to our little prank war, so enjoy your souvenir.  You've earned it.”

        Scootaloo's heart skipped a beat.  She blinked wide.  “I...”  Her lips quivered.  “I-I earned this?”

        “You were my bait, weren't you?”  Rainbow Dash managed a snicker, took another royal bite of the apple, and glanced off towards the burning west horizon.  The rows and rows of trees whispered with the fluttering advent of starlight.  “Nothing scarier than being the front meatwall before Ponvyille's resident cowfilly losing her cool.  Heh—AJ thinks she's such a straight-laced, dependable saint.  Still, I'm the only one in town who's figured her out.  There's an angry hothead boiling beneath the surface of her freckled shell; I can smell it.”

        Rainbow Dash took another bite, nearly choked on an explosive giggle, swallowed, and smirked.

        “I remember this one time that a guard pony from Canterlot tried hitting on her.  Applejack kept her cool until he licked her, right in the middle of downtown Ponyville!  I dunno how young you are, kiddo, but grown-up ponies only lick each other in public when they're engaged, married, or what-have-you.  Anyways, I never saw a filly buck a stallion so hard through a store window.  Hahahah—Bon Bon was at her wit's end.  Naturally, Applejack felt sorry and helped patch up the front of the novelty shop the very next day, with no help from the guard pony—that coward ran back to Her Majesty's Palace.  Heheh... Still, I don't know what embarrassed AJ more, the fact that it all started from a stallion hitting on her, or that a random temper tantrum made her show her true colors for once.  Heh... 'Honest Applejack' my left flank-cheek.  The way I see it: every pony has an angry warhorse spirit hiding deep inside.  I bet you've got a fury of your own to let loose every now and then, squirt.  Why, the way you pound away on that metal slab of yours—I swear—it looks like you're ready to take on the whole world—”

        Rainbow Dash glanced down.  She stopped in mid-sentence, blinked wide, and nearly dropped her partially-eaten fruit .

        In less than a minute, Scootaloo had completely scarfed her way to the hard core of her apple.  Every edible part of the fruit had been shoved down her throat.  A splash of apple mush hung off her orange face in sloppy curds.  She was nibbling pitifully on the black husk left over, her teeth crunching at the seeds, when she froze under the gawking gaze of her older companion.  Still as a statue, she wilted with furiously blushing cheeks.

        “Erm... Uhm...”  The orphan raised a forelimb to her face and wiped half of the fruit bits off her nervous grin.  “It's... It's good stuff... Applejack's apples... eh heh heh...”

        Rainbow Dash raised an eyebrow, her colorful mane blowing in the last warm breeze of the day.  Such a beautiful snapshot melted under a snorting sound as the blue pegasus fell to the grassy hilltop, slapping the soft soil with a hard hoof and laughing her face off.  “Hahahahaha—Whew!  You're a trip, Skunkaloo.”

        “Scootaloo.”

        “Whatever.  Heheheh...”  Rainbow wiped a tear or two away and grinned, red-in-the face from hysterics.  “You'd darn well better work on those ladylike manners of yours.  Haven't you heard we've got a princess visiting in a week?”

        “We... Uhm...”  Scootaloo gulped and wiped her cheek again before sitting up straight beside the mare.  “We do?”

        “Heck yeah!  We've got the Summer Sun Celebration coming up!”  She stared blankly at the foal, then rolled a pair of ruby eyes at herself.  “Oh—pffft—right, who can?  Ahem.”  She smiled.  “Once a year, Princess Celestia visits a lucky Equestrian city and raises the sun right there in front of everypony.  This year, she's chosen to do her magical goddess stuff right here in Ponyville!  Pretty wicked, huh?”

        “I... uh... S-Sure!”  Scootaloo smiled crookedly.  “Pretty wicked...”

        “Yeesh.  Try not to get too excited, kid.  You might have to clean up after yourself.”

        “Er...”

        “Well, it's gonna be my job to clear away all the clouds for her arrival.  What's the point in having the Goddess of the Sun arrive if there's a whole bunch of overcast to put a damper on her job, right?”

        “I... guess...?”

        Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes.  She playfully nudged Scootaloo's soiled cheek with a hoof and stood up.  “You gotta work on your pony skills, pipsqueak.  I swear, it feels like I'm talking to a tiny, orange squirrel.”

        “I'm sorry.”  Scootaloo sighed.  “This... Uhm... This hasn't exactly been a nice week for me.”

        “Good thing I decided to show up, huh?”  Rainbow Dash smirked wide.  Twitching her wings, she juggled an apple and tossed it so that it landed next to the nibbled core in front of the foal.  “Knock yourself out, kid.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo bit her lip.  “Did I earn that too?”

        “Sure, whatever.  You listened to me gab on long enough, huh?  Anyways, I gotta make like an ogre's behind and split.  Like the Mayor of Ponyville keeps telling me, there's a crapload of cloud-clearing for me to plan between now and the Celebration.”

        “So you're off to work?”  Scootaloo asked, cradling the fresh new apple to herself.

        “Pfft!  Screw that!  I've got Wonderbolts to impress!  I'll get done what needs to get done.  There's nothing so important in life that it can't be finished at the last second.  That said, do you need somepony to hitch you a ride home?”

        “Ahem...”  Scootaloo stood up tall and strong.  “That won't be necessary.  My folks work all hours of the day and night. I can look after myself, y'know.”

        “Heh... I bet you can do just that.”  Rainbow Dash winked.  She hovered over and ruffled the twitching foal's pink mane.  “You're something else, ya lil’ squirt.  If only more pipsqueaks your age were as sassy as you, I might have hope for the future.”

        Scootaloo rediscovered her frown.  With a playful raspberry, she retorted, “You're still a barn-smashing psycho.”

        Rainbow smiled.  “And Celestia help Equestria when there're none like me left.”  She shot skyward with a multi-colored blur.

        Scootaloo was surprised to hear a young voice chirping skyward.  She was even more surprised to recognize the unfolding words as her own:  “Hey Rainbow Dash!  Are you gonna be at the Summer Sun Celebration?”

        “You can bet your stupid metal tray, pipsqueak!”  In a thunderous vapor of flight, the blue pegasus was gone.

        The orange foal's lungs deflated down a crest of excited breaths.  She hugged the red apple to her chest, feeling her heartbeat straight through the squeezable fruit.  Scootaloo suddenly couldn't remember the hunger, shivers, and tears of the past few days.  Taking advantage of her forgetfulness, she took a fierce bite of the apple, then another, and a dozen more.  She filled her enraptured stomach while the shadows filled the great Equestrian Valley, ushering in a new night... and a new life.

        There was suddenly no shame to it at all.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        That night, upstairs in the loft of the dilapidated barn, a halo of glittering starlight fell down over a young pegasus inside the rustic structure.  Scootaloo clutched the blanket to herself.  She was cold; she was shivering.  For the first time in so many fitful nights, however, she was smiling.

        “Heh...”  She murmured to herself, navigated a wave of shivers, and managed a giggle.  “'Snakes on a Flank'... hehehehehehe... Hmmm...”

        Snuggling into the depths of her hovel, sprinkled with fresh memories, Scootaloo closed her eyes and greeted slumber with a smile. 






        Twenty-five years later, in that same barn, the mare's smile was gone.  Scootaloo dangled a twirling dragon’s tooth before her deadpan face.  Her scarlet eyes remained frozen upon the string itself, as if she was far more engrossed in its color than in the enchanted, calcified shard that it held.

        The mare sat, perched atop the loft of the dilapidated structure.  Her legs hung loosely, just as brown and lifeless as the forest of dead trees that formed a desolate ocean around the lonesome building.  The roof to the orphan's shelter had long crumbled to bits, so that the drifting ash of the Wasteland fell undaunted upon her shoulders and the contents of the barn around her.  She didn't bother fighting the white flakes from settling on her shoulders.  She had learned long ago that the fight was useless.

        The last pony sat there, submerged in placid silence and isolation, until a great beating sound suddenly filled the air.  With a flash of aged, purple wings, a gigantic dragon touched down beside the barn.  Gazing with squinting eyeslits at the twilight-blanketed forest, Spike let loose a curious hum before pivoting to look inside the barn.  Shuffling up, he sat on his scaled haunches and gazed at his quiet, equine companion.

        “A place of significance, I imagine?”

        “Hmmm...”  She pivoted the string around in her grasp, deeply weathering the centripetal rush that it magically sent spiraling through her stone-still soul.  “Something like that.”  Her pink hair billowed under a brief flurry of snow.  With a shuddering breath, she tapped the dragontooth lightly and watched as it spun chaotic circles before her jaded eyes.  “There are so few places of significance left in this world, and even fewer that I've had the pleasure of sharing with others... with or without the aid of green flame, for that matter.”

        He gazed at her.  Swallowing, he pivoted his snout eastward towards the gray splotch of ruins that was Ponyville.  “After our last conversation, you left in such a hurry.  I didn't dispute your departure, though I doubt even someone of my stature could have made a difference in your case.”  He managed a smirk; it came out like an iron wince.  The dragon sighed.  “I suppose it goes without saying, dear friend, that you are always a subject of my concern.  This would be true even if you weren't the last of your kind.  I hope you know that...”

        “I do, Spike.  I do.” She nodded, craning her neck to stare at the tooth-and-string from another angle.  She exhaled softly, “There was a time when—if I had known how much you cared about me—I would have left your presence and never come back.  Long ago, before I had to survive in the wastes, before I was desperate, I saw affection to be a plague, and concern to be a dead weight.  But now...?”  She clutched the tooth around the crook in her hoof and finally tilted her blank, scarlet eyes towards the sea of snow flurrying above them both.  “What have I left to earn myself but pain and regret?”

        Spike nodded.  “You were always a rogue, I take it.”  He snorted green smoke, and his smile was truer this time.  “Just like her.”

        “Just like her?!”  Scootaloo flashed him a look.  Instead of a frown, her face ever so briefly—and bravely—bore a smirk.  “Spike, I was a rogue long before I met her.”  She cleared her throat and shifted her weight on the flimsy wooden floorboards of the loft beneath her.  “I was... I was homeless, Spike.  Not only didn't I have a family, but I didn't have an adequate roof over my head, nor a guaranteed meal every day.  Did I ever tell you that?”

        His emerald gaze fell to the cold, powdery floor below the barn.  “No.  But... But looking back after three hundred years of contemplating all of the ponies I've ever had the grace to know, I saw the signs, Scootaloo.  I realize now that you were... very brave.”

        “I was stupid,” Scootaloo retorted.  “I had so many friends, so many loved ones, so many opportunities at my beck and call, and I refused every single one of them.  And for what?  To prove that I was a strong and self-dependable equine being?  Spike, I slept in forests and ate out of dumpsters.  I performed menial tasks for gold bits to buy my friends gifts to make them think I actually had money to spare.  I skipped out on school, avoided social gatherings, and made unholy falsifications to paint a picture of a normal, healthy life to all who observed me.  And for what?  For some reason, I just had to prove myself to a pair of dead pegasi who had every right to lie in peace and not worry about how much their obstinate little daughter was suffering.”

        The air of the hollow barn briefly surged at the end of her exclamation.  The Wasteland had a dull roar to it, like a hushed audience that was always excitedly murmuring to hear what a lonely survivor had to say next, whether or not she made any sense.

        Scootaloo didn't bother to try.  “Here I am, two decades later, and guess what?  I'm still having to prove myself to dead ponies.”  She sighed long and hard, absent-mindedly wrapping and unwrapping the length of the tooth's string around the body of her forelimb.  “My foalhood, for all of its stupidity, was field practice for the life Entropa had destined me to live.  So don't think that I'm complaining, Spike.”

        “I never said that you were...”

        “Good.  Because the point is...”  She gritted her teeth as the first wave of pain hit her.  Nervously, she whispered forth, as if slowly peeling the charred brown coat off her flesh to reveal the soft orange one underneath.  “The point is that I didn't need Rainbow Dash to bring direction to my life.”  She hesitated, her lips quivering.  “Only purpose,” she whimpered.

        Spike leaned forward so that his snout was at a parallel angle to her body inside the barn.  “I may have been a mere whelp at the time, old friend, but I bore witness to your adoration of her.  Even to this day...”  He smiled pleasantly.  “...I have always found it to be a sweet, endearing thing.”

        “'Sweet'... 'endearing'...”  She murmured, gulped, then said, “Spike, Rainbow Dash kept me alive.  Even when she wasn't around me, she breathed life into my lungs in ways that Gultophine never could.  I thought of her when I woke up and I dreamed of her when I went to sleep.  All of the daylight spent in between was all about finding new and exciting ways to emulate her.  I was surprised and elated to find my life was becoming happier and healthier in the process.  Rainbow Dash was my whole world, Spike.  I can't even pretend to tell you how much it meant to me just knowing that she could always be there—at any random moment—slicing the sky like the gorgeous spectrum that she was.  I may have been homeless, but so long as I knew there'd be her rainbow in the sky, the world had become safe, the whole of Equestria had become my home.  And I... I was happy, Spike.  For the first time in my crazy, broken childhood, meeting and knowing Rainbow Dash made me happy, and not because I was forcing myself to feel that way, but because everything was just... just awesome when she was around.”

        “If I may say so, child, Rainbow Dash had a fine taste for souls of like spirit: honest and brash, yet reserved in expressing affection.  You are in so many ways like her; I have no doubt she would be proud of you now.  I'm sure that she dearly adored you then, maybe even in a fraction of the manner that you so exalted her.”

        “She cared for me, Spike,” Scootaloo murmured with a nod.  “For better or for worse, I would not be alive today—I would not have survived the fall of Cloudsdale—if it wasn't for a sacred act of bravery that she saved for me and me alone.”  She gulped something hard down her throat.  “I have always known that my being alive, that my being the one to bear the brunt of this experiment, is a testament to the fact that... that I meant something to her.”

        “All the better reason for you to—”

        “To what?”  Scootaloo flashed him an angry look.  “To drop in on her little world and encumber her with the baggage of all of my broken hopes and dreams?  I've held my tongue before, Spike, each and every time I've made these delightful little sojourns into the past.  Cataclysm or not, what more am I doing than disturbing the peace of living, warm graves?  Because that's what they are, Spike.  Our friends' lives are animated graves, locked blissfully within the climactic throes of a lost, breathing world.  Perhaps I've summed up enough courage to disturb the Apple Family, or Fluttershy, or Pinkie Pie—but Rainbow Dash?”

        She shuddered suddenly.  Her hooves dropped towards her lap as she tilted up and aimed a pair of glossy eyes towards the roof of the dead world.

After a spell of heaving breaths, she finally spoke, “I feel as if the least I can do is let her rest.  She's done me a huge favor; why can't I do the same for her?  You say that I've been running from her, Spike.  You couldn't be any farther from the truth.  The soonest I found out about the amazing power of your green flame, about reverse-time, I instantly dreamed of hanging with Rainbow Dash again, of being able—for once—to fly in the clouds with her, of being able to finish so many unfulfilled promises that had been turned to ashes by horrific fire.”

        “But you won't let yourself... You can't,” Spike uttered, knowingly.  “Would it be any different if I could somehow allow you to meet your parents?”

        Scootaloo sniffed.  She gave Spike a bitter smile, her eyes watering.  She cradled the blue string in her grasp and murmured, “I had hope, Spike.  I had hope beyond the holocaust of the Cataclysm that there were survivors other than myself when Cloudsdale fell.  Can you believe that?  The first few days after the world friggin' blew up, I wandered the wreckage of the pegasus city like a moron, calling out for other ponies, looking for others who were alive.”

        “What happened, old friend?”

        “What do you think happened?”  She bit her lip.  Scootaloo leaned forward and clutched the string to her forehead.  “You have to understand, when I... when I found her... when I saw her body crumbled to bits like a d-discarded piece of broken pottery...”  She clenched her eyes shut.  Tears rolled down her brown cheeks as she shook her head blindly into the string and hiccuped forth, “I knew... I-I knew that there was nothing left of ponydom.  For years, with the rainbow s-signal and with flamestones I pretended otherwise, but right then and there... in the ruins of Cloudsdale, on the threshhold of her ashes, I knew, Spike.  I knew that I was the last pony.  Because if Rainbow D-Dash didn't make it...”  She quivered, choked on a sob, and murmured to the shell of her lost, orphan years.  “Then how c-could anypony?  Rainbow Dash was... is the best.  The best.  There was n-never and there will never be somepony as awesome... as amazing... and as... as...”  Her face scrunched up.  She navigated a heaving breath, sniffed, and opened her eyes.  Sitting up straight, she bravely dried her cheeks with a forelimb and murmured, “You must realize, Spike.  When Rainbow Dash died, all the colors died with her.  Everything that was once glorious and beautiful about this world went away when she did, and not with the Cataclysm.  How—Spike—how in all that is holy would you... could you expect me to somehow be able to go b-back to all of that?”  She sniffed and stammered, “How could I go back to her, after all that's happened, after all that I've b-become?”

        Spike stretched the iron scales of his neck in thought.  He pivoted on his haunches and leaned gently over the barn, his fingers toying with the dangling violet pendant about his neck, gently holding it still in the furious, random gusts of the merciless Wasteland.  “Have I ever told you, dear friend, about the Canterlotlian ritual of purple dragon whelping?”

        Scootaloo navigated a sniffling expression to raise a confused eyebrow at that.  Calming down slightly, she dried her cheek a final time, gulped, and muttered, “No.  Wh-What about it?”

        “Mmmm... I'm surprised you wouldn't know enough about it already, from all of your years of reading.  I do suppose you've had very few dragons to contend with in your travels, so perhaps it is just as well.”  He smirked slightly and twirled the pendant gently in his grasp.  “Long ago, in the early half of the Second Age, the Chaos Wars blanketed this entire continent in flame and mayhem.  It wasn't nearly as horrible as the Cataclysm, but it almost brought all of Equestrian life to a bloody end.  The campaign that the Alicorn Sisters fought against Discord was a long and arduous battle, spanning eons.  Many amazing, fanciful species that once populated this landscape met a terrible fate, forever to become extinct.  Among the afflicted creatures were none other than Cassius and Phalinore, the mother and father of green flame, the first purple dragons to exist on this planet.”

        Scootaloo brushed her pink mane aside and gazed intently up at her draconian companion as his voice filled the air in a deep hum, shaking the foundation of the barn with the somberness of his story.

        “Such is the consequence of war.  Life that has the chance to perpetuate itself was snuffed out for an eternity.  The Alicorn Sisters were not directly responsible for the pestilence that befell the first and only purple dragons, but Princess Celestia—who by then had become the chief Goddess in charge of restoring harmony to the landscape—felt a deep guilt for what the battle with Discord had done to end Cassius' and Phalinore's lives.  She discovered within their mountain lair no less than five hundred eggs, all unhatched.  You see, purple dragon whelps go through a metamorphic stage of development.  Even though the eggs are laid, they remain dormant for a long time, for they never have a chance of hatching until the parents decide it's time to provide a spark of magic to the outer shell in order to finish the last leg of the whelping process.  With Cassius and Phalinore gone, Celestia had the eggs taken into her care.  For the millennia to follow, the eggs would be stored in a special area of Canterlot, where only the wisest and most sagely of unicorns would be granted the honor of providing just the right magical spark to bring the draconian orphans into the world of the living.”

        Spike smiled down at Scootaloo, raising a scaled eyecrest as he spoke.

        “This unicorn Order of Purple Whelping persisted in Canterlot beyond the Chaos Wars, well beyond the Second and Third Age, as a matter of fact.  Fate would have it that Twilight Sparkle, a young and humble Canterlotlian native, would be bestowed the honor of bringing such an infant dragon into this world.  As a test of her commitment and character, she was told that it was a merely an 'entrance exam.'”

        Spike chuckled, filling the snowy air with green smoke.  He coughed briefly, sputtered, but ultimately refound his breath.

        “Her power was more than sufficient to bring me into this world.  She held within herself a phenomenal well of magical abilities, so much talent that—even until the end of days—it remained forever untapped.”  There was a somber breath.  He clutched the violent pendant tightly, but then continued, “You probably know what happened next.  She was taken under Princess Celestia's wing and made to be the Goddess of the Sun's special and most beloved pupil.  What you probably don't know is that, in being given charge over me, she was merely playing a chaperone—a foster parent, as you can probably relate—and one day she would see me sprout wings and fly off, rejoining the rest of my purple brood, destined to protect Equestrian sovereignty with all of my natural, magical talents, as a sign of gratitude for having been safely hatched into this world.  There was a place for that, you know:  Skybreak Point, where the pegasi held shop beneath Cloudsdale before sending weather fliers off to do their continental duties.  It was the same spot where purple dragons traditionally went to make their first flight.  I used to dream of that day.  I used to imagine myself becoming one with my own kind, and feeling the warm wind beneath a pair of majestic, flowing wings.”

        He took a deep breath as the color drained from his emerald eyeslits.  His webbed appendages coiled tighter against his massive sides.

        “In three hundred years of loneliness, all I've ever dreamt about... all I've ever thought about... has been her.  The very reason I started on this experiment and boldly launched the first breaths of reverse-time was in a fitful attempt to... to maybe reunite with her.  It wasn't until later, much later—when I awoke to the reality of time's immutable nature—that I settled for the more selfless goal of fixing that which the Cataclysm burned to a crisp.  Still, I can't help but wonder if perhaps my infant obsession with my foster parent had made me a bad dragon.  Perhaps I was different and more pitiable than the rest of the whelps who were hatched in Canterlot before me.  But that doesn't matter, Scootaloo.”

        He gazed at her, and a hint of moisture showed along the edges of his scaled eyecrests.

        “Twilight Sparkle was more than just my mentor or my magical guidance.  She was my mother, Scootaloo.  She was my mother and I loved her.  In the life that we have both lived, dear friend, a life full of flames and orphans and ash, we have every right to choose the ones who define us, and the ones we love.  The only difference between you and I is that... is that you—my dear friend—you have the ability to go where I cannot.  You have the chance to bask in that warmth that is forever lost to my spirit but not to my dreams.  You can experience that love again, first-hoof, and in such a glory that is unbecoming of all the lonesome shades you've painted yourself with throughout the years.  The colors were never dead, Scootaloo, so long as you've been alive to envision them, just as Rainbow Dash shared them with you.  Don't you see, old friend?  All of those centuries I spent trying to find a way to reunite with my mentor, I was actually—and quite fatefully—finding a way to reunite you with yours.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo shuddered.  She ran a hoof through her pink threads, gazing towards the desolate floor beneath the barn.  “I don't know... I-I just don't know, Spike...”

        “Oh child...”  He removed his hand from the pendant and lovingly cradled her chin between two claws.  “Do not bother so much with knowing.  Embrace your chance to feel while you still can, before you are encompassed by the very end that defines you.  All of history, both glorious and holocaustal, is brimming with knowledge.  Love, however, is a far more challenging, far more elusive treasure to scavenge from annihilation, in all of its multiplicitous shades.  This Onyx Eclipse that spites us may or may not be the key to uncovering a great and terrible secret.  But what fills you with joy and purpose isn't a secret, Scootaloo.  Go back in time and look for answers, look for stars, but most of all look for that joy.  Patch it together, piece by piece, and hug it one last time before the day comes when you—like me—will no longer have a second chance.”

        Scootaloo stared at him, her eyes wilting—but not tearing this time.  She was both weak and powerful at once, a queer and alien sensation that excited her as much as it frightened her.  She gave the dragon tooth one last look, strung it around her hoof, and clutched it to herself.

        “'Observatory of Nebula,' huh?”

        “Yes, my friend.  In the upper heights of Cloudsdale.”

        “Cloudsdale...”  Scootaloo murmured, holding the string to her chest as her nostrils flared.  “Epona help us if there's any of it left.”  She got up, and took wing.








        Half-an-hour later, a puff of hot steam wafted towards the whalebone ceiling of the Harmony's cabin.  With expert precision, Scootaloo operated a steam-powered drill and unscrewed the fastener bolts of her cockpit seat.  It was an arduous process, but she eventually loosened the entire rig beneath the pilot's chair.  Shoving the structure aside, she turned the drill off and reached two hooves down towards a panel, lifting it open for the first time in over a decade and a half.

        She revealed a hollow within the bulkhead of the Harmony's upper gondola.  Inside of this immaculate crevice, there was a porcelain-white container built out of Cloudsdalian sky marble.  The box was fitted within a metal frame fashioned to perfectly encompass the fragile little object.

        Gently, as if cradling the preserved heart of Princess Celestia herself, Scootaloo lifted the white container in two brown hooves.  She raised the amber goggles off her scarlet eyes and gazed solemnly as she turned the box around, tapped its lid, and opened it before the flickering lanternlight.

        Inside the box, resting softly on a bed of velvety fabric, were three perfectly preserved feathers, and all of them were blue.  They shone with a brilliance that was not lost to the ages, and their sapphiric glory pierced the decrepit brown shadows of the cabin, as if the apocalypse was being stabbed by a preserved sliver of the once-blue sky.

        Scootaloo reached one hoof down and softly, lovingly petted the soft blue fibers, reveling in their touch, though her eyes watered progressively upon the hauntingly familiar sensation.  With each bend and flutter of the blue feathers in her grasp, she heard voices, she felt warmth, she saw faces.

        She saw...




        The bone-white spokes of a pair of pegasus wings glistened in a halo of twilight, but were quickly covered with ivory stone shards.  Laying the last few chunks of sky marble into place, a nine year old Scootaloo finished burying the remains of Rainbow Dash.  Exhaling several heavy breaths, she slumped down to her haunches before the mound of boulders she had spent the entire day hauling to that cliff-face within the inner ruins of Cloudsdale.

        The filly's violet eyes were thin, contemplative.  With each passing second that she spent gazing at the mound of stones, her irises jaded one tiny sliver at a time, spiraling outward from the deep abyss of her pupils, as if giving birth to a scarlet malaise that would become the new windows to a weathered soul.  She scraped a pair of hooves against the granite floor lit by the halo of twilight.  Scootaloo felt as if there was something wrong with her limbs, as if they weren't supposed to feel so empty.

        A shiver ran through her tiny body.  The little pegasus knew that it wasn't because of the cold.  Every time her violet orbs swam over the rocky edges of the grave, her heart sank deeper and deeper into a frigid abyss.  Somehow, the grave didn't seem anywhere near proper; it was hardly a memorial fit for Rainbow Dash.  The mare deserved something unearthly, something grand, a mausoleum built inside a comet or a burning castle in the sky.  If Scootaloo could live out a million lives just to carve an effigy out of the tallest mountain of the world using her bare hooves, she would, if only it'd mean that she had truly, lovingly, epically honored the soul whose shell was now decaying before her, piled underneath a mound of pathetic and unpolished stones.

        The last pony shuddered under the weight of her own breaths.  She needed to move on.  She needed to search for resources, for shelter, for supplies.  She needed to find a way out of that insufferable pit that she had fallen so foolishly into, only to discover the death of her dreams.  Every time she contemplated acting upon her necessities, her hooves felt heavier and heavier, gluing her to that spot, freezing her upon the threshold of Rainbow Dash's ashes.  All that was left of the prismatic pegasus was a brittle pile of bones and ashes, and yet Scootaloo would rather suffocate herself than wrench the grave that held it from her sight.  There was nothing left of Rainbow Dash's essence—of Rainbow's soul inside that crumpled mess—but it was the closest Scootaloo had to her, the closest she would ever have.

        Perhaps, then, it was fate that made her gaze down upon a lasting sigh, only to spot four bright blue shades against the twilight-glistening slab of granite.  Among the ashes that had shaken loose during Rainbow Dash's burial, a random flock of feathers had fluttered free.  While every other part of Dash's body had dissolved into the same powdery mess that the Cataclysm had reduced the whole of Ponydom to, the adult pegasus' feathers—those of which hadn't flown off into the gaping chasm beyond the cliff-face—had remained intact.  Their soft strands still sang with pristine, sapphiric color.  The stalks were strong and they could still catch air, as they had been grown to do.

        Scootaloo very slowly, very gently scooped these four feathers up in her hooves.  She clutched them to her chest, enthralled and embittered all the same to feel their softness, and—however  impossibly—a magical state of warmth.  She shuddered, clenching her eyes tightly shut to hold the tears in.  No matter how deeply she flung herself into the darkness of her mind, she saw Rainbow Dash’s face, she saw Rainbow’s gaze, and she saw a coat that shone with the color of a blue sky, a sky that was now as mythological to the dead world as smiles and laughter.

        When her eyes reopened, all was desolation.  All was gray and lifeless.  All was real.  The last pony acquainted herself with it, one painful breath at a time.  Her eyes dried as did her resolve, pulling herself up on weak limbs as she stuck the feathers behind her ears—two on either side of her shaved mane—and marched off into the crumbling caverns beyond, wrenching her sight from Rainbow Dash's grave as she slowly embraced a life of broken and colorless dreams.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        
        The small equine figure shuffled up gigantic, subterranean mounds of crumbled sky marble.  Her hoofsteps made tiny, scraping sounds against the ambiance of distant waterfalls and the echoing groans of settling Cloudsdalian structures.  She was no longer shouting, no longer wailing, no longer calling out for other pegasi souls to answer her.  What was dead was dead; what was pointless was pointless.  Her breaths were solid and regimental things, merely pulling her over the next hill of rubble and the hill after that, diligently searching for salvageable buildings to scavenge from.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo found one such building, a lopsided post office that had fallen sideways into the grand abyss of the inner ruins, but had somehow remained intact.  A waterfall from melted sky marble above was relentlessly drenching the middle of the split structure, horribly soaking several mounds of parchment that now floated in a blighted pond of bobbing office tools.  Scootaloo waded over the surface of the liquid, keeping her head above water.  It wasn't so important that her shaved head remain dry as it was to protect the four blue feathers tucked behind her ears.

        With patience and perseverance, the flightless pegasus paddled her way towards a dry platform of wood and ivory, atop which several splintery cabinets of post office materials were lying.  She rummaged through the drawers, pulling out every dry and tangible object she could find.  Upon discovering a mailpony's delivery bag, she let loose a victorious breath and fastened it to her flank.  It was made for an adult pony, and the canvas lengths of the material utterly dwarfed her.  Scootaloo reasoned that she could make adjustments later.  For the time being, she filled the pockets of the saddlebag with as many tiny nick-nacks and miscellaneous objects as she could find.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Hours later, Scootaloo stumbled upon the imploded ruins of the Cloudsdalian Defense Ministry.  She knew what it was because the structure was filled to the brim with dead pegasi, and almost all of them were encapsulated with the heavy armor of royal guardponies.  The shells of golden armor resembled like giant eggshells, in the center of which were flimsy skeletons frozen in agonized death throes.  The bones had been seared to ash; the great fires of the Cataclysm had spared nopony.

        Scootaloo didn’t care.  There was only one corpse in all of Equestria that deserved exaltation, and she had turned her back to her several hours ago.  The last pony marched ahead, dragging her loose saddlebag from the post office, which was already filled to the brim with chunks of random tools and supplies.  The weight of what she carried was becoming unbearable. That didn't stop her from fishing through the armories of the Defense Ministry with desperation.  This place was a treasure trove of metal shields, polearms, helmets and several other samples of Cloudsdalian military craftwork.  Scootaloo eagerly snatched anything that she could.  The only resource she couldn't pretend to hold sway over was time.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Marching up a steep mound of ivory debris, Scootaloo heard a haunting, shrill sound.  She dropped a trio of clattering spears from her gasping mouth.  They rolled uselessly down the steep incline she was ascending—at least until she stopped them with a firm rear hoof next to her dragging saddlebag.  Shivering, the lone pegasus glanced forlornly back past her flank.  The chilling wind of the Wasteland surged briefly down to flutter at her ear-tucked blue feathers.

        A wide, spacious vista opened up before her, exposing the grandiose inner ruins of Cloudsdale, stretching for hundreds of meters beneath the gaping mouth of the gigantic pit that had trapped her.  Rows upon rows of roaring waterfalls lined the cylindrical wound in the ashen earth.  The snowy sky above the mouth of the abyss had turned grayer than Scootaloo remembered.  The burning crimson of the horizon had died off, so that she speculated the falling moonrocks had lessened in frequency at some point since she first fell into that subterranean nightmare.

        All of these visuals were the least of Scootaloo's interests.  She bit her lip and craned her neck to the side, tilting a good ear towards the wide, cavernous expanse stretching before her.  All she heard was the gentle roar of perpetually trickling water and the occasional crunching noise of settling granite and marble.

        However, the pegasus knew that she had heard a whooping noise.  She knew it.  And with that noise there came a vision—cold and heartless before the twitching contemplation of her mind's eye—fitted with pale leathery skin that lurched after her, trampled after her, hungered after her with clawstreaks and growls.

        Her teeth began chattering as she rediscovered her fear.  She still couldn't remember what her foalday was, but she was suddenly sure she wouldn't live to see her next one, whenever it was.  Glancing towards the top of her climb, she clamped her mouth once more over the spears and scampered towards the crest of the hill of rubble, making straight for a black hovel of hollow debris that she had spotted at the top.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The little niche of rock and ivory granite was pathetically small.  It felt more like a closet than a cave.  Nevertheless, Scootaloo scrunched her tiny, shivering body into the furthest corner of the craggy chamber.  She laid the Cloudsdalian spears before her—two against the walls and one on the floor—and all of them with their pointed edges aimed at the mouth of the crevice.  She had no room to produce a makeshift bed, even if she had the materials to do so.  Scootaloo settled for emptying the saddlebag of all its numerous, seemingly useless nick-nacks and stretched the canvas material along a slab of granite.  Against this, she rested her quivering body.


        Her teeth had never stopped chattering.  She was cold, yes, but that wasn't nearly as awful as how hungry she was.  The pegasus was lucky to have found a few crumpled structures that could offer both weapons and tools.  Still, she would give away all of her scavenged things—saddlebag included—if she could somehow trade them for a single jar of wheat... or even a shattered crate of hay.

        There was always the next day; Scootaloo tried to convince herself that.  However, with each passing hour spent in that lonely hovel, struggling for sleep, suffering from the endless groans of the crumbling ruins around her, she realized that—sooner than later—she would no longer have the luxury of anticipating the “next day.”  Scootaloo wasn't sure what would give out on her first: her stomach, her muscles, or her nerves.  One way or another, the Wasteland was going to consume her.  It was only a matter of time.

        She had to keep trying.  She wasn't sure what the was point anymore.  She wasn't sure if she had any logical reason to keep struggling.  Still, as she laid there, cradling the blue feathers in her grasp, stroking the fine sapphiric threads before her bloodshot eyes, she felt pulse after pulse of bizarre energy bolting through her, burning something deep inside of the last pony that no campfire or digested bit of food could illuminate with as much strength or heat.

        Scootaloo stared into the microscopic spaces between the dancing blue threads under her hoof.  She couldn't put a name on what she saw, nor did she need to.  She closed her eyes, and absorbed herself in the silken touches of yesterday, and the last traces of joy they contained.







        “What do you mean they're not enough?”  Scootaloo balked, frowning.

        “I do not mean to discount their infinite value of sentimentality, old friend.”  Inside the skating rink garden of Ponyville, Spike walked across the magical glow of Princess Celestia's mirror and stood before the incredulous pegasus.  “I only mean to say that they are not sufficient for junctioning you to Rainbow Dash.”

        The pony stifled a frustrated growl, waving the white box full of three blue feathers in consternation.  “They are a part of her body, Spike.  They are imbued with Rainbow's essence, are they not?”

        “A valid argument, child.”  Spike wrapped a purple tail around Scootaloo and gently patted her brown shoulder.  “But try convincing my green flame of that.”  The elder dragon smiled, albeit awkwardly.  “Alas, just as with Bon-Bon, Dr. Whooves, Braeburn, Pinkie Pie, and all our other companions before them, I need a great deal of preciously preserved bone matter to anchor you to Rainbow's soul self in the past.  If I attempted using the feathers as an ingredient—no matter the good intention—they would not provide the desired result.  It would be just the same as exposing you, unguarded, to the raw heat of my green fire gland.”

        “And...”  Scootaloo blinked, then squinted at him.  “What would happen to me then, exactly?”

        “Why...” Spike chuckled, coughing up a cloud of green smoke.  “Without a spiritual anchor, child, you would hardly become the avatar of Princess Entropa!”  He waved the fumes off and sauntered over towards a bed of flowers which he promptly watered with a pair of pitchers hooked under one claw.  “You would simply fall victim to the throes of accelerated reverse-time!”

        “So, what?  I'd jump back in time to meet myself five days ago and play hop-scotch or something?”

        “Hardly, my friend.  You'd either get stuck in an eternal time loop, or—in a far less hellish fate—your body would de-age in a blink and you'd be reduced to a puddle of undeveloped amniotic fluid.  You would be unborn unto death, if you can properly interpret the metaphor.”

        “Well, the feathers are here.”  Scootaloo clutched the white container to her chest and sighed.  “Would it be so hard to at least try and see if it's possible to use these as an ingredient?”

        “Honestly, Scootaloo, must I lecture you even more on the hazards of impulsive actions than I already have?”  His iron jaw curved in a soft smile as he finished watering the plants and glanced back at her.  “I assure you, I have done enough proper experimentation in my time to know what is or isn't appropriate in these regards.  You need Rainbow Dash's bones.  I do believe you related to me two days ago that you know where her remains are, am I correct?  Or perhaps there is an impediment to your acquisition of her body that you have yet to relate to me?”

        The last pony bit her lip and pocketed the white box in her saddlebag.  She shuffled across the green garden.  Bees and dragonflies buzzed past her flicking ears in the Celestial light.  “Goblins,” she finally blurted.

        “Goblins?”

        “Imps.  Half-lings.  Tiny, bat-eared freaks that like to smack stuff with wrenches and blow things up,” Scootaloo muttered, digging her hooves in the pliable island of soil beneath her.  “When I first left Cloudsdale, Spike, I didn't return for nearly ten years.  When I did, I almost flew the Harmony straight into a giant series of industrial platforms that popped up from seemingly nowhere.  In my absence, it turns out that a huge population of goblins built a city on top of what used to be the Goddess Nebula’s Refuge.  They own the center of the Equestrian Valley, Spike, and all manner of steam-production and silver trade in the Wasteland eventually gets cycled through their huge, abominable metropolis.”

        “I would be lying if I said I hadn't heard of such a marvelous, fabled city in my years,” Spike said.  “You mean to infer that such a place is a center of major Wasteland commerce?”

        “Sure.  I guess you could say that.”

        “I would venture to say it's an ideal setting to conduct business!  Perhaps more than you think.”  Spike smiled hopefully.  “Surely such a busy populace would diffuse anti-equine sentiment for favor of profitable exchange.”

        Scootaloo winced.  “It's not that simple, Spike.”

        “Why not, old friend?  Do tell.”

        “I haven't exactly had the most... pleasant of experiences in dealing with goblins in the past.”

        “Is this supposed to surprise me?”  Spike raised an eyecrest towards her before leaning down to examine the fruit hanging off a cluster of nearby trees.  “From the stories you've had to tell, it seems as though you've butted heads with all sorts of creatures from harpies to ogres to monkeys to diamond dogs, and none of them are all too pleased to have experienced you either.”

        “With the goblins, it's a lot more complicated.”  Scootaloo trotted slowly around the giant hourglass dedicated to Rarity.  She watched with jaded, scarlet eyes as the two enclosed chambers exchanged growing and dying lavenders along the flaming tongues of reverse-time.  “I know the extent to which they can be cruel.  And yet, if it were harpies or diamond dogs that I first met after the Cataclysm, I probably wouldn't be alive today.”

        “I suppose there is one question that can utterly simplify this matter.”  Spike glanced down at her.  “Do you appreciate them?  As a race, that is?”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  “They're of this Wasteland, Spike.  What's to appreciate?”

        The dragon contemplated that silently.

        The last pony continued, “All that matters is that I need to get to Rainbow Dash now, and the goblins are in the way.”  She sighed and ran a hoof over her face before continuing.  “Finding her won't be like finding all the others, Spike.  This isn't some lonely expedition into the Everfree Briar or a dip into the belly of a fallen moonrock.  I'm going to have to go deep into a place surrounded by creatures convinced that they own the landscape.  What's to stop them from ripping my wings off and feeding them to me on sight?”

        “Surely half-lings can't be so animalistic that they would immediately destroy what they don't understand...”

        “Spike, I love you to death, but you really don't get out that much.”  Scootaloo turned to gaze forlornly across the garden at him.  “I have hooves.  By nature, that means I'm lower than dirt in the Wasteland.  I think the only reason all sentient beings in Equestria know that one pony is still alive is that they wake up each morning hating something unnameable for a reason they can't understand... at least until I cross their paths.”

        Spike leaned his head aside with a quizzical gaze.  “Why do you think that is, perchance?”

        Scootaloo snorted with a single, barking laugh.  “Ground Control to Major Obvious!  The dragon has landed!”

        “Seriously.  This intrigues me—this hatred for all things equine.”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “I've read many books salvaged from the libraries of dead cities, Spike.  The biggest lesson that history has taught me is that power is forever a precarious balance between the 'haves' and 'have-nots.'  For as long as there've been scholars to record the events of the First, Second, and Third Age, ponies made up the 'haves.'  Go figure: when the Cataclysm happened, it gave the 'have-nots' the leftovers of an apocalyptic dinner table.”

        “So you think that goblins will want nothing better to do than to make you join the dust of all our extinct friends?”

        “Most goblins, if not all, would rather see me dead than imagine a world where sunlight has returned.”

        “Most?  Not all?”

        “I know what I know, Spike.  I discovered the truth first-hoof a long time ago.”  Scootaloo took a deep breath, running a forelimb over her brown coat, as if feeling for several ancient bruises and welts that she was suddenly reawakening to.  “It's not something that I wish to repeat.”

        “Then you should endeavor to approach this situation in a different manner,”  Spike said, pointing a clawed hand.  “This is not Pinkie Pie's city of Dredgemane you are paying a visit to, dear friend.  There are no pony souls to win over; there are none who will respect Goddess Gultophine or her teachings.  Perhaps you should put yourself in the mind of a goblin... when dealing with goblins?”

        “How do you mean?”

        “You've run into them in the past, and yet in spite of all your misgivings about the half-ling races, you are still alive.”  Spike smirked.  “That suggests to me that you stumbled upon honor as much if not more so than brutality.  Perhaps you should seek a path in accordance with the integrity of goblin hearts, assuming it is indeed there.”  He then winked.  “And if that doesn't work, I'm sure there's another language all creatures of the Wasteland speak: the language of silver.”

        Scootaloo blinked at that.  She fidgeted where she stood.  “I'm kind of stripped of strips at the moment, Spike,” she murmured, then glanced off towards the far side of the garden.  Her scarlet eyes caught sight of several bright colors dangling on the far side of the terrarium.  Her lips curved ever so slightly.  “But I may be able to procure some, with a little bit of persuasion.”

        “What are you thinking of, old friend?”

        “It depends.”  Scootaloo glanced his way.  “Think you might be willing to part with a plant... or two... or three?”

        “If it will help you get to your goal, absolutely, child.”  He raised a finger.  “Though, might I suggest that I part with a breath first...”

        Scootaloo was briefly confused.  Then she jumped in place.  “Y-You mean you're ready now?”

        He smiled with a brief wince, clutching a clawed hand over his burning chest.  “If I wait any longer, I do believe my fire gland will burst out of my sternum.”

        She was already fumbling through her saddlebag to procure the glass jar.  “And you promise me that this will give me anywhere between one hundred fifty to two hundred meters of anchorage?”

        “I would hesitate to put such a theory to an absolute test,” the dragon mumbled, clearing his throat as the temperature of the room heated up before his nostrils.  “It will be a good two to three weeks before I can produce another breath—regardless of its potency—considering how much enchantment and focus I've put into this flame.”

        “In other words...”  She smirked slyly while hoofing a long glass jar—two times larger than normal—into his palm.  “'Don't royally screw this one up, Scootaloo.'”

        “What I lack in your poetic gusto, let me compensate with my own endearing words.”  He paused with the open jar hanging before his jaws, his eyeslits glinting emphatically her way.  “Do not do this for me, Scootaloo.  Neither do it for the Sun and Moon.  Do this for Rainbow Dash.”

        She slowly, slowly nodded.  “Believe me, Spike,” she murmured in a low voice.  “I couldn’t possibly give less of a crap about this ugly world than I do this very moment.”

        The elder dragon gazed blankly at her, looking neither sad nor relieved.  Whatever reaction he had to give those bold words would come in time, as he tilted his body forward and exhaled the brightest and richest burst of emerald flame Scootaloo had yet witnessed into that small, glass jar.

        Scootaloo stared into the curtains of green plasma as they filled the cylindrical container.  For a brief moment, the orphan of time wished that she could have been a wielder of Entropa's essence, instead of a hapless observer like the Goddess herself.  Once again, she would literally be carrying time in a bottle, and yet she knew to expect several days—if not weeks—before she could be close enough to acquiring Rainbow Dash's ashes for the trip that needed to be made.  For the first time since being anchored to Pinkie Pie, being the last pony felt as helpless and insignificant as it had always been without the green flame.

        The warm memories of Lyra and Bon Bon's vacation at Dream Valley were like mythological shadows now, melting away from the heat of Spike's prolonged exhale.  Scootaloo allowed her eyes to get absorbed into the bright, singular hue, and tried to imagine the colors of the past that were retreating away from her as she contemplated the journey ahead.  No matter how much she entreated the spectrum, all she could see—suddenly—was blue.





        The sapphiric fibers of a feather tickled young Scootaloo's shaved scalp from where it was tucked behind her ear.  It was the tiniest of touches, and yet the last pony quietly relished in it as though it were an embrace.

         The sundered world rumbled around her.  Crackling explosions and bright flashes of light ruptured the air beyond the tiny cranny within which she hid.  Scootaloo trembled, assaulted with the cold and the noise all the same.  Her eyes squinted open, tearing up as she sniffled and choked back the hundredth frightened sob of the evening.

        Over the past few days, the last pony had gathered enough supplies to turn her claustrophobic little niche into a sturdy enough hideout to rival the torchlit place she had built on the Wasteland surface.  However, this cramped excuse for a cave wasn't nearly sufficient at sheltering her from the regularly scheduled nightmare that haunted the sky.

        The latest stormfront was billowing across the deathscape, and cyclonic swirls of thunder and lightning were scooping their violent way down into the abyss of Cloudsdale's inner ruins.  Weathering a Wasteland storm was traumatizing enough at ground level.  Here, in the gaping wound of the world, the echoes created by the electrical event were positively deafening.  Scootaloo heard the shattering of rock and debris as an errant lightning bolt or two struck the rubble not too far from the mouth of her niche.  At any second, she figured, the brilliant phenomenon would soon reach into the cavern and strike her, lighting her up like a winged torch.  She awaited death like she anticipated her next breath, full of cold and relentless terror.

        A few hours ago, she had thrown up, which was the best evidence the last pony could have that she had finally discovered a way to properly nourish herself by that point.  Several scavenging trips had at last unearthed a Cloudsdalian supply depot, within which the filly discovered several jars of oats.  Instead of scarfing down the precious edibles, she had wisely decided to ration what she discovered, though it didn't help much that what little she had allowed herself to devour that day had come right back out her esophagus halfway through the nightmarish stormfront rampaging above.

        The smell of her own bile filled Scootaloo's nostrils as she shivered inside the tiny chamber of rock.  She knew that she was lucky to have food.  She knew that she was lucky to have spears, a modicum of supplies, and a saddlebag that she had managed to alter so that it could fit her petite size.  More than anything, however, Scootaloo needed to build a fire.  It was either find some flint and tinder, or die of cold during one of these pathetically futile attempts at sleep.  The stormfront was horrible and frightening, but at least it forced the adrenaline in her sobbing shell of a body to bring warmth to her twitching extremities.  Fear was healthy, so long as it kept her blood pumping.  Scootaloo dreaded the day when relaxation would be the end of her.  As the thunder and lightning roared on, she stopped fighting the tears, for they warmed her just the same.





         A blue feather fluttered in the cold breeze that wafted across the inner ruins.  Scootaloo wore this piece of Rainbow Dash behind her ear—while the other three were safely bagged away in the hollow of her cave—as she climbed over a tall mountain of debris the day after the stormfront.  She poked a Cloudsdalian spear at a chunk of moonrock.

        Scootaloo's violet eyes narrowed as she sifted through the white powdery stone that had been charred black by lightning strikes overnight.  Curiously, she brushed a few flecks of white moonrock aside and uncovered—for the first time before her vision—a few shards of brightly colored gemstones.  It impressed her that such prismatically distinct rocks could somehow be hidden away beneath the ivory surface of the lunar material.  She briefly pondered if the lightning had somehow alchemically produced the crystalline substances, or if perhaps it was something else.

        There was a distant echoing sound from across the subterranean expanse.

        Scootaloo gasped and spun about, the weight of the saddlebag shifting along her flank.  She gripped her spear tightly and peered across the shadowy domain.  Beyond several bands of twilight, flanked by a curtain of waterfalls, four or five small specks could be seen climbing alongside a steep cliff-face of sky marble.  Their movement was freakishly fast, and even from a far glance, Scootaloo guessed that the figures were bipeds.

        They disappeared as swiftly as the last pony had spotted them, vanishing beyond a mound of crumpled ivory that rose in the foreground of the young equine's view.  Predictably, every coat hair on the back of Scootaloo's neck rose.  Aside from diamond dogs and dragon whelps, she only knew one type of creature that marched upright.  Her ears pricked, as if hearing the shrill, phantom sounds of whooping and hollering voices beyond the twilight.

        She needed to get out of there.  She needed to ditch the moonrocks, scamper back up the hill, find a huge boulder to roll in front of her cave, and hide in the back of her niche until the shuffling figures went away or starved or both.

        However, Scootaloo knew that she also needed warmth if she was to survive, and all of her ingredients for torch-lighting had been left abandoned up in her surface-level hovel.  The little pegasus remembered seeing trolls carrying torches across the wasteland.  If she could somehow discover what secret it was that those pale, leathery creatures knew—about how to spark fires in a world of lifeless desolation and chaos—then she might not only learn how to prosper like they did, but she might even be able to surpass them, even inside this pit of all places.

        The same ear that pricked to hear those creatures' haunting noises just then felt the soft blue follicles of Rainbow Dash's feather tucked against it.  Scootaloo gripped her spear tighter in the crook of her hooves.  As her jaw clenched, she marched downhill towards the abyss, instead of fleeing uphill towards safety.






        “I can find you a zeppelin to pilot on your own,” Pitt said, smirking as he polished the bar counter of the M.O.D.D. under smoke and cold lanternlight.  “If you show me a pilot's license.”

        A battle-scarred ogre blinked confusedly at the balding baboon.  He flashed his overweight cohorts a weird look, then squinted suspiciously at the monkey bartender once more.  A pilot's license?”

        “Yes,” Pitt said, stifling a yawn.

        The ogre took a deep, fuming breath, clenching his fists.  “The world blew up decades ago.  Who in the blue fudge bothers with pilot's licenses, monkey?”

        “This monkey bothers, especially when the oafs requesting a license from him look like they just marched straight out of Tartarus.”  The baboon grinned wide, yellow teeth glinting in the light of the bar.  “Besides, I like seeing you sweat.”

        The ogres exchanged lethargic glances.  The ringleader picked his beaten helmet up from the counter and droned, “I swear, life was easier when ponies were running the world.”

        “Then go dig some of them up and have an orgy!”  Pitt pointed a gnarled finger.  “If you lazy, A.W.O.L. melon fudges can't handle the Wasteland economy outside the protective wings of your bone-headed armies, then maybe you have no business trying to become zeppelin merchants to begin with!  It's a long crawl to the top of the food chain, fatties.”

        “We're never coming to this trading post again.”

        “Good!  Because this building has a hard enough time staying atop this mountain without the whole lot of you adding your godawful weight to it!”  Pitt waved a dishrag at them as they lumbered hulkingly through the double doors of the wooden place's exit.  “Go fly off and play exploding football or whatever it is you obese slobtards do in your spare time.  Like I need more flies gathering in this place than there already are.”  Once they were gone, the baboon wriggled his ugly red nose and resumed polishing the glossy counter as several nearby patrons slurred and belched between wandering shadows of monkey waiters.  “Frickin' humor of the gods—I swear.  We're living in the apocalypse, and the fatties just refuse to go quietly into that stinky night.”

        “You take things for granted, Pitt,” a voice droned.  “It's hard to smell anything in a life that forever stinks.”

        Pitt's nostrils flared.  Without looking up, he smirked.  “Harmony.  Long time no inhale.  If I do say so, you're a lot more fragrant than normal—”  He glanced up.  He stopped in mid-speech, blinking hard.  “...You're not the last pony.”

        A brown equine with long, flowing pink hair and a matching tail marched up towards the bar counter, carrying a saddlebag that bulged more than usual.  Several drinkers glanced over curiously from their wooden tables, giving the pony second glances until their eyes finally stumbled upon the familiar image of a copper rifle resting atop her spine.  They no longer pretended to be interested and resumed drowning themselves in alcohol.

        “I'm disappointed, Pitt,” Scootaloo spoke.  She did something strange within the confines of the M.O.D.D.  She smiled.  Pitt blinked awkwardly at her as she planted her saddlebag down on the counter and leaned casually against the bar with a positively cheerful posture.  “You're supposed to have the most gifted nose in all of the Wasteland, and yet you don't know a gift horse when you look her in the mouth?”

        “If you're a gift horse, Harmony, then I'm Ape Lincoln.”  He made a face at her.  A monkey waiter planted a tray down before him and he proceeded to grab a tall bottle from the shelves, pouring a fresh drink.  “Every time you come here, something explodes or someone is thrown through a table or some other ghastly destructive crap happens.”  He planted the fresh drink onto the tray and the waiter carried it off with a flicker of a brown tail.  “I suppose I should be thanking the monkey gods that you just missed those former war ogres by a few seconds.  Rumor is that the Battle over the Valley of Jewels has gone south for the Fire Ogres, ever since some naga mercenary infiltrated their lines and  performed some sabotage.  The Mountain Ogres have been kicking the Fire fatties' blubbery butts ever since, and we've had several deserters waltzing in on the bar here, asking for jobs, zeppelins, backrubs—you name it.  Yeesh, couldn't the Cataclysm have killed off all the bums in the world?”

        “I figured that it only made bums of us all, Pitt,” Scootaloo said with a sly smirk.  “Otherwise, a place like the Monkey O'Dozen Den wouldn't exist.”

        “'Monkey Ten Den.'”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

        “I'm changing the name,” Pitt muttered, shelving several drinking glasses.  “It's the 'Monkey Ten Den' from now on.  I don't care what the sign outside says; neon is expensive in a world without moonlight.”

        “What happened?”  Scootaloo squinted.  “Did two of your brothers...?”

        He nodded.  “Terry and Brad.  Three weeks ago, they fell into a vat.”

        Scootaloo glanced briefly across the eatery, then looked back at the baboon.  “A vat of what?”

        Pitt shuddered.  “You don't wanna know.”  He hung the dishrag over his shoulder while pouring another mug of ale for a half-conscious patron two stools away from the pony.  “So, Harmony, if you're not here to shatter my tables or chat it up about war ogres, just what are you here for?”

        “What am I ever here for?”  Scootaloo smirked.  “Business, Pitt.  I need strips.”

        “Nnngh!  Glue stick!”  A drunk, mangy raccoon with a metal prosthetic jumped up behind the pony, ready to slam his twitching claws into the back of her pink mane.  “To the horseshoe grave!  Nnngh!  With glue stick—OOF!”

        Scootaloo blindly back-hoofed the varmint so that he fell to the wooden floorboards with an ineffectual thud.  Her tranquil gaze remained locked on Pitt.  “Lots, and lots of strips.”

        “Heheheheh—Heyyyyy, kiddo, I want strips!”  Pitt grinned yellowly.  “My brothers want strips!  The whole crap-shoveling world wants strips!  There's not a single one of us here who wouldn't strip for strips, even those of us who don't wear clothes!  But you don't see me waltzing up to honorable business establishments like an ogre begging for handouts—Or in your case, hoof-outs.  Heh.”

        “You should know me by now, Pitt.”  Scootaloo's brow furrowed ever so slightly.  “I don't beg.  I earn.”

        “That's a tough claim coming from a pony who almost entirely does her business with a vertically challenged flying squirrel from Godknowswhereistan.  I swear, it's a miracle you aren't spitting out peanuts every time you open them pretty molars of yours.”  Pitt slid a mug of ale to the nearest patron.  Reaching into a glass jar, he planted a toothpick into his mouth and smirked towards the pony.  “Seriously, Harmony.  Talk silver before you talk smack.  I've had it up to my ear hairs with cowardly ogres trying to scrape a bite to eat.”  He folded his arms in a smug posture.  “I can only toss so many fat lards into the canyon below before my shoulders get tired.  I do hope to retire someplace where there are trees for me to climb before these biceps of mine turn into string beans, y'know.”

        “Funny you should say that,” Scootaloo murmured, reaching a forelimb into her bulging saddlebag and rummaging through its contents.  “Tell me, Pitt.  What's curved, phallic, and delivered in its own yellow contraceptive?”

        Pitt huffed.  “Heh... I can think of a few honeymoon gifts I once prepared before my fiancee jumped off a cliff.”  He smirked at her, but then the smirk fell—along with the toothpick from his mouth—as the last pony thumpingly placed a cluster of yellow fruit down onto the bar counter.  All the sound of mumbling, belching voices instantly drowned out throughout the entire room.  In the far corner of the M.O.D.D., a patron shouted in consternation as an entire tray full of dishes was dropped in his lap.  The guilty waiter—along with two simian siblings—immediately rushed over to the counter and gawked with bulging eyes.

        Scootaloo leaned her chin against a hoof, staring calmly at them, quietly waiting.

        “How...”  Pitt muttered in a suddenly dry breath.  His voice was dead and distant, as if reborn to a humble atmosphere.  He gulped and ran a gnarled, hairy palm across the pliable contours of six fresh and undeniably real bananas.  “Where in the wide world of crap did you get these?”

        “They were not gotten,” Scootaloo said.  “They were grown.”

        “You... You...”  Pitt's eyes fluttered, as if the bald primate was fighting off an inexplicable seizure.  One of the monkey waiters reached a shaky finger over to touch the holy fruit.  Pitt slapped his palm away and leaned possessively over the yellow objects on the counter.  “You mean to tell me that you've found a way to grow—to actually plant and breed edible bananas somewhere in the Wasteland?”

        “Actually, I mean to tell you that you can find a way to grow and breed edible bananas.  How you plan to do that here in the freezing heights of this Celestia-forsaken rathole is beyond me.”  She motioned a hoof towards the double-doors of the establishment, beyond which her airship was moored.  “I have three whole stalks potted and resting in the hangar bay of my ship.  The rhizomes are still ripe and there are plenty of suckers to graft off the things and regrow a new stem.  Why, with enough light and heat, you just might be able to—”'

        Pitt waved a hand in her face.  “D-D-Don't tell me how to grow bananas.  I'm a baboon.  My brothers and I knew how to grow bananas before we popped out of our mother's hairy womb.”  He took a shuddering breath, rubbing a soot-covered palm over his bald spot.  “It just begs the question... How and where did you find these, Harmony?”

        “There's an even better question.”  Scootaloo smiled icily, her scarlet eyes narrow.  “How much are you willing to pay to not bother having to know, because you'll have this stuff growing here?”

        Pitt blinked, biting his lip as the wheels turned in his balding head.

        Suddenly, the lights overhead flickered.  A door behind the counter flung open and a breathless, sweating chimpanzee stuck his head out.  “Brother!  Brother!  Do I smell what I think I smell?!”

        “Willis, ya worthless pile of showerdrain lint!”  Pitt hollered at the monkey while his other siblings cowered away from him.  “Get back on the bike!”

        “B-But brother—!”

        “You'd better resume pedaling before I paint the bathroom with your tooth enamel!”

        “Y-Yes, Brother!”  The door slammed shut and the generators resumed pumping electricity throughout the place.

        Pitt took a deep breath.  He rubbed his face and lips with a shivering hand, gazing at the bananas, at Scootaloo, then at the bananas again.  “Silver strips, huh?  You can bet my red butt this will get you silver strips.  I haven't seen you for ages—I imagine you're at the end of your last drop.”

        “I've been working on a project, Pitt.  It's something of a scientific endeavor.  For my latest experiment, a special business partner of mine needs me to acquire some ingredients.”  Scootaloo lingered halfway through her speech, staring at a random row of blue bottles on a distant shelf.  She briefly envisioned a trio of sapphire feathers fluttering in their place.  In a blink, she brought herself back to the here and now.  “Stronger ingredients, that is.  I need to get these things or else I can't perform the next leg of scientific... observation.”

        “Is this partner of yours someone who knows a thing or two about growing bananas in the Wasteland?”

        “Pitt.”  Scootaloo frowned at him.  “I need strips for where I'm going.  I need lots of them.”

        The baboon actually had to think for a few embarrassing seconds before finally uttering, “Five thousand strips.”

        “Don't insult me.”  Scootaloo grunted.  “Five thousand per friggin' banana plant, you volcano-nosed cheapskate.”

        “Now there's the pony I remember.”  He briefly smirked, cleared his throat, and said with a surly squint, “Eight thousand strips, and you give me two plants.”

        “You're such a kidder, Pitt.”  Scootaloo smirked.  “I know as well as you do that you want all three.  How about thirteen thousand silver strips for all three plants and you throw in a bushel of iron rivets just to show what a generous businessmonkey you are?”

        “Thirteen thousand strips...”  Pitt scratched the exposed skin of his head and whistled.  “Harmony, you do realize that I rarely ever give out ten thousand strips for a regular restock of ale.”

        “I bet you feel depressed for keeping track.”
        
        “Why would I ever consider bestowing a living soul more than that in a single transaction, much less a pony?”

        Scootaloo winked.  “Because I like seeing you sweat.”

        Pitt blinked, then smiled slyly.  “You've got the hooves of a pony, but the ears of a fox.”

        “I'm about to give the crap of an elephant if this conversation goes on any longer.”  Scootaloo stared at him.  “Is it a deal or isn't it?”

        “Hmmngh...”  Pitt folded his arms and sighed hard.  “There's an old monkey proverb: 'Money is impermanent; bananas last forever.'”

        “You just made that up, didn't you?”

        “So sue me.”  He cleared his throat.  “It's a deal, Harmony.  May the gods help me, it's a frickin' deal.  I don't know how you did it, but you just brought to this bar the last remaining good thing in this world.”

        “Yeah, well, to each his own.”  Scootaloo flung the saddlebag back over her spine.  “Oh, by the way, I want the thirteen thousand strips packaged in brass bars.  I'm sure you have some sitting around somewhere in your stockroom, collecting dust.”

        “Brass bars?”  Pitt raised an eyebrow in her direction.  “Are you intending to do business in an imp city?”

        “The only impcity around these parts that matters.”  Scootaloo pulled a canteen out from her bag, unscrewed it, and raised it to her lips.  “Remember the ingredients I told you that I need for my partner's science experiment?”

        “Yeah...?”

        She took a swig of reclaimed water, swallowed, and exhaled.  “Well, my search is taking me to the Northern Plains.  It just so happens that the goblins there have built a huge frickin' factory on top of the location.”

        “Ahhh...”  Pitt nodded with a knowing smirk.  “So you're headed to Petra.  Good luck, Harmony.  I hear those half-lings love ponies like they love a good scythe in the eye.”

        The last pony's brown nostrils flared as she screwed her canteen shut.  “Yeah,” she said with a stifled grunt.  “I know.”

        “Cheer up, though.”  Pitt winked.  “I heard the boiling steam clouds are pretty this time of year, assuming there haven't been any gremlin pilots falling into the smokestacks like what happened last month.  The resulting explosion took out about two hundred half-lings along the city's upper strut below.”  Pitt snickered, laughed, and slapped his knee.  “Ahhhhhhh... gods, I am so broke right now.”

        “I'll have the plants delivered immediately.  You just have the silver strips ready in their brass casings, and I promise you won't be seeing me for a long time.”

        “I don't know whether to be sad or relieved.”

        “Try settling for indifferent.”  Scootaloo walked towards the swinging doors of the place.  “It's always been my favorite way to be treated in the Wasteland.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Heaving and sweating, two monkeys finished shoving a hulking crate full of brass-encased silver strips towards the edge of the high-altitude cliff.  Above them, the Harmony hovered, tethered by a series of dangling chains attached to one of the vertical wooden beams lining the outside of the M.O.D.D.'s wooden structure.  Scootaloo patiently watched them, a pair of copper goggles professionally obscuring her expression.

        “Now I know that Pitt is ga-ga for those bananas,” the last pony murmured.  “He had the payment delivered on time.”

        “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” a breathless orangutan grumbled and squinted suspiciously at her.  “There'd better not be anything rotten with those plants you gave us, pony!  The last time our brother was this generous, he lost all his head hair.”

        “Well, maybe I did him a favor then,” Scootaloo spoke into a flurry of snow.  “Maybe he'll lose his head next.”

        “Hardy har har,” the other monkey said, but stood in place.  His brother was also standing in place.  Neither of the two monkeys were moving a single centimeter.

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow above her goggles.  “Is there something wrong?”

        One simian grunted, “Don't ponies believe in tipping?”

        “Not all species fling their poo.”

        “Meh.  Screw you, glue stick.”  The two bounded off on their feet and knuckles.

        Scootaloo managed a smirk to herself.  Flexing her wing muscles, she turned to the crate full of silver strips and prepared to lift the payment up to the platform outside the Harmony's entrance.  Just as she reached for the first brass casing, her ears pricked to hear the sound of a horrible scuffle beyond her flank.  Mildly curious, she turned around and adjusted her lens to get a good look.

        Three battle-scarred ogres were gathered in a circle about ten meters north of the edge of the M.O.D.D. building.  At first, they appeared to be arguing over something, but then Scootaloo noticed how all of them had their helmeted heads tilted down.  What was more, they were shouting several grunts, hisses, and insults—all timed with a series of kicks that they gave to a body that she suddenly noticed sprawled on the rocky ground beneath them.

        “Grrgh!  Pathetic slime ball!  Go find your own food!”

        “Heheh!  Typical half-ling!  You'll grab anything you can get your eight tiny fingers on!”

        “Back in the Valley, you would have made a good cannon cleaner, you puny, gutless piece of wimp!”

        “Pl-Please!” A tiny, impish figure was lying on the edge of the mountain, quivering from their repeated pummeling.  He spat blood and hyperventilated while struggling to shout up at the bullying ogres.  “I-I didn't think it belonged to anyone!  It was just lying here like someone left it!  Please—don't hurt me!  I'm just hungry!  I-I'm just so hungry!”

        “Hmmm!  A hollow half-ling!  He would make for a perfect game of ogre football!”

        “Hahah!”

        “Oh no!  Please!  Please—Don't!”

        “Alley oop!”  The biggest of the ogres reared his foot and struck the petite figure hard in the ribcage.

        Scootaloo observed from afar as the bipedal victim flew, landed, and rolled to a stop—barely missing the edge of the cliff by a meter.  In perfect view, the creature turned out to be a young green goblin.  A mat of shaggy, green hair framed a bruised face of emerald skin as he clutched his side and curled up into a fetal position.  A pair of aquamarine eyes glittered like distant stars while tears welled forth from deep within.

        The ogres laughed.  It was hard to tell what drew their guffaws out harder, the sight of the teenage goblin crying or the fact that he was lucky enough to have not flown off the mountain side.

        “Oh well!  Better practice your punting foot for next time!”

        “Yeah!  Hahah!  If you can't knock a dinky goblin into the canyon, what good are you outrunning the Military Police?”

        “Oh stuff your face!  Let's go find ourselves a ride off this god-forsaken monkey mountain!”

        The three ogres stomped away, but not without one of them pausing to observe the discarded, threadbare sandwich that they had spotted the goblin scrambling for earlier.  Making sure the pained imp was watching, the obese cretin stamped his heel over the rancid meal and ground it to useless paste.  He laughed, scratched the fatty folds of his own belly, and marched after his two companions.

        Sniffling, wincing in pain, the tiny goblin stretched his body out and crawled slowly towards the scant remains of sustenance.  It was an agonizing sight, highlighted by a limp and useless left leg that the imp was forced to drag behind him during the entire endeavor.  When he reached the residue of the sandwich, he clawed and scraped and licked at whatever flimsy morsels that he could pry off the rockface.  Halfway through the process, he broke down, clutching his green face in two hands and sobbing.

        This would have been a melancholy sight to behold, only no soul was looking.  Not even Scootaloo: she had hastily flown her silver strips up to the entrance of the Harmony and shoved them inside, shutting the aperture doorway behind her.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        The brass-cased strips were safely tucked away in a compartment of the hangar bay.  The boiler was fired up.  The steam pipes were hot once more.  With a solid breath, Scootaloo hopped into the cockpit of the Harmony and began flipping the many levers that switched on the airship's instrument panel.

        Scootaloo was refueled in more ways than one.  She had the money to negotiate with the impish creatures she was bound to meet in Petra, per Spike's suggestion.  What was more, thanks to Pitt's generous payment, she was certain she had enough extra silver to appease Gilda after the next batch of stormfronts.

        Scootaloo was ready to go.  She thought of the bottle of green flame lying on her workbench.  She thought of the Observatory of Nebula.  She thought of Rainbow Dash.  There was nothing to stop her now.

        Swiftly, Scootaloo pulled two levers on either side of the cockpit.  She raised her muzzle and clasped onto a dangling, chain-link handle with her teeth... and paused.  After a few seconds, she raised a hoof up and shoved her goggles up to her brow.

        Beyond the glass of the upper cabin's dashboard, Scootaloo had a good view of the polished, obsidian mountainside.  Across the tiny plateau of black rock, a green figure was slowly, painfully crawling towards a hollow in the side of the nearest promontory.  Scootaloo didn't realize how long she was staring at the starving goblin's plight until she blinked her eyes and saw—in inverse colors—a puny, orange shape scraping across a white expanse to enter a lonesome niche.

        Scootaloo reopened her eyes, instantly wincing.  With a frown, she aimed her eyes back down at the numbers and diodes of her instrument panel.  There was no reason to delay her somber trip to Petra.  Every second spent outside of Pitt's bar was wasted time.  Creatures of the Wasteland were doomed to suffer as soon as they were born.  Their life was desolation even before the Cataclysm hit.  Scootaloo could hardly care about goblins... or monkeys or ogres or Diamond Dogs, for that matter.  They all hated her anyways.  And she?

        She was indifferent.


        She repeated the same words that she had thrown at Pitt:  “It's always been my favorite way to be treated in the Wasteland.”  She hadn’t understood what made her say them out loud until that very second, when she glanced up and saw the tiny figure of the goblin limping away towards the shadows of a distant cave.  “This is not my world, at least not until I shine the friggin' Sun on it again.”

        She punctuated her utterance by jerking hard on the chain-link handle.  The unmoored Harmony began its ascent.  However, it was a rapid climb, and the gondola was instantly assaulted with turbulence.  As a result, something rattled off her workbench in the center of the cabin and slid across the metal floor.

        Scootaloo turned around in time to see a white box sliding to a stop just at the edge of the revolving staircase leading down to the hangar bay of the craft.  It was the second time in so many minutes that something hadn't fallen into nothingness.  She stared at the ivory-white container, and her breath left her as she imagined the three blue strands tucked away safely within.

        And then she imagined—or rather remembered...









        “Hey!  Pipsqueak!”

        Scootaloo gasped, startled.  She leaned away from a garbage can in the center of sunny Ponyville and put every conceivable effort into pretending that she wasn't just foraging for discarded bites to eat.  Standing nonchalantly on a metal tray fitted with wheels, she tossed her pink mane behind her petite neck and glanced skyward towards where the voice called out for her.

        “Yeah, what?”  She blinked, then blinked harder as her eyes reflected seven colors at once.  “Oh... uh... uh...”

        “Yeah, I know.”  Rainbow Dash winked as she hovered down to just three meters above the little filly.  “I leave everypony speechless.  What are you up to, kid?”

        “I... Uhm...”  Scootaloo fidgeted, nervously imagining the thin, visual distance between herself and the garbage bin.  She cleared her throat and glided slowly towards her right on the tray.  “Nothing much.  H-hey, didn't we meet a week or two before Nightmare Moon showed up and made everything dark for three days?”

        “Don't pretend that a foal like you doesn't remember awesomeness when it crashes into the barn she's lying around in,” Rainbow Dash uttered, stifling a chuckle before casting a glaring eye in Scootaloo's direction.  “Aren't you supposed to be in school or something?”

        “Oh, well, uh, you see... m-my parents homeschool me and I'm out here... erm... doing volunteer work for a business lesson—”

        “Boriiiiiiiing!”  Rainbow Dash rolled her ruby eyes then smirked devilishly.  “Wanna do something fun?”

        “You... want to do something fun?”  Scootaloo's eyes were bright, glass marbles.  “With m-me?”

        “No, with your silly excuse for a skateboard.  What do you think?!”  Rainbow Dash pointed towards some indeterminant space in the heavens towards the north.  “I've gotta practice some wicked cool sky tricks, and I need somepony to be my judge for how awesome they are!  Right now, Fluttershy's too busy rocking her bunny to sleep and Twilight's doing some lousy experiment on mutant beanstalks or something...”

        “Oh...”  Scootaloo's ears briefly drooped as she stared down at her rusted platform.  “So, what you mean to say is: I'm your last choice.”

        “Pfft!  More like first!”

        “Huh?”

        Rainbow Dash flew down to her level.  She smiled.  “In the last month, I've learned how radical it can be to have these new friends I've made.  But it isn't without lameness from time to time.”

        “I... don't get it.”

        “Everypony's just so friggin' nice to each other all the time.  As if that wasn't sappy enough, it makes for poor flight spotting.”  Rainbow Dash merely rolled her eyes.  “Twilight and the gang are always so worried that they'll hurt my feelings that they never tell me when I'm bombing a stunt or not.  That's where you come in.  I figure a pony that once helped me drop snakes into AJ's hat will call a good or bad aerial trick when she sees one.”

        “You... would trust me like that?”

        “It's not a matter of trust, kid!  I'm the friggin' element of Loyalty—or at least Twilight says—so don't worry!  I've got the 'trust' part covered!”  She leaned in and winked.  “It's a boring, sunny day and I wanna have fun.  Don't you?  Anyways, I'll make it up to you afterwards and get us some more of those apples you seem to love scarfing down your gullet.”

        “I...”  Scootaloo stammered for breath.  She blinked her eyes to hide the moist sparkles in her pupils as she smiled warmer than she remembered smiling in months.  “I-I would love to do that, Rainbow Dash.”

        “Ugh, just don't get sappy.  I get enough of that from Twilight and that other unicorn who talks like a vampire.”  Rainbow Dash lifted up with a swish of her blue wings.  “Race ya to Haystack Hill!  It's the best place to watch fliers show off their stuff!”

        “R-Race?”  Scootaloo tightly gripped her metal tray.  “But you're way faster than me!”

        “Oh, of course I'll beat ya, pipsqueak!”  Rainbow Dash was already soaring ahead, casting a daring wink behind her.  “The trick of the game is to narrow the margin!  Now try to keep up!”

        Scootaloo grinned and kicked at the earth, pushing her and the tray northward out of town.  Like chasing a real rainbow, the pursuit was impossible.  Suddenly, Scootaloo saw impossible things as happy things.  It was just enough to erase the memory of hunger in the glistening afternoon.




        The thirty-three year old mare's nostrils flared.  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stared once more out at the cave.  The niche in the mountainside—along with the entire mountain itself—grew more and more distant as the Harmony ascended.  Suddenly, the ascent stopped.  Scootaloo discovered that she had pulled at another chain-link handle, forcing the aircraft into a sudden hover.

        The last pony groaned to herself.  She had to get to Petra.  She had the most precious jar of green flame yet, and it would be foolish to waste any opportunity to use it sooner than later.  She had an entire city full of goblins to worry about.  A single impish bum in the entirety of the Wasteland was the least of her concerns, the least of ponydom's concerns, the last thing that could possibly matter in the future of the desolate world—Sun or no Sun.

        Scootaloo cast the white container another look.  She frowned.  Rainbow Dash was the loyalest of ponies—but she was still a pony.  Aside from Spike—and perhaps Brucie—Scootaloo didn't have the luxury of choosing those who deserved her dedication.  Her mission in the past was too important to delay with meager distractions of the present.  Like Princess Entropa, Scootaloo had an essential duty to be impartial, to be neutral, to be nothing more than an observer.


        Certain that would erase any doubt from her mind, she clutched the chain-link handle to the upper right.  With a single tug, the Harmony would continue ascending.  She would be gone.  She would be on her way.  She wouldn't be bothering with stupid, inane trivialities.  She wouldn't...






        A pegasus-shaped shadow appeared in the mouth of the dark cave.  A sheen of twilight shone off of Scootaloo's leather armor and goggled lenses from the Wasteland outside.  It had been a long time since she last trotted into such an alcove.  Her hooves made unnecessarily loud clopping noises within the entrance of the claustrophobic chamber.  She came to a stop, her horseshoes scraping against the obsidian earth.  Her front right article was rattling loose again.  She frowned, but kept staring ahead into the ink-black darkness, looking curiously for any movement or sign of life—healthy or otherwise—lying inside.  Frustrated, Scootaloo raised a hoof to her goggles, twisted a dial, and adjusted her lenses to take advantage of the grand lack of light.  She had no greater luck seeing the imp that she knew was hiding inside.

        “Hello?!”  She finally called forth.  “Is anypony—” She winced at her own words, doubly vexxed at having made that grammatical mistake for the first time in decades.  She was at a loss to understand why she said that, or at least she pretended to be so ignorant.  Clearing her throat, she resumed, “Is anybody there?”

        Silence returned with silence.  Scootaloo could hear the sound of her own heartbeat, but it wasn't fear.  She spoke again before she could realize what it was.

        “I saw you crawl in here.  Unless this thing leads all the way through the friggin' mountain—which I doubt—you can stop pretending like there's anywhere else to go.  Now are you gonna answer me or not?  ‘Cuz I'm just as confused as you are why I'm standing here.”

        Scootaloo would actually have been happy to have learned that she was talking to herself the entire time.  But then, a tiny voice squeaked breathily from the far end of the dark interior, and she was immediately let down.

        “St-Stay away!  I... I can hurt you!  There's nothing in here that you could possibly want, so... g-get lost!”

        Scootaloo fearlessly—but lethargically—spoke into the echoing blackness.  “Kid, a word of wisdom: insisting that there's nothing inside this cave that a scavenger would want only entices a scavenger all the more.”

        “L-Leave me alone!” the voice cracked with desperation.  “You can't have anything!  I won't let you!”

        “I suggested I was a scavenger—not a plunderer.”  Scootaloo sighed hard and shook her head.  “Look.”  She glared into the shadows, aiming her face towards the sudden, unmistakable sounds of panting breaths.  “I saw you earlier.  You got treated pretty rough.  On top of that, you're obviously very hungry and you have a bad leg.  Believe it or not, I only want to lend a hoof—or hand... whatever.  I very seriously doubt you could hurt me if you tried—”

        There was the explosive sound of compressed air being released.  Something sharp, gold, and pointed flew like a banshee and struck Scootaloo straight in the chest.  The last pony fell to the floor of the cave like a dry sack of meat and was deathly still.

        Second passed... then a full minute.  Shuffling, a petite figure emerged from the shadows.  A pair of aquamarine eyes reflected pale twilight, blinking wide.  A tiny goblin in a black vest stifled a whimper and crawled curiously—guiltily—towards the equine body he had just felled.  A rusted, steam-powered crossbow rattled in his tiny hands.  He slid towards Scootaloo's body on a scuffed, right knee while his left leg dragged behind him like a limp dragon's tail.

        The imp propped his body upright with the crossbow so that he could get a better lock.  He stared at Scootaloo like a young colt regarding a songbird he had just unwittingly killed with a slingshot.  The goblin's eyes moistened and his lips began to quiver.  Gulping, he knelt on his good knee and reached a free hand slowly—cautiously—towards the goggles on the figure's head.

        Suddenly, the limp pony's lips moved.  “You know, you really should aim higher if you want to mortally wound me.”  The voice was calm, serene, and very much full of life.

        “Aaaack!”  The goblin dropped his crossbow and fell back on his rear end.  He scooted desperately away from the undead horse, his eyes wide and pulsating.

        Scootaloo swiftly sat up.  With a single hoof, she effortlessly popped the barbed arrow out of her chest armor.  “Not that it would have done you much good.  You're wielding a late Third-Century Diamond Dog crossbow, undoubtedly something you found dropped off by one of their dirigible grandsons.  The thing was built for skewering rats in tight, underground locations.  They're not meant for long-range.”  She stood up straight and tossed the arrow behind her, all the while icily approaching the goblin and stepping over the ineffectual weapon in question.  “If you really wanted to kill me, you shouldn't have fired from such a long distance.  Even still, the weapon's unkempt and rusted.  You would have had much better luck trying to spear me with a severed stalactite from this cave you've made a home in.”

        “You... Y-you...”  The goblin shrunk away from her and flattened his emaciated form against a wall of the cavern, trembling all over.  “Please... Please don't kill me...”

        “What would it profit me if I did?”  Scootaloo's goggles glistened with the furthest reach of the outer world's twilight, giving her a ghostly presence as she loomed above the imp.  “Did I or did I not say that I was only wanting to help you?”

        “Help... H-help... I...”  The goblin murmured.  The goblin exhaled.  His bright eyes rolled back in his head, and the green half-ling fell down in a slump, fainting instantly from exhaustion and hunger.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  “Heh.  Way to go, Spookaloo.”  She sighed and gave his figure a once-over, studying the hollowness of his cheeks, the gangliness of his limbs, the threadbare state of his black vest, and finally the infection that had consumed the majority of his left leg.  From the way he was numbly dragging his lower limb around, she figured that the bipedal waif had suffered a horrible wound in the past that had never received treatment.  Looking for a scar, she discovered such a mark... only it was in the shape of a horseshoe.

        Then the last pony's brow furrowed, for she realized... it was a “horseshoe.”  Her lips pursed, and in an instant, her heart began beating behind the spot in her leather armor where the arrow had intended to kill her.  Her eyes twitched, and she once again saw...






        Several months ago, in front of the M.O.D.D., not far from that very cave, a little goblin struggled under the arms of several sneering monkeys holding him down.  “No!  No!  Pl-Please!  Don't do this to me!  I'll never last a night in the wastelands if anyone sees me with—”

        “Shut up and take what's coming to ya, cheapskate!”  One of Pitt's brothers brought the horseshoe-shaped branding iron down so that it kissed the goblin's thigh and filled the mountain air with the steam of burning flesh.

        Under the hooting laughter of sadistic primates, the imp's tortured screams rang endlessly into the Wasteland snow.





        Scootaloo winced, her ears humming with the memory of the sound.  She swiftly tore her goggles off her scalp and rubbed her eyes under a confusing fit of shock.  Blinking, calming down, she refocused her gaze once more upon the homeless, branded goblin that was lying beneath her in an unconscious, fetal position.

        The nameless goblin had been alone, all this time, abandoned and destitute on the edge of a mountain populated with countless drunken creatures, and most likely none of them had ever bothered giving him so much as a taste of compassion.  How any living thing—much less one branded with the image of “Equestrian glue sticks”—could possibly have survived that entire time was a mystery to Scootaloo.  It was simply impossible, and yet this tiny scamp of a half-ling had accomplished just such.

        “For what it’s worth,” Scootaloo found herself murmuring once more out loud.  She suddenly realized that the goblin was alive enough to afford murmuring such a thing too.

        The last pony sighed.  She spun around and gazed—squinting—into the pale glow of the outside world, full of bone-chilling snow and desolation.  There was an ivory sheen to the sight, as if it was being reflected off of walls of crumpled sky marble.  With sudden shivers, Scootaloo wanted nothing more than to leave that place immediately.  However, she suddenly remembered something that she had once wanted on another occasion, more than her lonesome words could ever have conveyed to herself, much less anypony.




        The goblin's lips murmured under flickering lanternlight.  His ears twitched, then twitched again.  There was a strange melody wafting into his little, pointed lobes.  It was the sound of melancholic strings dancing around a series of bass chords.  Confused, he stirred, until his body rose a groaning breath up to the level of flinching consciousness.

        “Hrmm... Wh... What...?”

        The teenager’s eyelids fluttered open.  A pair of aquamarine optics glistened in the shadow of his mysterious surroundings.  He glanced at his fingers as he found himself lying in a dangling hammock.  He saw several bandages plastered soothingly across his upper arms, chest, and his bad leg.  Every major bruise was covered—even the ones he had forgotten all about over the months—and he could smell the combined scent of medicinal herbs and ointments.  With another twitching of his ears, he tilted his head up towards the cello music.  He saw a black disc rotating on an antique record player.  Blinking, he followed the whalebone shape of iron bulkheads forming together to produce a tight gondola, inside of which were a glistening boiler, several metal lockers with glowing purple locks, a workbench full of miscellaneous tools and colorful souvenirs, and finally an equine face with a pair of copper goggles shoving a jar of soup towards his mouth.

        “Mushroom stew?”

        “Gaaaah!”  The young goblin attempted leaping out of the hammock.  In his limp condition, he merely toppled over and slammed head-first into the metal floor like a fallen log.

        Scootaloo instantly winced.  She balanced the jar in one hoof and waved at the goblin with another.  “Hey!  Kid!  Calm down—!”

        “Nnghh—No!” The dizzy goblin shrieked, hyperventilated, and spun onto his hindquarters.  “Filthy glue stick!”  On three legs, he desperately crab-walked away from the pony.  “Don't eat me, pony!  Sky-stealing glue stick pony!  Stay back!”

        Scootaloo sighed, “Yes, yes.  I'm a walking repository of liquid adhesive.  Story of my friggin' life.”  She waved the jar of steaming broth up towards him again.  “Shut up and shove something in your belly already!”

        “Nnngh!—No!  D-Don't poison me!” He frantically flung his good leg up and knocked the can out of Scootaloo's hoof.

        The last pony gasped, wincing as her chest and front limbs were doused with steaming soup.  “Nnnnngh—Yeowch.  Sweet Nebula, that sure as heck stinks...”

        “You won't eat me!”  The goblin panted heavily and scooted backwards across the cabin.  His pointed ears drooped as he jerked his head briskly from side-to-side, his frightened eyes reflecting a million alien details all at once.  “I won't let you!  I-I won't!”

        “Oh, for the love of oats—I'm not going to eat you!” Scootaloo exclaimed, shaking the last of the soup off her limbs while making a face.  “Look, you were cold, you were hurt, and you were hungry.  I've already taken care of the first two of those things but right now you're making it really hard to do the third—Staircase!  Behind you!”

        The shuffling goblin shook his head.  “I-I'm not taking my eyes off you for a second!”

        “No, I mean it, kid!”  Scootaloo fiercely pointed a hoof.  “There's a revolving staircase right—”

        “Aaaieee!” The goblin shrieked as he toppled like a weighted domino down the twirling structure of metal steps.  His body ended with a loud thud in the hangar bay down below.

        Scootaloo winced visibly, her teeth showing.  “—behind you.”  She bit her lip and trotted slowly towards the stairs.  “If I'm lucky, maybe he friggin' died from that,” she muttered.  Halfway down the steps, she peered into the dark of the gondola's lower level and sighed to see he was still scrambling about.  “Ugh.  Entropa help me...”

        “Lemme out!”  The young goblin panted from where he sat—bruised and haggard—in the center of the cabin.  He gazed, horrified, at the walls as if they were phalanxes of metal soldiers aiming spears at his tiny body.  “Lemme out, please!  I don't want to die as a morsel in a pony's belly!”

        “Dang it, kid—”

        “I've got no meat on me!” He stifled a sob and waved his thin arms in front of her vision.  “Look at me!  I’m a bag of straws!  Please, lemme out of here!”

        “Alright... Fine!”  Scootaloo silenced him by stamping her hoof down.  With a frown, she marched past the imp and made straightway for the aperture doorway at the gondola's bow.  “H'jem!” she shouted into the runes surrounding the frame.  The iris-shaped panel slid open in a flash..  “You want to get out of here?”  She pointed out the copper hole.  “There's your exit.  Be my guest.”

        Without a second thought, the goblin crawled desperately out on three limbs—only to come to a shrieking stop, his hair windblown as he squatted precariously on the edge of the airship's bow.  Looming nightmarishly far beneath him was nothing but gray clouds and swirling ash; the Harmony was airborne.  Heavy steel propellers sliced against the beating wind as the zeppelin churned its way southwest, piercing the soup of endless overcast.  The entire world was a heaving sea of monochromatic obscurity, ready to devour him at the merest slip of his toes.

        “Uhh—Uhh—Aaaugh!”  The goblin teetered, flailed, and fell—

        “Y'know...”  A brown hoof was suddenly gripping his waist from behind.  Scootaloo droned behind his pointed ears.  “Eating mushroom brew is at least three times a more pleasant experience than falling to a wet, nasty, pulverising death from three thousand meters above sea level.”  She shrugged.  “Of course, that isn't exactly speaking from experience, but one can make an educated guess.”

        Hissing, the goblin wrenched himself from her grasp and clutched a side of the precarious platform, his claws gripping the bulkhead tightly as he cast frightful glances back and forth from between the horrifying drop and the horrifying equine.  He bit his lip and fidgeted visibly.

        “In case you're wondering, I'm not carrying you off to the goblin slaughterhouses that 'evil ponies,'” she said while doing her best to replicate quotation marks with a pair of hooves, “possess in abundance.  It so happens I'm on a mission to Petra, the local capital of all things goblin.  Now, if I'm not mistaken, you're a goblin.  You certainly have the ears of one.  So if there's a safe place in the Wasteland that's worth taking you, I bet Petra's it.  Now I know life is tough in our day and age, but if you're patient enough to wait out the company of a 'sky stealer' like me for just a few more hours, I'll reward you by getting you someplace where—hopefully—you won't have to worry about big, rotund ogres kicking your teeth in.  By then, most of the enchanted rune powder will have done its job and sealed most of your wounds, though I can't say much about your leg.  That's something you'll need to... uh... have an 'imp doctor' look at, or whatever.”

        He shivered, glancing at his many bandaged limbs, then at the distant specks of cloudtops below.

        Scootaloo grunted, “Now you say 'Thank you, glue stick.'”

        “Mmmm...”  He shook, nearly threw up from the sheer height of their location, and scrambled frightfully back into the inside of the Harmony on three legs.

        The last pony rolled her scarlet eyes.  She slowly trotted after him, leaving the whipping winds of the outside air with a swish of her pink tail.  “H'jem.”

        Turning from the closed aperture, Scootaloo raised her goggles and blinked.  The imp was nowhere to be seen.  Scootaloo's scarlets scanned left and right.  She trotted forward a few steps.  Then, on a whim, she clopped her two front hooves against the bulkheads, ricocheting a dull echo across the length of the hangar bay.  A distant whimper sounded from the port side, halfway down the gondola.  Scootaloo shuffled over to a bench built for runecrafting and squatted down towards the floor.  Underneath, the goblin teenager was hiding, hugging his knees to his chest.  At the first sight of her peering face, he jolted, his aquamarine eyes pulsing.

        “You know, I haven't dusted down there in ages.  I sure hope you're not allergic to pony hair.”  She suppressed a chuckle, smiling slyly.  “Boy, wouldn't that be a friggin' burn.”

        He said nothing.  His eyes fell to the floor.

        Scootaloo stared at him for a time.  She waved a hoof.  “Stay right where you are.”  She trotted away, paused, and pointed—this time with a glare.  “I mean it.”

        The goblin winced, clutching his shivering limbs to himself beneath the bench.  The sound of Scootaloo's hooves grew distant as she ascended the revolving staircase.  There was a pause, and then her hoofsteps grew closer once more.  The imp bit his lip and flinched the instant she reappeared before him.  Blinking, he saw that she had the soup jar in her grasp once more.  Not only that, but it had been refilled with the steaming, delicious-looking broth.

        “Don't pretend you're not hungry,” Scootaloo said in a droning voice.  “I know a thing or two about starving.  There's nothing poetic about it.  Do yourself a favor and ditch the ego for a sip or two.  A healthy body leads to a healthy mind, even if you are a bipedal little shrimp with bat ears.”

        He shook.  Slowly, like a butterfly sprouting its first wings, the goblin stretched a nervous hand towards the container.  As soon as his clawed fingers made contact, he yanked the thing from her grasp and cradled it to his sternum, simply reveling in the heat wafting up to his chin.  He stared into the thing for a few seconds, still flounding through a minefield of suspicion in his head.

        “It... uhm...” Scootaloo ran a hoof through her pink mane and sat down on her haunches in the middle of the floor, so that she was at an even gaze with the “guest” hiding under her runecrafting bench.  “It isn't all mushrooms.  I put in a few morsels of cougar meat.  I kind of figured that goblins are carnivorous by nature.  I seriously doubt you have such razor sharp chompers for opening bottlecaps.”

        He took a tiny, meager sip of the broth—as if testing it.  He didn't keel over dead from the first swallow, so his next few gulps were much more liberal.  Within the span of a minute, he had emptied the entire thing down his throat.

        Scootaloo watched him, rubbing her chin in thought.  “What... Uhm...”  She sighed, shrugged, and settled for a relatively unmelodic voice.  “What's your name, kid?”

        He fidgeted, turning the metal case around in his clawed fingers.  “Mmm... W... Warden.  Warden of Stock Blood.”  He gulped hard.  “B-But all of my friends call me 'Wart.'”  He bit his green lips and gazed towards the bulkheads with a wilted expression, his pointed ears deflating.  “Well... they used to.”

        “‘Used to?’”  Scootaloo rather stupidly muttered out loud, “What happened to your friends?”

        Warden’s nostrils flared.  He brought a four-fingered hand aside and attempted pulling the edge of his black vest down over his seared left thigh.  It was a fruitless endeavor.

        “Oh... Uhm...”  The last pony glanced at the horseshoe brand and gulped hard.  “Yeah, well...”  She fidgeted with the goggles strapped to her forehead while fumbling for words.  “At least you've still got the leg.  With as bad as the infection got, it's an impossible miracle that it's... still on you.”  She was already wincing at her own words halfway through saying them.

        “I'd much rather lose if it it could mean losing that stupid branding,” Warden said, briefly frowning.  He paused in scarfing the soup, casting the pony a guilty, frightened glance, as if expecting the equine to lash out at him for thinking such a thing out loud.

        Scootaloo tactfully smiled.  “Well, with one leg, how could you possibly manage to kick my flank for scaring you so badly?”

        He said nothing.  He merely clutched the soup can tighter in his grasp, his claws scraping at the lid.

        Scootaloo gulped.  “Refill?  Here...”  She reached her two hooves forward.  “Allow me.”

        He stared at her forelimbs as if they were gun barrels about to go off in his chest.  Gently, he held the soup can out and simply dropped it in her grasp.

        She wasted no time.  “I'll be right back.”  Scootaloo ascended the stairs, refilled the can, came back, and handed it to him.  “Sorry if it's not quite so warm anymore—”

        He daringly yanked it from her grasp this time and took the soup in no less than three gulps.

        She blinked, then smirked.  “Well, you certainly know when to stop being shy, don't ya?”

        At that, the goblin said nothing.  He stifled a tiny belch—perhaps the only one he could afford in months—and avoided her gaze as he clutched the empty can to his vested chest.

        Scootaloo tried her best not to stare at the horseshoe on his thigh.  She was only residually successful.  “So... if you don't mind me asking,” she murmured.  “How... uhm... did you end up living in a cave on a mountain full of monkeys and drunken morons?”

        Warden bit his lip.  Fidgeting, he ultimately murmured, “I was... interrupted while doing... mmm.... a b-business trip.”

        “A business trip?!”  Scootaloo almost went cross-eyed.  She reacquainted herself with professional deadpan in time to inquire, “Just how old are you anyway, kid?”

        “I...”  Warden's expression was painfully embarassed.  “I don't really know.”  He gulped and shuddered, his aquamarine eyes sadly cast to the floor.  “Who the remembers their birthday in this world anyways?”

        Scootaloo leaned her head aside as a wilted part of her comprehended that.  After a breath, she said, “Well, you look about no more than eleven hundred stormfronts to me.  Though, I'm not much of a judge of goblin aging or whatnot.”  She glanced at the empty can in his grasp and reached towards it—

        He instantly flinched from her brown hoof.

        She paused, then slowly leaned back.  “Okay.  That's fine.  We can wait on you having thirds.”  She cleared her throat, then uttered, “So what kind of business could a goblin as young as you be doing in the Wasteland?”

        “Mmmm....nnmmffamily...”

        “What's that?”

        “F-Family business,” Warden muttered, hugging the can tightly as if it was his own heart.  “My Mom and Dad—prime Stock Bleeders—had entrusted me with overseeing a delivery to the Eastern Township, along the Black Shore.  My zeppelin was attacked by harpies along the way.”

        “Harpy pirates?”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “This far east from Manehat—erm... this far east?”

        “All I know is that they attacked and I couldn't get back home to Petra,” Warden said in a quivering breath.  “I was so desperate to get back to my parents, even if I had to explain what happened to the shipment.  So, I flagged down the first aircraft I could see.  These dirigible dogs—they gave me a lift.”  He shuddered visibly.  “Boy was that a bad idea.”

        Scootaloo glanced once more at his branding, then back at his green face.  “Do tell.”

        “Those horrible creatures drugged me and left me to face the monkeys at that run-down pub in the sky,” Warden said.  He bit his lip and his left thigh squirmed at the recollection.  “All I wanted to do was get back to my parents in Petra.  Was that too much to ask of anyone?”

        “Well, lucky thing... uhm... that I stumbled upon you, huh?”  Scootaloo tried to smile.  It came out paper-thin.  “And it's even luckier that your parents are in the same place I'm heading for.  So... luck, luck, luck all around!  R-Right?  Eh heh heh...”

        While she chuckled nervously, Warden's head started bobbing.  His eyes were thin, but a sudden moisture clung to their edges.  “I don't know what's the use.  H-How will Mom and Dad accept their Stock-Bleeder now that he's... now that he's Equestrian filth...”

        “Hey, there's nothing filthy about—”

        The metal can rattled to the floor.  Warden was out like a light.  The exhausted imp, his teenage belly full for the first time in ages, sat—slumped—against the wall beneath the runescaping table.  His body rose and fell in gentle movements of his lungs.

        Scootaloo gazed at him.  Her own nostrils flared in time with his.  “Nothing filthy about us at all,” she finally murmured to her own ears.  After an uncomfortable silence, she reached forward and gently slid him out from underneath the bench.

        A minute later, Scootaloo ascended the top of the revolving staircase with the unconscious half-ling sprawled on her back.  She moved slowly—not because he was heavy.  Quite the opposite: he was as light as a feather, and she was frightened that any sudden movement might break him in two.  Gently, she laid him out atop the hammock.  She then paused, as if stunned to think up what would come next.  Then, taking a golden page out of Fluttershy's book, she yanked a stretch of woolen blanket out from a nearby cabinet and draped it over his slumbering figure.

        She unwittingly got a close-up view of his face during this process and saw tears forming along the edges of the unconscious imp's lids.  It wasn't the first time that she had seen a goblin crying.  However, it was the first time in ages that she had remembered that was the case.  Much different, far hotter memories had been boiling at the surface of her experience with half-lings, and she felt wounded to realize it... far bloodier than all the world's crossbow projectiles combined.

        Scootaloo raised a hoof to her chin, nibbling the edge of her horseshoe in thought.  A deep breath formed from deep within, revealing to her the degree to which her throat had suddenly become sore.  Before moisture could form in her eyes that mimicked his, she chased the melancholy away with the best weapon the last pony had at her disposal: a frown.

        Marching off towards the cockpit, she paused and leaned lethargically against the back of the pilot's seat, as if  she was just as lame as the young, branded passenger she had suddenly decided to bless.  Clenching her eyes shut, she fought the serrated claws of the past.  But, like the good avatar of Entropa, she gazed straight forward and bore witness, observing the pale snow beyond the windshield of the Harmony, and how it matched the ivory tones of a grave that belonged to Rainbow Dash... and almost to her as well.







        The young, orange pegasus shuffled forward through the ruins of Cloudsdale.  She was chest-deep in dust and snow as she rounded the crest of a pile of rubble.  Pointing her spear forward, she came to a stop, held her breath, and nervously peered over the edge of the ruins beneath her.  She squinted and saw a plateau of flat granite, atop which several pegasus chariots had fallen in a splintery heap, out of which spilled innumerable clumps of wooden and metal debris.

        Scootaloo was dead quiet, gazing cautiously at the scene.  She was not alone; several creatures bounded across the site, pilfering what they could from the fallen, smashed chariots.  They moved with a calculated intelligence and even tossed hushed, grunting words at one another.  What was more, they did not possess an identical paleness of leathery skin.  Their flesh was a hodgepodge of numerous, muted colors—of grays and browns and dark greens.  Additionally, many of them were half-clothed, wearing vests and jackets and leather bandoleers equipped with a grand assortment of intricately crafted tools.

        The last pony raised a curious eyebrow, her breath framing a confused expression.  She was a great deal more perplexed than frightened.  Regardless, ponies these creatures were not.  Stealing the makings of a campfire was suddenly the last thing on Scootaloo's fitful mind.  Her heart skipped a beat when she realized that she was seeing only four creatures rummaging through the Cloudsdalian wreckage beneath her, when she could have sworn she had spotted five figures from afar at first glance.  With a nervous shuffle of limbs, Scootaloo turned around and made to trot back down the hillside.

        Instead, she ran right into a frowning face equipped with copper goggles.  “Hraaaugh!”  A short creature devilishly shrieked and swung a heavy wrench across the length of Scootaloo's spear, snapping it in two.

        Scootaloo fell back on her useless wings before she even had the breath to gasp.  This impulse was also cut short when a four-fingered hand viciously gripped the nape of her neck, shoving her convulsing body to the mound of rubble beneath her.  The creature leered over the pony, holding the wrench high in a threatening grip.

        “Were you spying on us?!”  The bipedal thing spat, its long, bat-like ears twitching over a fountain of thick, black hair.  “Was the infernal Dimming not enough that you had to come and finish the job, glue stick?!”

        “You...”  Scootaloo shivered as she sputtered for breath.  In the midst of her fright, she judged that the creature wasn't any taller than an adult pony.  To a helpless foal such as herself, it could just as well have been a towering giant.  “You c-can talk?!  I d-didn't think trolls could sp-speak!”

        “Troll?!”  The figure's goggles twitched and swirled in a mechanic fashion, reflecting a frightened pegasus doubly.  “I am no troll!  I am an imp!”  He raised a clawed foot behind him, his muscles coiling.  “And you just snuck up on the wrong clan of goblins, you filthy manure bath!”

        Scootaloo gasped, eying the creature's leg.  “Wait!  Please!  Let's j-just talk about—”

        “Nnnngh!”  He kicked her hard in the chest.

        Scootaloo lost all the oxygen in her lungs.  By the second twitch of her pained eyes, she realized that the world was spinning.  She slammed hard on her spine against the plateau of rock below, being rained on by a shower of pebbles launched from her awkward fall downhill.  Several gasping voices surrounded her as she struggled to climb back onto her wobbly legs.

        “Hey!  Hey Matthais!”  The voice of her assailant barked from somewhere above the dizzy scene.  “I found one of them!  Alive!”

        “Where?!  Where is the pathetic, prancing murderer?!”  A pale figure clambered up from Scootaloo's peripheral vision.  “Lemme at her!”

        “Mmmf...”  Scootaloo winced, teared, and looked up.  “H-Huh?”

        She saw the pointed teeth of a snarling goblin, followed by a metal gauntlet flying straight into her vision.

        The world spun again, this time laced with a spray of red liquid as the gasping foal fell in a quivering heap against a shattered chariot.  Her mouth was filling with a hot, pool of blood, choking her every attempt to breathe.  No less than two seconds into this vomitous sensation, the metallic fist was being slammed into her again, this time impacting her unguarded ribcage.

        “Aaaugh!”  Scootaloo whimpered.  She tried to run away but only collapsed painfully onto her chest, shuffling like a severed earthworm towards a bright splotch of twilight.  The air filled with the angry barks and grunts of strange voices as she heard a pitter-patter of toes, followed by several more kicks to her flank, thigh, spine, and finally her skull.  The last blow produced a sickly pop in her ear, and she felt half of her skull heating up, as if something fragile was leaking deep inside.  She coughed and sputtered, her eyes barely opening in time to see a blue feather fluttering free, landing on the granite floor, and then being torn to shreds as a pale foot stomped over it.  Her gasping vision was suddenly hoisted to look into a frowning goblin's face.

        “Speak, you filthy animal!  I asked you a question!”

        Scootaloo's eyes were rolling back in her head.  Her nose twitched, faintly aware of blood trickling down from her shaved head.  “Nnngh-Snkkktk... What... Wh-What?” she mewled.

        “Hghh!”  The goblin answered with a savage metal fist slammed across the side of her splitting cheek.  He spat on her bruised, twitching body and hissed, “What did you do?!  What did you pathetic, magical pieces of crap do to the daylight?!”

        “The world's gone to crap and it's all your fault!” others shouted.

        “You and your Sun Goddess brought the Dimming upon us!”

        “Everything is dead now!”

        “We were close to manifesting Petra.  We were close to founding a home for impkind.  We built a frickin' city out of your garbage, because you refused us sky marble.  Now we've lost everything—everything, thanks to you!”  The pale one spat while his green, goggled companion slid down to his side, handing him the heavy wrench.  The frowning goblin palmed it in a threatening manner as he paced around the quivering, hiccuping equine.  “Now we're stuck down here trying to clean up the mess you've left behind!  Are you going to give us answers or do I have to beat it out of you?!”

        “Please... Pl-Please...”  Scootaloo sobbed, spat blood, and fought the bubbling bile rising up her throat as she pawed a desperate, orange hoof for the scattered blue threads of Rainbow Dash's crushed feather.  “I'll d-do anything...”  She caved, she begged.  She saw two comatose figures lying in a bed somewhere, covered in jaundice.  She wanted to join them so badly.  “J-Just stop hitting me...”  The filly pleaded.  “It h-hurts... It hurts s-so bad...”

        In answer to that, the goblin planted a heavy foot over her hoof before it could so much as touch the blue strands.  The filly let forth an agonized shriek as he leered over her, his companions crowding tightly around.

        “What caused this?!  Where did the Sun and Moon go?!  Was it enough that you played gods with the weather that you had to play gods with the earth as well?!”

        “You tell her, Matthais!”

        “Shut your dang trap, Braxx.  I've got this.”  The pale one gave her a swift kick in the chest, summoning another yelping cry as she trembled beneath him.  “Well, glue stick?!  We're waiting!”

        “I... I-I don't know...”  The last pony hyperventilated, curling into a fetal position as her tiny wing-stubs formed angelic silhouettes in a pool of her own blood.  “I-I'm all alone.  Everypony I've seen is d-dead.  Everypony is dead and I don't know... I j-just don't kn-know why...”  She spasmed uncontrollably as his shadow shifted above her.

        Matthais was raising the blunt wrench up high while his frowning companions apathetically looked on.  “Oh, you know, you worthless glue stick.  And you're going to tell us.  Then maybe—just maybe—we'll give you the quick and happy death you ponies have refused all of impkind with your black magic!”  With that, he sneered and brought the full weight of the wrench down over her fading vision.

> 	End of Ponies - Petra Arc - HHH Edition pt 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Seven – Somepony Who Earns




        It was the smell of her own blood that woke Scootaloo.  The filly tried opening her eyes, and only one obeyed her.  Through a foggy haze of pain, she found herself surrounded by a gray enclosure of sky marble.  The ivory cave was littered with wooden beams and improvised tools, all of which were far too intricately designed to be the work of pony hooves.  It was then that Scootaloo remembered the many impish faces that had snarled at her before her world turned to blissful darkness.

        With a gasp, Scootaloo jolted forward.  She instantly wished she hadn't.  Her entire body screamed from the outside in with a million invisible needles.  What was more, she was bound.  Her upper and lower limbs were tied together, and her waist was firmly strapped to a splintery wooden pole jutting out of the granite floor behind her.

        Scootaloo's breaths grew sharper and more desperate as she broke into hyperventilation.  She felt like a thick plaster of paint was caking the orange coat on her face and neck.  With another flaring of her nostrils, she realized it was her dried blood.  A shallow whimper escaped her bruised lips, and it was then that she heard them.  Twitching one good ear towards the cavernous “ceiling” of Cloudsdale's ruins, she made out several bickering voices: goblin voices.

        Her tormentors—the one called “Matthais” and his many cohorts—had kept her alive, had reduced her to a bruised sack of meat, had captured her as a battered trophy.  Now, just beyond the ridge of white marble, the goblins were arguing over her fate.  Scootaloo couldn't hear their words, nor did she want to.  The extent of their arguments, she imagined, was deciding the most obscene way to end her life.

        The goblins blamed her for what happened to Equestria.  They hated and reviled her.  Strung there like a speared fish in the middle of their camp, Scootaloo couldn't help but hate herself too.  She had had so many opportunities, so many chances to survive and make something of her miraculous existence.  In the end, she had failed.  She deserved every single bruise on her limbs, and she knew it.

        Scootaloo closed her eyes, refusing herself the tears she didn't deserve.  As her eyelids flung her back into darkness, she saw Sweetie Belle's and Apple Bloom's smiling faces.  She saw Pinkie Pie cranking a record player and then frolicking across Sugarcube Corner.  She saw sunlight and trees and wagons and flying mailmares.

        As the goblin voices came closer, along with their scraping, clawed feet, Scootaloo savored each warm image sailing through her mind, for she knew it could be her last chance.





        The last pony's scarlet eyes slowly opened.  She gazed calmly into a horizon of dark, nebulous clouds while a gust of cold wind blew at her mane.  Scootaloo sat atop the Harmony, a bundle of tools strung across her back while she sat in meditation.  Distant sounds of rumbling thunder echoed across the heavens.  The gray overcast below flash in random places as Scootaloo waited out the latest thunderstorm halfway through her trip to Petra.


        She exhaled, gently releasing the memories that had been wafting through her thirty-three year-old mind.  Even after so many trips back through time, Scootaloo’s head was instantly filled with the cold memories of the wasteland that defined the majority of her years.  In a way, she felt lucky, or at least luckier than the filly who had fallen into bad company in the ruins of Cloudsdale.  A past drenched in pain made it a lot easier to anticipate a future flavored with the same despair.  Scootaloo lived life like she was a cold ghost abandoned in the center of a hall of mirrors, and every reflection was equally pale and lifeless.  It made it easier to concentrate on her work.

        So, Scootaloo did just that.  Squatting down, she produced a wrench from her bag, gripped it in her teeth, and resumed tightening the loose rivets lining the upper hull of her dirigible.  The thunder formed a tranquil soundtrack to her somber task.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The stormfront was almost over, but Scootaloo could still afford herself some time to finish long-belated maintenance.  Currently, she was in the process of hovering before the outer windshields of the Harmony's upper gondola.  With a rag, she cleaned the windows and scrubbed grime and dust from the edges of the copper frames.

        Halfway through her task, she gazed in through the wide sheets of glass.  Scootaloo paused momentarily, her eyes narrowing.  She gripped the hull of the gondola and stopped the beating of her wings.

        Inside, awash in the warm yellow light of the vessel's bright boiler, Warden could be seen lying sideways on the hammock.  The teenage goblin was wide awake, his aquamarine eyes glazed into a dull turquoise as he stared into the metal-plated interior of the cabin.  Scootaloo wondered just how long he had been conscious.  His body was so still and his expression so blank that he could just as well have been asleep.  Warden’s three good limbs were limp and lifeless, to the point that his branded and infected leg looked far more alive in comparison.  For a brief moment, Scootaloo imagined Warden would have been more cheerful if she had left him to die inside the cave outside the M.O.D.D.

        Scootaloo knew better; the limpness of Warden's form spoke volumes to her.  From beyond the glass of the Harmony's windshield, she bridged the layers between them, and saw his skin turn to orange and his hair shaven to violet stubble.  Scootaloo blinked, and the emerald visage of the goblin returned, though she imagined that—for the briefest of seconds—she had found the long-lost sibling to a pony she had once known, but had parted ways with long.

        “Oh Spike, what in Celestia’s name is wrong with me?” she murmured to the twilight, her voice muted by the high winds mere seconds after producing the words.

        Nostrils flaring, Scootaloo returned to her duties.  Producing a new rag, she attacked another length of glass, attacking the last cloud of obscurity between herself and her passenger.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        When Scootaloo reentered the upper cabin of the Harmony fifteen minutes later, Warden's eyes were closed.  She stared at him, and managed the slightest of smirks.

        “Wow, I've read a lot about goblins in my day, but obviously not enough, or else I would have known a thing or two about their huge dopamine levels.”

        Warden's body didn't stir a single centimeter.

        Scootaloo shuffled over to a metal locker, disenchanted the rune locks, opened the cabinet, and put half her tools away.  “Now would be a good time to wake up, ya little Wart.  The stormfront's clearing up, and we're less than six hours from Petra, judging from my... adequate navigating skills.”  She slapped the cabinet shut and locked the magical runes.  “You could afford to talk to me a little before we get there, y'know.  That way, I can find out just where your parents are and drop you off with them.”

        No noise or movement came from the hammock.  Scootaloo could just as well have picked up a fossil from the mountainside.

        She took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, and trotted over towards a container on her workbench.  “Oh well.  I guess I'll just enjoy this scrumptious bat-meat jerky on my own.”

        Suddenly, Warden was “awake.”  With a guilty murmur, he stirred from where he was lying like a dead log on the hammock and sat up straight.

        Scootaloo smirked while her back was to him.  She opened the container and pulled out three strips of brown, dried meat.  “Hmm... For a second there, I couldn't tell where the hammock began and you ended.”

        “Mmmm...” He merely grunted, wringing his hands together as he tossed an anxious glance towards the pony—or more specifically towards the meat that the pony was extracting.

        “You've got opposable thumbs.  That means you should be good at catching things.  Here.”  She clasped a piece of meat in two teeth, spun, and tossed it his way.

        He gasped—as if the “glue stick” was tossing a weapon at him.  Nevertheless, he grabbed the edible strip in a pair of jittery hands and examined it closely.

        “Don't worry,” Scootaloo droned and slid the stool out from beneath her workbench.  “Ponies are all taught at a young age how to carry things in their mouths without drooling on them.  I assure you, the meat is cleaner than you are.”  She squatted on the stool, bit a chunk out of the bat-meat in her grasp, then stared across the way at him.  “Mmmf... So...”  She chewed, gulped, and then spoke, “Petra's about—what—twelve levels tall?  At least it was last time I checked.  On which of those big, hulking platforms does your family live?”

        “Mmm... Strut... Strut Twenty.”

        Scootaloo paused, her mouth gaping over another bite of meat.  She lowered the morsel and squinted at him.  “I beg your pardon?”

        “My family—the Stock-Bleeders—live on the twentieth strut of Petra.”

        “You're telling me that the imp city is twenty platforms tall now?”  She blinked.  “That's like eight platforms being constructed in the span of a decade!”

        “Actually...”  Warden's ears drooped as he avoided her gaze and began nibbling on the edge of his strip of meat.  “...it's thirty-five platforms the last time I checked.”

        Scootaloo fumbled with her lunch for a moment, caught off-guard by his assertion.  She clasped it in a pair of numb forelimbs and steadied her shocked lungs.  “That... that's friggin' crazy.  Heh, well, not too crazy, I guess, now that I think about it.  Goblins never know when to quit, huh?”  She grinned widely.

        Warden didn't.  He cradled the meat in his hands like it was the last, precious flame in the Wasteland.  Soon, he began nibbling at the blessed morsel.

        Scootaloo cleared her throat.  “Still, though.  That is pretty amazing.  For such small creat—erm... beings, imps have a knack for building wickedly cool stuff.  Heck, I'm surprised that when I found you in the cave, you came at me with only a rusted crossbow.  I half-expected an iron suit of armor with flame-throwers.”

        “I don't build things,” Warden murmured with the first show of assertiveness the last pony had witnessed from him.  He briefly chewed at the meat, swallowed, and said, “If I'm good at anything, it's—”

        “The family business.  Right.”  Scootaloo took another bite, swallowed, and pointed with her remaining strip of meat.  “Still, I'm no expert on imp affairs, but something about that just doesn't sit right with me.”

        “I guess it wouldn't,” Warden said quietly.

        “Why, cuz I'm a 'glue stick?'”

        Warden didn't reply to that.

        Scootaloo realized it wasn't wise to press those buttons.  So, she pressed a few other buttons instead.  “You're just so friggin' young,” she exclaimed.  “I imagine your parents must be proud of you and all for your contributions, but it seems a little weird for a pair of grown imps to send their offspring out into the Wasteland to do something they could very easily have done themselves.  Unless, they didn't send you alone.  Were you by yourself when the harpies attacked your zeppelin?”

        “Does it matter?” he mumbled, frowning as he gazed off into a distant bulkhead.

        Scootaloo blinked.  She briefly juggled the half-strip of meat left in her grasp and sighed.  “This place... this world is a lousy place to be left alone in.  Sure, it makes strong souls out of the best and worst of us, but it shouldn't have to be.  It really shouldn't.”  She paused and stared into a blank space in much the same fashion as Warden did.  “Especially for those of us who can... afford to not be alone.”

        “Is that why you picked me up?” Warden mumbled, suddenly glancing her away.  “So you wouldn't be alone?”

        She glanced at him and smirked.  “Kid, I'm taking you back to Petra so that you won't have to feel like the last goblin.  I don't expect you to kiss my hooves or anything, but would it hurt you to recognize a stroke of good fortune when it hits you?”

        “I wouldn't know anything about fortune,” Warden muttered.  He shifted where he sat, and not so subtly covered the “horseshoe” brand on his left thigh with one of the woolen blankets atop the hammock.  “I wouldn't mind being the last goblin.  Anything's gotta be better than what I am now.”

        Scootaloo opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out.  She bit her lips nervously, and when her eyes blinked, she saw an expanse of gray—grand and cavernous—that had once echoed her sobs of pain and loneliness.  She had spent years inside the grave of dead ponydom, and she had emerged stronger than she ever could have imagined.  Warden had only spent a few brief months in a cave outside a monkey bar, and that was until she had whisked him away to this fate he was experiencing now.

        “I... only want what's best for you, kid,” she murmured, though she was uncertain just whom she was trying to placate.  There were many things in the Wastelands that could be fated to kill this goblin teenager.  She suddenly wondered if she qualified as one.  With a shudder, she stood up and tossed a second piece of meat his way.  “Catch.”

        Warden nearly dropped his first edible strip in the act of catching this new one.  He blinked curiously at the pony's generosity.

        “I'm not a fan of bat-meat, to be honest,” she said with a weathered smirk.  “Besides, I can't eat it and look at your ears at the same time.  It makes me feel funny.”  Scootaloo trotted towards the front of the cabin.  “The stormfront's almost done.  Excuse me as I make the pilot's seat warm for the next few hours.”

        She was barely reaching the levers and dashboard equipment when she heard a pair of words being tossed her way.  They were barely discernible above the hiss of steam pipes around the metal belly of the cabin.  So, she spun around and asked, “What was that?”

        Warden's back was to her.  He sat on the edge of the hammock, his clawed feet dangling as he finished the last of his strips of jerky.

        Scootaloo calmly processed the sound he had uttered.  She wasn't sure if it was true, or if she was making herself think that it was true, but she processed the two words still echoing off the metal walls of the chamber, and they sounded suspiciously like “Thank you.”  She took a deep breath and sat in the pilot's seat.  After tightening the harness and switching off the autopilot, she repeated the words in her mind, and they took on a foalish tone, piercing the dark clouds before her just as the Harmony did.





        The misty wisps shattered in the blue sky over the Equestrian Valley as Rainbow Dash backflipped, veered around, and barreled towards the earth like a twisting beam of prismatic light.  Finally, Rainbow Dash soared within earshot, performing a wind-whistling corkscrew with her outstretched wings.  She hovered to a stop, brushed back a sweat-slicked mane, and exhaled.  “Whewww!  How was that last one?!”

        “Pretty awesome!”  a young Scootaloo shouted.  She sat at the crest of a hill, beaming at the sight of Rainbow Dash's latest stunt.  At the last second, she hid her enthusiasm behind a wall of wry nonchalance.  “But I think the triple-barreled swan dive you did a few minutes ago was a tad bit cooler!”        

        “Pfft—Any Wonderbolt could do that in their sleep!”  The blue pegasus grunted against the wind as she pulled up into a huge loopty-loop, beating at the air with two strong wings.  “I'm trying to add flare to my moves!  If I angle my wings just right... I might be able to produce a whistling sound to wow a crowd!”  She smirked as she dove down into a second twirling motion.  “It's just like the E.Z.N.!”

        Scootaloo made a face.  “The E.Z.N.?”

        “Y'know!”  Rainbow Dash hovered in front of the cliff-face with a devilish smirk.  “The Epic Zoom Noise!”  She demonstrated by beating her wings in one fluid motion.  Her body shot off in a vaporous blue blur, and the resulting bubble of air that billowed outward from her acceleration nearly rocked Scootaloo off her haunches with a mesmerizing, thunderous boom.

        “Woooo-Hahahaha!”  Scootaloo grinned widely, her pink mane settling over a beaming grin.  “That was sweet!  Why don't you start out with that?  That would rock the Wonderbolts to their core!”

        “Pfft!  Some of the best stuff you gotta save for last, kiddo!”  Rainbow Dash rocketed back into view just as the waving grass began to settle from her expert air disturbance.  “The first rule of stunt flying is learning never to immediately blow your—”  She paused in mid-speech, blinking.  “Wait, how old are you again?”

        “Uhhh...”

        “Forget I said anything.  Uhhh... Where was I?”

        “I think you were trying to work on your corkscrew—”

        “No, I mean with Nightmare Moon.”

        “H-Huh?”  Scootaloo blinked.  “I... I thought you were done telling me that story.”

        “Pfft!  I am never done telling a story of supreme awesomeness!”  Rainbow Dash grinned so wide, her teeth were blinding.  “Did I mention that me and my friends totally zapped her with a beam of rainbow light?”

        “Uh... that sounds kind of fruity.”

        “Pfft!  Nuts to you!  It was wicked cool!”  Rainbow Dash did several backflips in mid-air before twirling down like a spinning top.  “And I totally claim the rights to it, trademark colors and all.  Heh heh heh.”  She settled down on one hoof and somersaulted into a proud stance before Scootaloo.  “Still, I couldn't have done it without my friends.  All tricks have a hitch, you see.”

        “You and those other ponies sure do hang around a lot.”  Scootaloo smiled, leaning her chin on a pair of crossed hooves as she gazed at the older pony.  “I swear, ever since Nightmare Moon appeared, I see you guys together all the time.”

        “Yeah?  So?”  Rainbow's ruby eyes squinted towards her.  “Is that a crime?”

        Scootaloo blinked nervously.  “Erm... No.  Not unless you think so...”

        “Heh... Nosy little pipsqueak...”  Rainbow Dash ruffled Scootaloo's windblown mane, then sat beside her on the top of the hill.  Her wings folded over her backside as she gazed down at a stretch of tree-laden fields below the edge of the earthen rise.  “I've always been a lone wingpony.  It's very easy just to look after yourself.  Life is complicated enough without having others to depend on you and jazz.”

        “Depend on you?”  Scootaloo blinked.  “Does this have anything to do with that crazy stuff you were rambling about earlier?  The... the Elements of...”

        “Harmony?”  Rainbow smirked.  “'Crazy' certainly is the word for it.  There isn't a morning I haven't woken up thinking about how silly my life has been lately.”

        “How so?”  Scootaloo inquired, her tiny wing-stubs twitching curiously.

        Rainbow Dash only smirked more at that.  “Truth is, squirt, everypony's favorite lavender bore was the key to pulling Princess Luna free from that nasty, ink-black alicorn on the surface.”

        “Twilight Sparkle?”

        “Yup.  That's the bore, alright,” Rainbow said with a nod.  “On the 'endless night' just before the Summer Sun Celebration weeks ago, defeating Nightmare Moon boiled down to using magic.”

        “Ugh...”  Scootaloo slumped down against the slab of rock.  “Magic is so boring.”

        “Heh, I know, right?”  Rainbow Dash cleared her throat.  “Still, it wasn't so bad this time.  Cuz I was a part of that magic.”

        “You were?”

        “How else would we shoot a rainbow beam at a giant black horse goddess of doom?!  Turns out we were all... uhhh... ingredients for some enchanted recipe that Twilight Sparkle had just the right spark to cook up.  We were all Elements of Harmony.  Twilight was the Element of Magic—Duh.  Fluttershy was kindness.  Strawhead was honesty.  That one who sounds like a vampire was generosity...”

        “What about you?”  Scootaloo perked up, blinking.  “What Element were you, Dashie?”

        “Nnngh...”  Rainbow Dash grunted indifferently and shoved a loose pebble so that it rolled dumbly downhill.  After a restless stirring of her sapphire wings, she eventually muttered, “Loyalty.”

        Scootaloo squinted.  “Loyalty...?”

        “Ugh!”  Rainbow Dash ran a pair of hooves over her face.  “I know... I know!  Loyalty is special and all, but couldn't I have been the Element of Explosions or the Element of Lightning Bolts or some other really cool thing like that?!”

        “But...”  Scootaloo dryly gulped and produced a nervous smile.  “It is cool, Rainbow Dash!  It means that you're the weather flier that everypony can depend on!  It... uh... it means that they can just look up in the sky and know that you'll be around if they ever need you!”

        Rainbow gave the little foal a numb glance.  “Has anyone told you that you're stiff as nails when you try to make somepony else happy?”

        Scootaloo bit her lip and fidgeted, rubbing tiny circles across the soil with her hoof-ends.  “Yeah, well, I don't get a lot of practice.  I've sort of always been a lone wingpony myself.”  She sighed and pouted.  “Even if my wings are as useless as tongue depressors.”

        “Hey...”  Rainbow slapped the filly's ribcage with a flick of her multicolored tail.  “Don't ever think of yourself as useless.  Not even for a second!”

        “But—”  Scootaloo looked up.

        Rainbow stared her down with a sudden frown.  “Not even for a second.  You are your own pony, and you are capable of doing so many cool and awesome things.  You think I ever got to be such a killer flier by thinking of my wings as if they were utter trash?  That's no way to live, squirt.  I know that because I've spent my whole life making sure I didn't live that way, and look at what I've become!  I can kick dragons in the face and still live to talk about it!”

        “You've kicked dragons in the face?”

        “Only when they asked for it.”

        “Heheheheh...”  Scootaloo exhaled gently as a warm breath replaced the brief shyness in her lungs.  “I don't understand this whole 'Elements of Harmony' stuff, Rainbow Dash.  But, from the way I see it, Twilight and the others are all lucky to have you as such a good, loyal friend—”

        As soon as she said this, Rainbow Dash was gone.  After Scootaloo's second blink, she felt her entire body being rocked by the gusting winds of the blue pegasus' thunderous departure.  She spun her head westward and was just barely able to make out a blazing, sapphiric blur speeding towards the valley below the cliff.

        “Uhhh... R-Rainbow Dash?!  Hello?!”  There was only silence.  With a sharp exhale, Scootaloo folded her limbs beneath her.  “Hmph... She's right.  'Loyalty' is lame...”

        No sooner did she utter this, however, when she suddenly noticed exactly where Rainbow Dash was soaring off to.  Far below in the valley, in one tall tree among several dozen more just like it, a tiny earth pony was dangling loosely off of a branch.  With a frightened shriek that even Scootaloo could hear across the Plains of Equestria, the helpless pony fell murderously towards the brown earth below.

        Scootaloo shot up with a gasp.  Her wings twitched instinctually as she watched in terror from afar.

        Then, at the very last millisecond, the blue blur reached the tree, and the wide-eyed foal was caught in free-fall.  The child dangled safely in the hooves of Rainbow Dash, clinging to her with trembling sensations as the distant pegasus smirked and slowly lowered the young equine to the floor.

        Without a second thought, Scootaloo jumped down from the rock slab, kicked her metal tray into a glide, and rolled the long way down the hill to reach the scene.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        “Your friends here talked you into doing such a crazy thing, huh?”

        “Mmmm...”  The little foal dug her hoof into the ground as two colorful companions stood nervously behind her, guiltily avoiding the adult pegasus' gaze with their eyes cast towards the muddy earth.  “They said that I was a scaredy-cat.  They said that since my older brothers are always planting peach trees, that I should be a natural at climbing branches.  I've never climbed a tree before in my life...”

        Rainbow Dash squinted at her.  “And just what gave you the bright idea that you could suddenly know how to do it?”  She frowned slightly.  “Without having practiced or whatnot?”

        The foal jolted, gulping nervously.  “I-I didn't want them to think that I was a coward.”

        “Yeesh, kid.  You're younger than Cloudsdalian snowflakes.  Why the heck should you bother with being a coward or not when you're still not old enough to trot straight?”  Rainbow Dash smirked as she strolled over and knelt down before the filly.  She placed a hoof on her bright shoulder.  “It's one thing to be a coward, it's another thing to be stupid.  Now, I don't know about your so-called-friends here, but I don't think you're either one of those lame things.  It’s okay to use your guts, but don’t be afraid to use your head as well, so long as it doesn’t turn into the shape of an egg... heh heh.”

        “But they said that I don't have any guts!”  the filly said.  She turned to look back at her two shivering companions.  “They said that I wouldn't, so long as I didn't take them up on their dare!”

        “The only reason they dared you to do something dangerous is because they're too scared stupid to do it themselves.”  Rainbow smirked as Scootaloo glided up to the scene behind her, gawking at the situation.  “There'll be plenty of times in the future for you guys to climb trees.  I suggest you all do it together, as a group, once you've gotten your balance to do it and gotten your strength to bounce back up from a nasty fall.  Until then, try not to make each other do things that one pony or another is too afraid to do herself.  What's the point in being friends if you can't do fun stuff together—as a group—huh?”

        “We're sorry, Rainbow Dash,” one foal said.

        “Y-Yeah...”  Another joined, gulping.  “We didn't want anypony to get hurt!  Honest!”

        “Then don't try to hurt anypony!  That includes your dinky selves!”  Rainbow Dash said.  “Now gallop back into town, all of you, before I kick your butts!  I'm practicing some air stunts for my buddy here, and I don't want anypony but me getting hurt!  Heheheh—Ahem.  Seriously, scram.”

        “Good luck with your cloud tricks, Rainbow Dash!” one exclaimed as the three sauntered off under a fresh curtain of hopeful smiles.  “Thanks for the sunny skies!”

        “Hey—I only kick away the clouds!  It's Princess Celestia who controls the sun!  Ehhhh—Who cares.  Wait until you get chained to one of Ms. Cheerilee's school desks, then you'll learn all the boring facts of life.”  Rainbow Dash chuckled to herself.  “Though I wouldn't mind being called a goddess from time to time.  I certainly reflect enough frickin' sunlight.”  She turned and caught Scootaloo gawking up at her.  “Why, hello there, ya little squirt.  You sure made it down here fast.”

        Scootaloo blinked.  Scootaloo gaped.  Scootaloo stammered, “You... Y-you totally just saved that little kid!”

        “What?”  Rainbow Dash pointed aside.  “You'd rather I saved the tree instead?”

        “No... It's just that... that...”

        “Oh, right.  Eheheh...” The pegasus rubbed the back of her head with a blue hoof.  “I kind of ditched you in the middle of our conversation, didn't I?  Sorry, force of habit.”

        “Force of h-habit?!”

        “I really do see everything.  I wouldn't be such a good weather flier if I didn't keep my eyes peeled, y'know.”

        “Do you ever stop being awesome?”  Scootaloo said, then shuddered, as if rebounding from a sonic boom that just suddenly hit her.  “And did you just call me 'your buddy' a moment ago?”

        Rainbow Dash merely yawned and marched past her.  “Nnngh... goddess, where did this afternoon go?  I need to work out the kinks in my aerial maneuvers before the sun goes down.  Mind if we continue where we left off, pipsqueak?  I'm running on half a tank here and I haven't robbed—er—improvised my way to a bite of apples in days.”

        Scootaloo gazed numbly after her.  The orange feathers on the edge of her wings fluttered in a rhythm that matched her pulsating heart as she glided after the blue pegasus in a zombified fashion.  “Right... I... I guess I can still help you...”

        “Good. I only wish the Wonderbolts were as easy to impress as you, ya little chicken nugget.”

        “Little chicken nugget...”  Scootaloo cooed.  “Whatever you say, Rainbow Dash...”  The wind whistled in her ears as they ascended the hill once more.
         





        Octavia's strings rose to a brief high pitch, then lowered again as the sounds of majestic cello-playing danced around the interior of the gondola.  The last pony stared at the blue feather cradled in her brown hooves.  The tiny fibers bent and fluttered under her touch.  Flaring her nostrils, she sat up straight and glanced at the rest of the cabin.  She briefly saw Warden sleeping soundly on the hammock.  Next, her gaze tilted until her eyes were absorbed with the wall of the Harmony stretching just above the workbench.  The Royal Grand Biv outfit, the golden lyre, the piece of Stalliongrad, the buffalo headdress, and the many novelty fossils of the scavenger's pilfering hung before her in a suddenly worthless array.  None of these miraculously preserved memories shone with the same glory as the tiny, downy strand in her gentle grasp.

        There was one exception:  Suntrot's golden illustration hung in the center of the memorable mosaic.  The filly's crayon streaks were jagged and juvenile, but they held more worth and sanctity than all of Princess Celestia's journal pages combined.  Scootaloo bit her lip as she gazed deeply at the humble masterpiece.  She wondered—in yet another round of somber breaths—if Rainbow Dash had ever kept a memento of hers before the Cataclysm took everything away.

        Just then, an alarm buzzed.  Raising an eyebrow, Scootaloo swiveled in her seat and stared down at the dashboard directly in front of her.  A tiny light was sparkling across the leftmost side of the Harmony's instrument panel.

        In swift order, Scootaloo placed the blue feather down into the tiny white container along with its two siblings.  She slapped the box shut and placed it in a pocket of her armor before sliding her copper goggles down and switching several levers on the panel.  The alarm subsided, having fully warned the dirigible owner of rising levels of electromagnetic current in the vicinity.  That only meant one thing: Scootaloo was swiftly approaching a large structure that harnessed electrical energy.  From the rising temperature gauge measuring the outside of the aircraft, she judged that there was a huge buildup of steam as well.

        This became apparent as she descended through a natural cloudbank, only to be engulfed in a  wickedly synthetic cloud of black smog.  The recently cleaned windows were briefly covered in soot.  Cursing under her breath, Scootaloo flicked her hoof across a switch.  Four jets of hot, pressurized water sprayed over the sloping dashboard of the gondola's exterior, clearing the view for the pilot to see beyond the bow.

        What loomed before the scavenger's sight was a gigantic valley of watery lake beds and barren rock, pock-marked in innumerable places with deep pits and dipping valleys.  These were once the spacious and emerald fields of the Equestrian Northern Plains.  She could still remember the bright, sunlit vistas that had stretched before her, full of rivers and ponds that had glittered in the afternoon glow.  Every grassy knoll had been flanked by luscious fruit trees and sporadic beds of clover.  Above all of that, casting a prismatic glow across the rolling landscape, had been the enormous and awe-inspiring sight of Cloudsdale, floating high in the troposphere, a crossroads for all life and all purveyors of it.

        Now, the sky was filled with a black smog formed by dozens upon dozens of steam stacks jutting high into the air, coalescing with all of their combined pollutants to form an opaque ceiling that blocked out any hint of twilight, so that the once-sunny valley was now a sunken and saturated landscape shrouded in endless, pitch-black night.

        This section of the Wasteland would have been utterly dark, absolutely devoid of luminance, if it weren't for one enormous structure that was ironically responsible for the blackening to begin with.  In the middle of a jet black cloud of desolation, Petra stretched skyward like a great golden flower, and it lit up the dead world as though it was the last breath of fire to ever linger in a cold and infinite abyss.  At the same time, it was the author of its own foggy veil, for its spokes upon spokes of smoke stacks endlessly billowed steam and smog into the atmosphere above the golden super-structure, filling the air of the Wasteland—and even the cramped interior of the Harmony itself—with a constant, high-pitched whistle.

        Petra was only incidentally deserving of the right to be called a “city.”  Scootaloo had heard many Wastelanders speak of Petra.  She had read in Equestrian history books about ancient goblin cities that in some ways resembled Petra.  Nearly ten years ago, entirely by accident, the last pony almost flew the Harmony straight into the heights of Petra.  Soaring towards it now, even at a slow speed, the last pony realized that she had underestimated its majesty.

        Even from several kilometers away, the body of Petra was enormous.  The goblin construct was an epic, vertical metropolis segmented into smaller, far more complicated parts.  What surprised her the most was just how organic and accidental the entire engineering marvel was.  There was a beautiful ugliness to it, an asymmetrical assortment of large, circular, horizontal platforms built along the body of a winding cylindrical stalk that jaggedly spiraled its way skyward.

        The central stem of Petra flickered from within, billowing red plumes of flame every few hundred meters up the gigantic trunk of iron and steel as it wove its haphazard way towards the veiled cosmos above.  Scootaloo judged that most of the factories and foundries of goblin industry were housed up and down the vertical beam's interior.  At the very base of the stem—where the immense, cylindrical stalk met the lifeless and sterile rock of the earth—thousands upon thousands of perpetually self-consuming oil fires vomited smoke across the Wasteland’s surface, marking where the refuse of the goblin metropolis' population fell to the bosom of the world and burned.

        Beyond this pool of soot and grime located at Petra's foundation, a solid ring of tiny buildings formed a separate community all on its own.  A circular assortment of shanty towns had been constructed in the shadow of the majestic city structure itself.  From up high, Scootaloo could make out hollow warehouses, metal silos, concrete blocks, and thousands upon thousands of dilapidated huts affixed with rusted aluminum roofs.  The tiny, squirming dots of countless imp bodies filled the gravel alleys lying between the decrepit buildings and lean-to “apartments,” so that Scootaloo briefly wondered if more goblins lived in Petra or in the shadow thereof.

        Gazing up towards the superstructure once again, Scootaloo observed the platforms of Petra in greater detail.  For their amazingly spacious grandeur, it was a time-consuming procedure to actually count them.  When she had flown by the sight of Petra ten years ago, she could have sworn she had witnessed no more than ten platforms.  Now, as Warden had indeed conveyed, there had to have been over  thirty.  Seeing it was a different matter than believing the teenager's words.  It boggled Scootaloo's mind that creatures of any size—much less goblins—could have erected even a fraction of that many structures in such a small span of time.

        The discs were huge, at least three hundred meters across and almost just as wide, and all of them brimmed with buildings, alleyways, balconies, courtyards, upper levels, lower levels, support struts, extensions, and electrical generators.  Scootaloo remembered the gigantic moonrock that housed Ponymonium, beneath which she had scavenged what remained of Pinkie Pie's skeleton.  It suddenly occurred to her to imagine each of these discs as an equivalent to a one hundred meter tall cut-out of such an epically large structure, and yet the goblins had built dozens of them—all out of iron and steel, reinforced with copper and brass—and they stretched out in a spiraling formation along the jagged stem of the city's central core, so that Petra resembled a giant, dead tree clustered from top to bottom with enormous, glowing leaves.

        This ridiculous feat of tumorous engineering stretched no less than two kilometers into the sky, making its peak higher than any other point in Equestria, save for the abandoned heights of Griffon Mount.  The only thing keeping Petra from piercing the clouds was the simple fact that the only clouds around that portion of the Wasteland consisted of the smoggy miasma that the city had produced with its numerous smoke stacks and steam jets billowing black soot into the sky.  The structure was ablaze—burning like a Hearth's Warming Tree in the center of a great, ghastly nothingness—with every single one of its horizontal platforms shimmering with white electricity and golden lanternlight.

        Hovering about the plethora of gigantic discs was a thin, luminescent swarm of dozens upon dozens of industrial and merchant airships hovering from one vertical destination to another between the city's “branches.”  Beneath the glowing stalk of a city, at ground level, the Wasteland was also alive with lights and stirring commotion.  As majestic as Petra was, it was merely an offshoot of an endless industrial project transpiring several kilometers to the west of it.  Immense  concrete platforms stretched between the goblin city and a spacious mining operation.  Across these platforms, monorail trains ran on steam, delivering hundreds upon thousands of kilograms of white matter:  sky marble.

        Scootaloo tilted her gaze and glanced towards the west.  It was then that she saw what she had truly flown there for:  it wasn't Petra, it was Cloudsdale... or at least what was left of Cloudsdale.

        When the pegasus city in the sky collapsed from the wake of the Cataclysm, the resulting impact had smashed a gigantic hole into the face of the world.  Scootaloo, of course, knew this very well.  What she hadn't witnessed—but had only heard about in passing—was that for the twenty-five years that had followed the Cataclysm, the goblins had been salvaging the sky marble of Cloudsdale from the ruins... and to this very day they hadn't stopped.

        It would appear that a quarter of a century was not enough time to pilfer the entire grave of Cloudsdale of all it had to offer the imps of the Wasteland.  Even from a distance, the pilot of the Harmony could make out droves upon droves of tiny half-ling shapes, clambering over the sunken wreckage like ants, hoisting what remained of the ivory buildings onto cranes and carts.  The salvaged materials were then loaded onto trains equipped with steam engines that dragged the cargo all the way to the factories of Petra's inner stem.  There, Scootaloo imagined, the goblins had engineered a way to break down the structure of sky marble into its lesser components.  From this, they were somehow able to extract compressed steam and sell it to the various needy factions of the Wasteland.  The end result was the imps being paid ungodly amounts of silver strips which made the perpetual construction of Petra possible.

        Scootaloo felt a weight encompassing her heart.  It wasn't so much that the pegasus' soul was affected by the sight of Cloudsdale being reduced to a mere steam reserve.  Rather, Scootaloo realized that she was bound to be a complete and total alien to this place.  Petra was immense, grand, and rightfully intimidating.  The city was also young—about ten years younger than her—and Scootaloo knew a thing or two about being surrounded by hot-headed children of the Wasteland equipped with even a smidgen of power.  If the last pony had a hard enough time being accepted in places like the M.O.D.D., she was bound to be absolutely crucified here.

        Gently, she flew the body of the Harmony high above the grand pits of Cloudsdale.  The ruins burned in a dozen dark places with torchlight as thousands of goblin workers milled about, hammering and blasting away at the rock to uncover more and more pockets of pure sky marble.  A lump formed in the mare's throat as she adjusted her goggles and peered into the depths of the place for a sign—any familiar landmark—that her young and tortured memories could have pointed out to her aged self.

        With so many parts of Cloudsdale being penetrated, pilfered, and pulled apart before her goggled eyes, the last pony couldn't help but wonder—with a reborn spirit of helplessness—if there was still any chance of finding what she was looking for in one piece.  What if there was nothing left of Rainbow Dash?

        Nervously, the last pony slapped her hoof over a few levers and steadied the Harmony into a hover directly above the edge of the pits.  Unbuckling the harness of her pilot's seat, she dashed across the cabin to her workbench and opened a tray.  A dragon tooth glinted in the light from the vessel's boiler.  Scootaloo lifted it by the blue string and cradled the object in her hoof.  Shuffling over to the space between her cockpit and the wide-stretching windshield, she clasped the tooth to herself and gazed into the remains of Cloudsdale.  The shuffling goblins, infernal machinery, and sea of lit torches blurred before her vision... until she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed the tooth to speak to her.

        It was with enormous felicity that Scootaloo felt herself being pulled inward, as if gravity was threatening to swallow her at one thousand kilometers per hour.  Every ghostly tug of g-force was yanking her towards one destination and one destination alone: the center of the pits.

        Scootaloo's eyes reopened, and when they did, they were misty.  She smiled painfully to herself and hugged the dragon's tooth so hard that it might shatter into calcified bits.  Rainbow Dash's remains were still there.  They were in one piece.

        She took a deep breath, her voice almost squeaking.  After so many months of working on the experiment with Spike, Scootaloo found more and more reasons to be amazed... and joyful.  Even in the darkest pits of the Wasteland, there was suddenly opportunity in her life.  And where there was opportunity, there was beauty.

        Suddenly, the container of green flame on the workbench rattled loosely.  At first, Scootaloo didn't understand why, until the entire gondola of the Harmony began to shake as well.  The same buzzing alarm from earlier reignited, only now it was an ear-splitting scream.  Scootaloo gasped and flashed her dashboard a goggled look.  Every instrument panel was flickering madly, indicating an incoming object or projectile.  Breathless, she ran over to the left of the cockpit and gazed through a porthole along the side of the airship.

        Just as she looked out, three green shapes rocketed straight past the Harmony.  With bright gusts of steam, a trio of hovercrafts soared upwards and encircled the last pony's vessel in a tight, threatening formation.  The resulting turbulence of the hovercrafts' proximity shook every square centimeter of the dirigible.  Scootaloo grit her teeth, struggling to keep her balance.  Octavia's strings scratched and skipped as the record player rocked precariously on the edge of its shelf.

        “Friggin' A!” she exclaimed, rushing over to the cockpit and attempting to steady the vessel with a strong grip on the instrument panel and its adjoining levers.  She heard a rattling noise intensifying behind her.  She flashed a glance over her twitching wings.

        The elongated glass jar of pure emerald dragonflame was rolling straight off the workbench's edge.  Scootaloo hissed through her teeth and shot her body back up.  In a single breath, she backflipped out of the cockpit, flapped her wings, and flew upside down towards the workbench.

        The glass jar of flame fell towards the bulkhead of the cabin floor below.  “Nnngh!”  Scootaloo caught the container in two jittery hooves.  She landed on her spine with a grunt as the zeppelin's rocking and swaying came to a gradual stop.  “H-holy haystacks...”  She blinked under her goggles, then frowned. Angrily, she kipped up to her hooves, shoved the glass container safely into the netting of her swaying hammock beside Warden, and marched straight towards her communicator system.

        In timely fashion, a loud voice was projected towards the Harmony.  Amidst the settling chaos, Scootaloo was at a loss to discern what was being broadcasted.  Just as she roared the communicator to life—the tesla coils flanking the device sparkling brightly—she unlatched a porthole and flung it open.  Above the noise of boiling steam and distant mining equipment, the speakers fashioned to the circling hovercraft squawked in sudden clarity:  “You have trespassed this airspace, sky traveler.  Identity yourself.”

        “I'm pissed off!”  Scootaloo barked into the cone of her communicator, broadcasting her grunting voice across the heavens.  “Who are you?”

        “On behalf of the Outer Aerial Gremlin Defense Initiative, you must remove yourself from this airspace.  If you have business in the city, make a landing in Strut Fifteen, Level Beta of Grand Petra.  For now, redirect your aircraft from these premises or you shall be fired upon.”

        “Why just that strut?!  And why are you circling me like winged jackals, ya psychopaths?!”  Scootaloo angrily spat, eyeing the three hovercrafts in close proximity to her ship.  The smoggy wind whipped in through the tiny porthole, pelting her already tense and angry expression.  “I'm only here to conduct business.  Think you can afford to give me some friggin' space?!”

        The loud voice merely repeated itself without emotion.   “...Make a landing in Strut Fifteen, Level Beta of Grand Petra.  For now, redirect your aircraft from these premises or you shall be fired upon.”  Upon closer examination, Scootaloo saw finer and finer details of her sudden “hosts.”  All three of vessels were open platforms with copper railings and powered by bulbous, brass tanks full of compressed steam.  The hissing machines fed hot air to several thrusters rigged to the bottom of the rusted contraptions like hollow, jagged teeth.  Inside each of these vessels were five to six creatures, and each of them had a steam-powered, double-barreled, semi-automatic rifle fixed on the last pony's airship.  None of them moved a single centimeter, and yet the voice repeated itself.  “If you have business in the city, make a landing in Strut Fifteen, Level Beta of Grand Petra.”

        Scootaloo's face twisted.  She murmured aside from her communicator's cone.  “Just who are these freaks anyways?  They sound like a broken record.”

        “They're gremlins.”

        Scootaloo flashed a look over her shoulder.

        Warden was sitting up straight on the edge of the hammock.  He was fully awake, but upon Scootaloo's sudden glance, he winced slightly.  “They... They usually don't speak any language but their own.  They're broadcasting a recorded message provided to them by the higher goblin clans they work for.  It's typical of  the O.A.G.D.I.”

        Scootaloo blinked at him, then glanced once more at the pilots of the three hovercrafts.  Their frames were too tiny to belong to the typical goblins that she was familiar with, and their heads were much larger in proportion to their torsos.  What was more, there was little to no visible portion of their craniums exposed.  All eyes were obscured with thick black visors, and all mouths were encompassed by brass breathing masks that gave their voices a metallic ring as they murmured unintelligibly to each other and further cocked the shiny rifles in their grasp.

        “They usually don't give an aircraft more than three chances to comply with their orders,” Warden droned, his ears twitching with a supressed sign of fear.  “They really will fire on you.”

        “Like heck, they will.”  Scootaloo muttered, then swiveled the communicator's cone back to her lips.  “Look!” her voice echoed across the Wasteland air outside.  “I don't need to conduct business inside of Petra.  I only need to get inside Cloudsda—inside the pits.  Surely there's an overseer or a mining supervisor I can speak with and offer a deal—”

        “...Redirect your aircraft from these premises or you shall be fired upon.”

        “They will too,” Warden said with a jaded voice.  “While goblins like building things, gremlins enjoy blowing stuff up, especially if they can do it from the air.”

        Scootaloo took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring.  She cast one last glance down at the deep, torchlit pits of Cloudsdale.  Her ears drooped briefly as she closed her eyes, took a defeated breath, and finally grunted:  “Fine.  Fine!”  She opened her eyes and frowned as she spoke into the communicator.  “I'm friggin' going.  Try and point those guns of yours at a creature without the good sense to cooperate for a change.”

        Scootaloo slapped the porthole shut, stomped over to her cockpit, and slumped angrily into the seat.  With a tight grip on the levers, she pivoted the Harmony about and flew it eastward, following the path of the monorail train tracks, heading directly towards the glowing, golden body of Petra.

        “At least I got them off my friggin' flank,” Scootaloo muttered.

        “Not quite,” Warden said.  He was suddenly on his feet, limping over and leaning precariously against Scootaloo's cockpit seat from behind.  “If you look towards the port and starboard side, you'll see that we're being escorted.”

        “Escorted?”  Scootaloo glanced out the edges of the wide windshields.  Sure enough, two of the green hovercraft were keeping an even pace with the Harmony, following its trip eastward to the imp city.  “Oh, perfect.  What next?  Are we going to hold hands and hooves?”

        “They're just doing their job,” Warden said dully, his four-fingered grasp clutching to the edge of the seat as he supported his frail weight against it.  “For all they know, you could be a harpy pirate in disguise, or a rogue dirigible dog.”

        “Why?  Have they had crazy creatures drive zeppelins full of explosives into the mines before?”

        “Stranger things have happened,” Warden uttered with a nod.  “It's taken a lot of years and work, but this city is something we goblins are very proud of.  We really go all the way to protect it.”

        “Guess one couldn't blame you,” Scootaloo said.  “Now, did they say Strut Fifteen?”

        “Yes,” Warden nodded.  “Also, Level Beta.”

        “What's 'Level Beta' mean?”

        “Most if not all struts of Petra are divided into three floors, Ceti, Beta, and Alpha—from top to bottom.  'Level Beta' refers to the middle strut.”  He pointed a green finger.  “If you look, there's a hangar located in the middle of the Fifteenth Platform.  That's where they want us to go—” His aquamarine eyes widened as his limp leg fell out from under him and he plunged forward.

        Scootaloo stuck a hoof out and caught Warden before he could get a face full of floor.  She leaned him back upright and re-gripped the levers of the Harmony.  “Well,” she said, managing a slight smirk.  “Somebody certainly got a bit talkative.  Thanks for the pointers, Wart.”

        “I... didn't want to get shot down by a bunch of gremlins.”

        “Thinking of your own safety.”  Scootaloo nodded.  “That's perfectly healthy.”

        “For what it's worth,” he muttered, then blinked awkwardly at the last pony.  “Don't you have guns of your own?”

        Scootaloo tapped her brown skull with a free hoof.  “I'd rather use the ammo in here first.”  She took a deep breath.  “However, on account of my temper, sometimes I backfire and my heart gets loaded into the chamber instead.  Sorry you had to witness that.”



        Scootaloo's smile faded; it was already a fragile thing.  “For lack of a detailed explanation, the answer is 'yes.'”

        “You must want something in those mines very, very badly.”

        Scootaloo nodded, her eyes briefly unfocusing from the golden destination ahead.  “I suppose you could say that.”

        “Is it sky marble?”

        She almost chuckled at that.  “Oh, no.  No, I've had more than my fill of that in life.  You goblins can have all the sky marble you could ever want, for all I care.  Though, I still can't figure out for the life of me how you get steam out of the aged crap.”

        “Don't you know?”

        “Know what?”

        “How to... uhm... get steam out of it?”  Warden fumbled for words, nervously eyeing Scootaloo's bound wings as the last pony piloted the Harmony.  “Didn't your kind build the stuff?  After all, you're... you're...”

        “What, a 'sky-stealer?'”

        Warden bit his lip.

        Scootaloo ascended the zeppelin so that it evened with the middle of the Fifteenth Strut that was gradually looming ahead.  “The proper term, Wart, is 'pegasus.'”

        “P-pegasus...” he repeated.

        “You can have all the fun with plural and possessive forms of the noun on your own,” Scootaloo grunted.  “Not that it matters.  All I've ever known is that I'm happy to have wings.  Being a unicorn or earth pony always seemed dull as nails to me.”

        “You... you mean that there are more than one type of glue st—Erm...”  Warden winced visibly.

        Scootaloo glanced at him with a slight shade of amusement.  “Why shouldn't there be?  I learned about gremlins today, didn’t I?”

        Warden blinked at that.  He merely turned and gazed out the windshield as the golden glow of Petra washed over his features and Scootaloo's in turn.

        The last pony spoke up. “Listen, Wart.”  She pulled at a chain-link handle and slowed the forward movement of the vessel.  She reveled in seeing the two gremlin hovercraft disengaging from the sides of the Harmony as the ship slowly approached the black hollow of the hangar ahead.  “I anticipated that I might be having to do something like this.  I certainly didn't look forward to the prospect of parking in your lovely city, but now I know it's something that I have to deal with.  And like most crap that I run into in the Wasteland, I'm going to have to take things cautiously—one hoofstep at a time.”

        Yellow lights began strobing at the Harmony's approach.  Scootaloo slowed the vessel even further as the hangar came closer and closer.  She could spot several other aircraft parked within, as well as the bodies of multiple creatures hustling about their vehicles.

        “I guess what I'm trying to get at is that I'm still totally going to get you to your parents, but it won't be right away.  This place—you see—it's more than likely a very... very...”  She took a deep breath, her brown coat briefly twitching, as if reeling from bruises that were two and a half decades old.  “...very dangerous environment for an equine such as me.  I don't think I even need to explain to you why.”

        Warden said nothing.

        The airship entered the hangar.  The golden glow of the city was drowned out by a deep red light illuminating the garage's cavernous interior.  There was a set of mooring rigs hanging from the ceiling rafters above.  Scootaloo aimed towards it, gracefully sliding her dirigible alongside a stretch of silver platforms to the starboard side.

        “I've done this sort of thing before,” she murmured as she slowed the Harmony to a complete stop.  She flipped several levers and hopped out of her cockpit, marching over towards the valves that controlled the port and starboard grappling arms.  After anchoring the airship in place, she trotted across the cabin, grabbed the green fire from the hammock, and approached one of the metal cabinets while Warden watched.  “I need to go out, scout around, get a good feel for the place, and figure a way to... to get into the pits.”  She sighed, pausing briefly before the metal cabinet.  She turned and glanced towards Warden and braved a thin smile.  “Once I've done all that, and I figure out how to do it safely, then will I take you to your parents.  There's no use in protecting you if I can't protect myself, ya feel me?”

        “Why?” Warden asked.

        “H'jem.”  The rune over the locker stopped glowing.  After depositing the green flame safely inside, Scootaloo grabbed an extra layer of armor, a leather cowl, a saddlebag, and her copper rifle.  “Because it just wouldn't make sense for an 'abominable glue stick' to be your only means of getting back to your family.  If I can find a way to keep below the imps' radar in this place—”

        “No, what I mean is...”  Warden hobbled a few steps and leaned against the shelf that the record player was on.  He looked forlornly at her.  “Why are you doing all of this for me?”

        Scootaloo was halfway through donning her armor.  She paused, then glanced over at him.  “Because, when I was your age, and I was stuck in the Wasteland, I would have given everything to have somepony... to have somebody help me.”

        As she resumed collecting her things, Warden fidgeted and walked over to the hammock again.  “I thought ponies always lived in herds.  Why'd they leave you all alone?”

        Scootaloo was reaching for the locker's doors.  She took a deep breath at those words and reached in to grab a pair of runestones.  She shut the doors.  “W'nyhhm.”  They locked magically in place.  Adjusting the bracelet of glowing horns on her left limb, she then trotted over to the cockpit and slid the two runestones into a pair of electrically-wired notches shaped perfectly to accept them.  “Some of us have no choice but to be alone, Wart.  Let's just leave it at that.”

        “But—”

        “Take a look at this, if you will,” she murmured.  Once she had the two runes in place, she stepped back and spoke firmly into her bracelet.  “Y'mnym!”  The wires around the notches lit up along with the runes.  Soon, a bright purple glow illuminated the edges of the entire cockpit.  Whistling, Scootaloo caught Warden's attention, then tossed an empty soup can his way.  “I know your left leg's busted and jazz, but certainly you've got a good pitching arm.”

        “Uhhh... what?”

        She gestured towards the cockpit.  “Toss the can at my instrument panel.”

        “What for?”

        “Humor me, if you will.”

        Warden blinked.  Shifting his weight on his right leg, he tensed his upper body and flung the can at the pilot's seat with all his might.  What resulted was a splash of bright purple light as a sphere of energy solidified around the cockpit, flickered violently, and disappeared with a haze of sparks.

        “Daah!”  Warden shrieked, falling back so that he was draped awkwardly across the swinging hammock.

        Scootaloo calmly turned towards him and muttered, “All things considered, Wart, you're my guest.  But I'm also not stupid.  If you try to take control of this ship while I'm off getting a look at the city, you'll regret it.”  She picked up the can and lifted it, revealing the edges of it that were hotly smoking from contact with the runestone shield.  “Imagine this as your skin.  It'd be the same if you came into contact with the exit to this craft after I'm gone.  I really, really wouldn't try getting out if I were you.”

        “You're... you're leaving me here?” He blinked.

        “Just for a few hours, tops,” Scootaloo said, sliding the armored cap over her head and sliding her ears into place.  Lastly, she slipped on her saddlebag and slid her compacted copper rifle into the holster across her back.  “Please, don't think of this place like a prison.  You know where the food is, if you're feeling famished.  There's a full canteen of water on the bench across from you, in case you're thirsty.  Downstairs, there's a large metal pot in the corner for when you... well... when you feel like taking care of other things.”

        “You... uhm...”  Warden was suddenly nervous.  His glistening eyes once again mirrored the aquamarine orbs that had shaken in front of Scootaloo in a dark cave far away.  “You sure that this is such a good idea, pony?  I mean, I've spent my entire life in this city, and... and the way we imps feel about... about 'sky stealers...'”

        “Heh...”  Scootaloo smirked and began her descent down the revolving staircase.  “I'm touched that you'd show some concern.  Trust me, I've dealt with worse.”

        “I... I dunno...”  Warden's fingers curled pensively with the netting of the hammock.  “It's a big city, and you're just one... pegasus.”

        “I’m always ‘just one pegasus,’ Wart.  Besides, I said I'd only be gone for two or three hours, didn't I?  And maybe when I return I'll have bought some more dried meat for you to shove down your gullet.  So quit fretting!”  She finished with a smirk.

“I’m not fretting,” Warden murmured, curling back up on the hammock with her back to him.  “I... I just want to see my parents again. That’s all.”

Scootaloo blinked, staring at his figure from beyond the brass bars of the revolving staircase she was descending.  Finally wrenching her gaze from him, she remembered the smell of Clousdalian steam.  For a brief moment, she thought she couldn’t possibly be more nauseated.  When she descended to the hangar level and opened the aperture entrance to the Harmony, she was graced with the smoggy breath of Petra, and she soon realized she was wrong.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        The air about the place was rancid.  Scootaloo couldn't tell if it was the exhaust being pumped out of the multiple aircraft, or if it was the sheer smell of the pilots swarming about their parked dirigibles.  The hangar swam with multiplicitous noises: dozens of blowtorches putting the finishing touches on hull platings, multiple creatures squabbling over the exchange of spare parts, squawking foul flying overhead like scavengers above carrion, and hydraulic machinery assisting in the repair of random vehicles.

        Scootaloo wasted no time with sight-seeing.  As soon as she was outside the Harmony, she turned to face the aircraft and kept her voice low as she murmured into the ring of horns around her limb.  “H'jnor.  W'nyhhm.”  The cats-eye aperture slid shut and the outer forcefield covered the bow of the Harmony with a purple glow.  Scootaloo exhaled, and suddenly was aware of an immense silence drowning the crowded hangar behind her.  Turning around, she blinked curiously beneath her goggles.

        Beyond the purple haze of her runeshield, a heterogenous crowd of Wasteland creatures was standing perfectly still, frozen in the middle of whatever tasks the sentient things were doing, staring steadily at the last pony after the two lunar words she had just uttered.  Scootaloo saw dirigible dogs, monkeys, even a squawking bird or two.  However, she did not see a single goblin—or gremlin for that matter.  Her brow furrowed above her goggles as she realized that the entire hangar was being rented out entirely by non-imps, and suddenly it made sense why the gremlins had escorted her here.  She wondered briefly if they even knew that she was a pony.

        Scootaloo was not one to waste a moment, no matter how bad it smelled.  Rather than absorb the attention that was being tossed warily her way, she ignored the many sets of eyes and flew up to the far corners of her ship, speaking into several spots along the hull where even more runes were hidden.  For precarious situations such as this, it was helpful to have extra slabs of lunar rock stashed away to bolster the shields of her parked dirigible.  It was not something Scootaloo resorted to often, as it was typically an annoying, ten minute ritual to switch the entire assortment of runic barriers on and off.  However, with so many different creatures populating this tight enclosure, she didn't want to risk any single one of them exploiting an opportunity to get inside the Harmony.  There was no telling what they might do to Warden.

        Scootaloo slumped briefly by the time she reached the topmost portion of her dirigible.  She ran a hoof over her cowled head in a brief stupor.  Had she really thought about her imp passenger before worrying over the bottle of green flame locked inside the cabinet?

        She didn't have much time to contemplate this when a feathery creature flapped down and landed on top of the balloon beside her with a loud shriek.  Scootaloo glanced over to see a white-back vulture seated two meters away, glaring at her.  She groaned and murmured to herself before preparing to switch on the last runestone's shield.  “Just what this place needs, something to devour all the pests.”

        “Pay up, glue stick,” the buzzard suddenly spoke.

        Scootaloo's head lifted up.  After a blank moment of contemplation, she glanced over at the suddenly sentient fowl.  “I beg your pardon?”

        The buzzard hissed at her.  He waved a wrench in his razor-sharp talons and gestured with his featherless head towards a brightly-lit alcove hanging above the entire hangar, at the end of a complex branch of metal catwalks.  “You wanna use this hangar, pony?  Then you gotta pay up.  The boss is waiting upstairs.  If you don't have the silver, he'll have us cut you loose.”

        Scootaloo observed several more buzzards—ugly brethren to this creature—who were flying all across the upper spaces of the hangar, delivering messages and supplies to the various pilots parking their aircraft within.  She finally understood that there was a system at work here, and it occurred to her just who the “garage attendants” were.

        “Alright then.  I'll go see your boss.”  Scootaloo nodded as the one buzzard grunted and flew away.  “And then I'll promptly brush up on my Equestrian ornithology. W'nyhhm.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        “You've gotta be kiddingggggg us!” a diamond dog's unmistakable, raspy voice could be heard from several meters along the catwalk as Scootaloo slowly approached the hangar manager's alcove.  “We barely spent twelve hours in this patheticcccccc troll turd of a city, and still you're forcingggggg us to pay the full two hundred stripsssss?!”

        A voice squawked back in bitter retort, “More like eighteen hours.  And yes, you mutts gotta pay, or else my buddies and I will strip your zeppelin to pieces and toss the whole stinkin' lot of you to the... well, to us, really.”

        “Thissssss is robbery!  We'd never would have parked in this lousy hangar if we knew justttttt how poor business is in this town!”  As Scootaloo rounded the corner and entered the claustrophobic alcove, she saw one of three surly canines staring down an unenthused, molting vulture wearing a pith helmet.  “My brotherssssss and I spent hours just trying to find a goblin clan willinggggg to do trade.  Half of the imps turned us away!  The other half were—well—missingggg!  Just what is this?!  Did a good chunkkkkk of Petra's family businesses fall off the face of the Wasteland in the last five years?!”

        “Tchh.  What do I look like?!” the vulture growled, his round helmet dangling atop his bald crown.  “I'm as much an outbleeder in this town as you are.  The only thing I know about goblins is that their eyeballs are tasty.  The dead ones, that is.  I don't pay the imp market any heed.  All that matters to me is that Wasteland pilots are still usin' this hangar to come and pay visits to the little scamps. Besides, just what is it to you?  Dang stupid dogs of the Wasteland should have a backup plan before they go about barkin' up a giant golden tree made out of metal!  Ha!”

        “Nnnngh!  Stupid buzzarddddddd!  Screw you and your little garage full of bird poop!  I swear, my brothers and I would have had better luckkkkk flying through the artillery bombardment of the Valley of Jewels to do business!”

        “Okay, two things.  One—”  The vulture's blood-red eyes flared from beneath the edge of his pith helmet as he roared in the three dogs' faces.  “I'm not a god-forsaken buzzard, you marble-mouthed yahoos!  For another, even remotely suggestin' that you plan to do business with the ogres of the Valley of Jewels is liable to make you dead meat in a goblin city like this.  Heh, not that I mind.  Your bellies are lookin' full of sinewy goodness.”  He gave a mischievous wink while licking the edge of his beak.

        If that was an outrageous attempt to usher the angry dogs away, it worked.  “Let's go, boysssss,” their leader grunted.  He tossed two bars onto a tray beside an instrument panel where the vulture was sitting.  He then hobbled away on all fours with his two bristly-haired companions in tow.  They brushed past Scootaloo and made for the stairwell leading from the catwalk towards their grimy little airship docked below.  “Let's go someplace where the only creaturessssss who talk don't possess a semi-automatic defense system.”

        The vulture “cupped” a pair of featherly limbs about his beak and called after them.  “This creature's defense system can still plug several holes into you if you so much as think of pissin' on his loadin' dock on the way out!”

        “Go stick your beakkkkk into a light socket, ya turkey!” one of them howled back.

        “Tchh.  Friggin' dogs.”  The vulture spun in his swivel chair and flipped a switch over a control panel marked with the canines' docking station.  The light switched from red to green, indicating vacancy.  “I only wish they were as fragrant as they were predictable.”

        Scootaloo cleared her throat.  “Excuse me...”

        “Yeah, yeah.  One minute.”  The vulture waved a feather, frowned, and yanked a bendable microphone towards his beak.  He shouted while glaring out the open window of the alcove towards the wide hangar below.  “Hey!  You!  Yes you!”  Two blinking vultures glanced up at him as his voice crackled menacingly over the hangar's speaker system.  “Why are you standin' around like a pair of castrated ostriches?!  Dock Twelve is unloadin'!  You gotta degrease the moorin' clamps before another bunch of patrons takes the dogs' place!  Move your tail feathers!”

        “I'd really like to discuss payment for the first thirty-six hours worth of using this facility,” Scootaloo spoke.

        The vulture ignored her.  “And some bird go start a search party for those lousy lemurs parked in Dock Nine!  They're twenty hours overdue in payment, and I'm tired of their cargo stinkin' up the place!”  He switched the intercom off and grumbled to himself.  “Tchh.  I friggin' know they're smugglin' hydra lymph glands.  They wouldn't deserve to call themselves 'lemurs' if they didn't.”

        “Ahem.  Look, can I pay for Dock Seven yet or not?”

        “Yeesh, princess!  A little patience, huh?”  The vulture swiveled to face her, smirking.  “What do you think you are, a sky stealin' pony?!  You suddenly own the world?—Hello!”  He jolted back in his seat at the sight of her.  Tilting the edge of his pith helmet up, he blinked his bright red eyes and and smiled.  “Heh, no friggin' way.  Now I've seen everything.”

        “I must be your life's ambition,” Scootaloo muttered.  “How many strips for the first day?”

        “First?”  He cocked his bald head to the side.  “The one pony who shows up in Petra ever, and you're plannin' on stayin' a while?”

        “That depends if I have better or worse luck than those dogs you just gave the third degree.”  She pointed out the window.  “Dock Seven is where I'm moored.  Do I need to register or...?”

        “Heh, wow.”  He raised his helmet with one wing and “scratched” his rash-covered skull with the stems of his other wing's feathers.  “You actually talk.  Where I come from, legends have it that horses only talked by clompin' their hooves in some hidden code.”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  “I assure you, I can talk.  As a matter of fact, I seem to stay on topic a lot better than sentient, carrion-eating fowl.”

        “Love ya too, princess.”  The vulture spun a full three-sixty in his chair and came back with a clipboard flung towards her.  “Write your name and your ship's name there.  Heheheheh...”  He leaned forward with interest.  “Boy, I can't wait to see this.”

        Scootaloo rolled her eyes.  She gripped a greasy pen with her teeth, ignored his chuckles, and enscribed the requested info.  Once done, she spat the pen out and slid it back into the clipboard's clasp.  “Now, before I toss this back at you, I'd really—really like to know the means of payment, Mister...”

        “Kevin,” the vulture said.

        Scootaloo blinked at him.  “...Kevin.”

        “Yuh huh.”

        “Uhmm...”

        “What?”  The vulture glared from under his helmet.  “You wanna start somethin'?”

        “Erm... No.  I just...”  Scootaloo sighed long and hard.  “Payment?”

        “Mmmm...”  Kevin fiddled with a white ruff of feathers at the base of his leathery neck.  “Four hundred strips.”

        Scootaloo stared at him lethargically.  “Four hundred?”

        “I do believe I said that.  What, do ponies have a hard time countin' too?  I don't know if I can sit back and wait for you to clomp your hooves four hundred times.”

        Scootaloo glanced over her shoulder as the dogs' airship left Dock Twelve.  She looked back at her molting proprietor.  “Funny how you charged them half as much for the same period of time.”

        “Tch.  And just how do you know rate I was chargin' them?”

        “I'm not an idiot,” Scootaloo grunted.  “And if you want me to count the number of times I've had creatures try to screw me over, then I'm more than willing to clomp it against your hollow skull.”

        “Hmmm.”  Kevin smirked.  “Well, princess, if you're no idiot, then surely you can expect just why I'd have to charge a 'sky stealer' more than the average rate in the heart of goblin country.”  He flipped a switch next to his microphone.  The ceiling of the hangar opened in four places, and several hanging gun turrets lowered, glistening in the red light.  A few pilots below stopped what they were doing to glance up with nervousness.  “What I provide here at Kevin's Nest is more than just a place to rest your big bright balloon.  I provide security.  This is the one place in all of Petra where outbleeders can park their stuff without fear of goblin interference.  What's more, my defense system keeps all of the creatures of different skin, scales, and feathers in line.  So what if it takes a chunk out of your saddlebag?  You're a pony.  That makes you a bigger liability than the random, piss-stupid dirigible dog.  And if you don't like my rates, so be it.  Take off and try to find another place to park.  I dare you.”

        He finished this with a grin. Scootaloo returned with a groan.  Defeated, she tossed the clipboard his way.

        “Fine.  But I don't want you pulling any crap like raising the four hundred strips by the end of the initial period.”

        “Hey!  I'm a dirty eater, but a clean businessman.  A deal's a deal...”  He glanced down at the clipboard.  “... Miss Scoota—snkkkkt—Oh for real?  God dang it, that's too cute.”

        “Are you done?” Scootaloo glared.

        “Ahem.”  Kevin tilted his beak up with a bright smirk.  “Have you started?”

        Scootaloo knew a cue when she was being given one.  Quietly, she reached into a pocket of her armor, grabbed four bars, and tossed the silver pieces of metal the vulture's way.

        “See?  That wasn't so hard!”  Kevin added her payment to the dogs' pile and winked.  He slapped the console and the machine guns retracted back into the ceiling of Kevin's Nest.  “I guess it's like they always say in legends:  'You can lead a horse to water, but—'”

        “If you so much as finish that phrase, I'm shoving that helmet of yours into your stomach,” Scootaloo grunted.  “And it won't go down the tube you expect it to.”

        “Hahaha!—Voice of a princess, temper of a psychopath!  Just my kind of girl!  Only, y'know, you're not dead.”  He cleared his throat and flipped a switch over Dock Seven, indicating it was no longer vacant.  “Go on about your business—whatever it is.  I'd wish you luck, but it hardly works on outbleeders.”

        “Okay, I have to ask,” Scootaloo mumbled, her eyes squinting at him.  “Just what is an 'outbleeder?'”

        “You're an outbleeder,” Kevin grunted, pointing with his wing feathers.  “I'm an outbleeder.  Dogs and raccoons and lemurs and all the glorious marsupials in between are outbleeders.  So long as your blood isn't imp's blood—”

        “Yeah, I think I get it,” Scootaloo said with a nod, glancing out the window of the alcove.  “At the risk of having to pay more, I was wondering if you could give me some information before I hoof it to the streets beyond.”

        “You're the first patron in weeks who hasn't smelled bad.”  Kevin leaned back in his chair and propped his talons up.  “First tidbit is on the house.  Shoot.”

        “A gremlin escort seemed pretty angry that I hovered too close to the mines over Cloudsd—”  She rolled her eyes at herself.  “...too close to the steam mines.  I don't actually need to conduct business here in the city.  I need to get something from the pits.”

        “Tchh.  Like what?  Steam?  Just get that from one of the family businesses, princess.”

        “It isn't steam.  It's... It's complicated.”  Scootaloo gulped.  “I need to find a way to be allowed into the mines, personally.”

        “Heh.  Good luck with that.  I hear goblins want outbleeders inside the mines like they want a second rectum.”

        “Apparently it's enough for them to threaten shooting zeppelins out of the sky,” Scootaloo thought aloud.  She looked at Kevin.  “Any idea which goblin clans run the mines?”

        “To what purpose?”

        “I'd like to talk to a few of them,” Scootaloo said.  “I might be able to strike a deal.”

        “Ha!  A pony striking a deal with goblins!”  Kevin picked the metal helmet off his head and fanned his smirking face with it.  “You'd have better luck fartin' into the sky and birthin' a new Sun!  Hahahaha!”

        Scootaloo fidgeted where she stood.

        “Ahem.”  Kevin leaned forward in the chair.  “Tell you what, princess.  I really, really don't pay much attention to imp politics.  It's an ugly sort of business, even for a vulture like me.  I've learned not to get involved with what these sociopathic half-lings do to one another in this giant metal antenna they call 'home.'  There's nothing to be had but a bunch of backstabbing, slave-trading, and flinging wrenches at stuff to make them tick.”

        “You don't say...”

        “Oh, I do.  All I know is that the imps have this elitist thing that's been going on for friggin' centuries, and the families at the top of the ladder are the only ones worth talkin' to in the grand scheme of things.”

        “Do these families have names?”

        “Tchh... Seriously?  You're gonna make my head work that hard?”  The vulture plopped the pith helmet back onto his bald head and rolled his red eyes back.  “Nnnngh... 'Amber Blood,' 'Star Blood,' 'Geist Blood,' 'Wind Blood'... I hear those friggin' names thrown around like yesterday's STDs, if you feel me.  I don't know the difference between them all, but I figure that those are the names that matter the most.  If any imp's gonna be in charge of the minin' operations, it's probably from one of those clans.  Start there somewhere, and work your way down—assumin' you still have your pretty head on your shoulders, princess.  Heheh...”

        “Duly noted,” Scootaloo exhaled, then swiveled to leave.

        “That's just it?”  Kevin sat straight up, squinting curiously at her.  “You're goin' to march into that big, glowy, clockwork mess of a town and just start askin' around?”

        “Not like I have any other choice, and I'm already shoveling four hundred strips into your beak.”  She glanced back briefly.  “Why waste the time?”

        “Heh.  Somewhere beneath all that tanned leather, princess, I suspect you've grown a pair... and then a pair on that pair!”  He smirked.  “I'm guessin' you've run into goblins before?”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She swiftly exited the alcove, making for a metal elevator located at the end of the catwalk beyond.  “You could say that,” she muttered under her breath.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo sat on her haunches in the middle of the elevator car.  She stared down at the metal bulkheads as the slowly ascending platform rattled beneath her.  The further she rose into the dense flesh of Petra, the more the steam intensified in the air around her.  The goggles over her eyes fogged briefly as she greeted an oceanic cacophony of thousands upon thousands of grinding cogwheels, gears, pistons, levers, and belts.  The mechanized womb of Petra was about to swallow the pegasus up in all its hissing, infernal glory.

        She couldn't help but shudder.  Scootaloo's coat hair was standing on end, even beneath all of the insulating armor enshrouding her figure.  The steam had a haunting chill to it, like the cold breath of a gray, sepulcher place where she once had laid her bruised, blood-stained head.  The noise increased to a deafening degree, so that she realized she was being drowned in the heartbeat of Petra... in the essence of goblins... the product of creatures who hated ponykind.

        She felt the first hint of a shiver and mentally cursed herself.  Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard and reached a hoof blindly beneath a length of armor.  When she pulled the hoof out, it was holding the small, ivory box.  She opened it—as well as her eyes, in time to see the three fluttering blue feathers.

        After a brief pause in reflection, she reached a hoof into a pocket of her saddlebag and brought out the enchanted dragon tooth.  Using her teeth, she snapped the blue string loose and dropped the tooth into the ivory box.  She then tied the string to one of the feathers... and promptly strung the feather around one of her ears before tucking it back into the leather cowl fitted tightly over her head.  The pony took a deep breath.  Feeling the silken, sapphire fibers of the feather against her ear brought magnificent comfort to her.

        When the elevator platform finally stopped and the doors creaked open—casting a blinding, golden light across her figure—she lost all hesitance and marched courageously into the noise.  Her breaths were solid, firm, and resolute.





        Scootaloo was hyperventilating even before waking up.  As soon as the foal's violet eyes opened, she regretted it.  The blood-stained filly flinched back against the wooden stake to which she was bound.  Nothing she could do would hide her from the glare of the imp standing before her.

        Matthais' eyes glinted in the twilight pouring down through the ruptured ceiling of the Cloudsdalian ruins.  He marched icily towards Scootaloo, squatting his pale self before the tightly encumbered nine-year-old.  He rolled four metal gauntleted fingers, one after another, as he stared disdainfully into the shivering pony's soul.

        After an interminable space in time, punctuated only by the sound of his clattering fingers, the black-haired imp finally spoke, “Are you scared, pony?”  His white nostrils flared.  “Answer me while you still have a voice box to spare.”

        Scootaloo gulped.  Her eyes twitched.  She was in the clubhouse, helping Sweetie Belle with a map of Ponyville.  They didn't have anything green to draw with, so they combined two crayons of blue and yellow to make the trees of their hometown.  Scootaloo's eyes twitched again, and Matthais returned, his glare harder than ever.

        “Y-Yes...” She whimpered.  “I'm scared.”

        Matthais inhaled her words as if they were a fragrance.  He returned just as breathily, “I'm glad.”  Suddenly, with cold precision, he held his gauntlet-covered hand in front of her face.  Making sure he had her full attention, he pulled the metal off his limb.  When he finished, she couldn't help but wince.  The digits to his fingers were unnaturally thin, mangled, bent awkwardly at the joints.  “Do you see this hand?  You do know what a 'hand' is, right, pony?”

        Scootaloo gulped and nodded between shivers.  Her back had a long, raw rash from where her coat had perpetually made contact with the wooden stake strapped behind her.  That didn't stop her from painfully squirming into it after each prolonged second of staring into this strange imp's angry face.

        “My hand wasn't always like this,” Matthais murmured.  He stared at the disfigurement, pivoting the twice-pale limb before his eyes.  “I used to be a master engineer.  I dug gemstones out of the northern slopes of Mount Ogreton and fashioned them into bullets.  My father and I—we alone defended my village from Timberwolf attacks.  We built a thriving goblin village in the middle of the wilderness, where not even ogres could find us.  We had prosperity, enough to manifest Petra...”  His nostrils flared.  “That is... until a storm hit our village seven years ago, and tossed the forest all over our homes.”

        Matthais took a deep breath and slid the gauntlet back on.  As he made a metal fist, his face tensed up.

        He said, “The storm that hit us was no accident.  Because, no, storms in this part of the world were never mistakes of happenstance.  They were controlled, guided—even.  And was it nature that controlled the weather, like it was supposed to?”  He slowly shook his head.  “No.  It was sky-stealing glue sticks like you.  You want to know how I found this out, pony?”  He pivoted his glare to once more envelope Scootaloo's tiny, shivering form.  “There were horses—flying horses—rummaging through the village months after the storm hit.  They were worried about the damage to the forest.  The forest... and there they stood, trotting their dirty hooves over the ashes of everyone I knew and loved.  Including my father...”  His breath pulled in sharply, but he weathered it with a sneer.  “Who had more than just his hand injured.  Half the bones in his body had been broken, and do you know what I did?  I pleaded with the winged ponies.  I begged... like a slave does.  And so they treated me like a slave.  They ignored me, ignored my battered body, ignored my father's corpse... and took off for their floating city in the sky, and they took a few 'mementos' with them.”

        Scootaloo opened her mouth, startled to discover how dry it was.  “I'm... I'm v-very sorry to hear that, Mister.”

        Matthais' eyes dilated upon hearing that.  He blinked at her, and what came out of him next was more chilling than any seething hiss or snarl.  “Heheheheheh..”  His lips curved, but it was as sweet as arsenic.  “Oh, how sweet.  Once a pony, always a pony.  The entire world goes dim, and who do I find in the middle of it all?  The village idiot of horses who can't even tell me what her kind did wrong.”  He raised something rusted and slender in Scootaloo's face.  “Do you know what this is?”

        The object was too close to Scootaloo's bruised face for her to focus on it.  She merely gulped and shook her head.

        “Of course you wouldn't.  Ponies never know anything about sharp objects.  Just ask any creature who's suffered from the flames of every war that ponies have ever started since the dawn of time.”  With a  metallic ringing noise, Matthais unsheathed what turned out to be a thin dagger from its rusted, yellow scabbard.  A breath escaped Scootaloo's lips as he raised the glinting piece of sharp metal above her trembling head.  “This...”  He hissed once more in an icy breath.  “...once belonged to my father.  He used it to skin wild animals and provide sustenance to his children, including me.  It was one of the 'mementos' that the winged ponies took with them after trouncing across my flattened village...”  He lingered, his face twitching and his lips growing tight before he next spat out, “And I found it in the ruins of this Petra-forsaken city just two days ago.”

        Scootaloo's trembles doubled.  Her eyes shut.  Applejack was offering her three crimson, juicy apples.  Somewhere, a camp fire crackled.  Her eyes reopened, and Matthais was leaning into her, pressing the blade tightly against her whimpering throat.

        “In this city!”  He snarled, his pale eyes fluctuating a shade above his alabaster skin.  “Where we came to find a few measly things to survive, and then a piece of the moon that you glue sticks were supposed to be in charge of fell on top of us and tossed us down here!  I watched long-time friends die under heaps of rubble before my eyes.  I watched all of our priceless supplies get thrown clear across the ravine.  We came to this city for resources, and now we are trapped inside this pathetic pit of ashes.  And what do I find?  A piece of my dead father's legacy, the final insult that ponies have to give me, a last nail in the unfair coffin that is life.  And you're telling me—you have the gall to tell me that you don't even know what a dagger is when you see one?  Is that why your sky-hogging kind stole it along with everything else that goblins like me have ever sought to earn in this world?!”

        “Mmmf... Please...”  Scootaloo trembled in his grip.  Her vision turned glossy.  The pale light of Clousdale refracted, and Rainbow Dash briefly barrel-rolled through the miasma.  Her lashes fluttered.  Tears rolled down her cheeks, breaking up some of the caked blood with their moisture.  “I-I don't know what happened.  I'm sorry.  Please... I'm so sorry.  J-Just don't hurt me anymore, I-I beg you...”

        “Hmmm... you would beg, wouldn't you?”  Matthais's eyes narrowed.  He released his grip of her, lowering the dagger from her neck.  Scootaloo panted nervously as he paced back and forth before her bound figure, repeatedly palming the rusted blade in his grasp.  “That's funny, because ponies were never slaves, at least not in my time... nor in my father's.  As every goblin knows, what a pony wanted—she took.  I mean, why not?  You had the entire world; you even had the moon.  You didn't have to earn it—not like we had to earn everything.  So what stopped you from throwing everything away with the Dimming?  You had it all, and now you would fall so short as to beg for something?”

        Matthais' pacing briefly stopped.  The pale goblin turned the knife over before his eyes, playing with the light that reflected off of it.

        “Tell me, pony,” he murmured, his voice dancing with the ethereal fog of the gray, sundered world.  “Would you beg for this dagger?”

        Scootaloo shivered.  The muscles above her bound limbs tightened fearfully.  “I... I...”

        “Well?”  Matthais murmured.  “Do you want the dagger or not, glue stick?  Yes or no?”

        Scootaloo gulped.  She stopped hyperventilating just long enough to firmly utter,  “No.  No, I don't want it.  I don't want the dagger.”

        Matthais took a deep breath, turning the blade over until he saw her orange reflection in it.  “Mmmm...”  He tongued the inside of his cheek.  “How humble.  How sweet.”  He swallowed hard and clicked his tongue against his teeth.  “But it's not your dagger, pony.  You didn't earn it.  My father did, and it's mine.  And it so happens that I'm feeling generous today.”

        Not a second later, he swiveled to face her, took two bold strides, and plunged the dagger hilt-deep into Scootaloo's right flank.

        The air filled with a howling noise.  The moment she registered the blood trickling over her hoof, she realized the scream belonged to her.  She writhed against the wooden stake, almost to the breaking point, as rivers of pain swam up her spine and exploded in her throat—producing wailing scream after wailing scream.  Before she could let out all of her agony, a fierce metal hand gripped over her muzzle, clamping her jaw shut and forcing her to emit tiny, spitting noises as tears bathed her spasming face muscles.

        Matthais was leaning over and breathing into her bright, horrified eyes.  “If you beg like a slave... then so be it.  I shall treat you like a slave.  And that...”  He pointed with his free hand at the offensive blade embedded in her quivering thigh.  “...is my branding.  You are no longer ruler of the sky, pony.  From now on, you'll be our work horse.  And then when the day comes that you serve better use to this world as a corpse, I'll remove this 'brand' from your leg and administer it to your throat.”  He released her and spat into her face just as her mouth opened to yelp once more.  “I only wish my father received as much mercy as I'm about to give you now, glue stick.”

        He slammed the full weight of the gauntlet across Scootaloo's face, ending the pain... for she fell immediately unconscious.





        “Is something wrong with your ears, glue stick?!”

        Scootaloo stared silently, her goggled eyes cold and deadpan.

        “Huh?!”  A goblin frowned up at her in the middle of one of the many lofty, metallic alleyways of Petra.  “I said, did you hear me, glue stick?!”  He hung off a flickering, copper lamppost and pointed a blunt dagger at her armored flank.  “You'd better watch your step!  I am Blink of Sea Blood!  I'm the  head of local security around this strut!  Either you pay the toll or all my Sea-Bleeder brothers will come and rip your eyeballs out!”

        The last pony slowly nodded.  With a brown hoof, she reached up and pulled the edge of her leather cowl below her mouth.  “I wasn't aware that I had to pay a toll to walk these streets.  This is certainly news to me, Mister... what was your name again?”

        The bat-eared half-ling sneered, hopped down from the lamppost, and marched towards her while juggling the blade threateningly.  “You friggin' deaf or something, oats-for-breath?  I said my name is Blink of Sea Blood and—”  The goblin's eyes bulged as an armored forelimb yanked him down by the neck and slammed him cheek-first against the perforated metal platform beneath them both.  “Ooof!”

        “How nice.”  Scootaloo said and clopped a hoof down in front of his twitching nose.  “Now allow me to tell you my name.”  She rotated her horseshoe.  A shiny, copper blade flashed in front of his gasping face.  “I am Scootaloo, the last pony, and I'm going to rip your tongue out and eat it for dinner if you don't put it to better use than lying.”

        “L-L-Lying...?!”  the imp stammered, pinned down by her merciless weight.

        “Mmmmhmmm...”  She leaned forward and whispered towards his twitching ears  “You see, I've met goblins before.  If you really did belong to a clan of 'Sea Bleeders' or what-have-you, then you'd be wearing a banner around your upper body to indicate that.  I see nothing on your chest, arms, or shoulders, which leads me to think that you're just a cowardly, homeless beggar who thinks he can intimidate visiting merchants into coughing up a few dozen strips as soon as you flash your pathetic little butter knife in their faces.”  Her goggles glinted in the lantern-light as she tilted her gaze up, spotting several distant pedestrians who were staring indifferently at the altercation.  “Judging by the absolute droves of thugs rushing up to assist their 'doomed brother' as we speak, I'm guessing I've made a proper assessment of your worthlessness.”

        “Please... Please...”  The imp suddenly whimpered, shivering under her grasp as the pony's sharp blade danced near his reddened cheek.  “I-I'm sorry!  Please don't—”

        “Don't what?  Skin you alive and feed you to the trolls of the Wasteland?”  Scootloo droned.  “Because that's what all 'glue sticks' do, right?  Isn't that what you've been taught?”

        “I...”  He gulped and trembled.  “I-I don't know...”

        “The first honest thing you've said in your life, I'm willing to bet.”  She effortlessly hoisted the goblin straight up to his feet.

        He gasped as he was flung up against the metal lamppost.  The goblin's petite body flinched under the flat of the horseshoe being pressed against his chest as Scootaloo leaned towards him with a frowning face.

        “How about this?  I'll give you an opportunity to be of use to me.”  Her nostrils flared as her goggles reflected twin, panicked expressions.  “I need to get inside the mining operation.  You know...”  Her voice took on a droning lethargy as she continued, “The giant quarry where all of the goblins are harvesting sky marble.  Specifically, I need to get to a spot that's two kilometers from the western cliff-face and half-a-kilometer from the southern slopes.”

        “The...”  He bit his lip and nervously smiled.  “The central p-pits are under control of multiple families from the upper platforms.”

        “But who mainly?”  Scootaloo's brow furrowed over her goggles.  “I need a name.”

        The goblin sputtered, nervously eying the distant imps who weren't even trying to pull this aggressive equine off of him.  “Geist Blood!  The Geist-Bleeders have been running everything as of late!  If you want to get into their area of operations, you have to t-take it up with their clan leader.”

        Scootaloo hesitated, her coat on edge.  For some reason she couldn't explain, that particular name had a scent of familiarity to it.  She felt the silken kiss of Rainbow Dash's feather against her ear and regained her composure.  “Hmm... I see...”  She nodded slowly, then pressed her weight firmer against him.  “Just where can I find this leader of the Geist Blood clan?”

        “Strut Twenty-Five!” he exclaimed.  “Level Alpha!  Look for the goblins with black wrist-bands on their wrists and blackened ash strips on their doors!  That's the m-mark of the Geist Blood clan!”  the imp said, then winced, expecting a vicious pummeling to punctuate the exchange.

        Instead, Scootaloo hummed thoughtfully.  “Hmmm.  Strut Twenty-Five.  Sounds like an awful long trek for a stranger like me to take.”  Her voice briefly hissed into him, “How do I know you're not just trying to get rid of me!”

        “I'm telling the truth!  I-I swear!”  He shivered and teetered on the precipice of fainting.  “D-Don't gut me, glue stick!  I beg you!”

        At those last words, Scootaloo lost all menace.  Her nostrils flared, and in a frustrated breath, she immediately released her pressure.

        “Nngh!”  The goblin fell on his backside, shaking a few mental cobwebs loose.  He was surprised to find a pair of metal objects falling into his lap.  Blinking, he cradled the two silver strips and gazed at them, his jaw dropping open.  “T-Two strips...?”  He glanced up, dumbstruck.  “Th-That's more than I've had in a week...”

        “You assisted me, didn’t you?”  Scootaloo slipped her mask back on and gave him a lasting glance over her armored shoulder.  “Maybe, from now on, you will consider helping visitors instead of pointing sharp things at them.  Perhaps you'll even win the respect of a clan and not be homeless anymore.”

        “What...”  The goblin gulped and gazed in awe after her.  “Who are you?”

        She trotted away, down an alleyway full of goblins who stared suspiciously at the filly.

        “Somepony who earns,” she muttered.



~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Walls of golden light flashed down Scootaloo's armored figure.  Quietly, she rode a swaying elevator car up a towering spindle of aluminum towards the twenty-fifth strut built from the base of Petra.  The rising metal platform rattled around her like a cage as she gazed straight up.  The giant, golden discs of the imp city’s districts loomed above, piercing the black smog with a vibrant, platinum glow.

        Taking a deep breath, Scootaloo glanced down.  Beyond her hooves, she could see through the metallic spiderweb platform that formed the “floor” of the elevator car.  She was able to spot the smog-laden surface of the Wasteland over a thousand meters below.  The entire bottom half of Petra loomed between her and ground level.  Scootaloo flexed her wings over her leather armor.  She imagined that if the elevator's platform was to suddenly snap apart, she would have to catch a good wind in order to soar out of danger.  She wondered briefly just how many goblins were less lucky in those regards, or if they had built the city with safety in mind from the get-go. 

        There was a snickering sound.  Scootaloo glanced aside.

        She was sharing the elevator car with three goblin workers.  They each wore green collars around their necks, like long emerald scarves.  The fellow clan members murmured among each other, secretively, casting the pegasus several smirking glances.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She leaned back against the side of the car and watched as the hulking shape of Strut Twenty-Five loomed within view above them.  A heterogeneous sea of lantern-lights, steam boilers, oil fires, and sparkling tesla coils came into focus.

        “Ahem...”

        The filly glanced lethargically at her fellow passengers.

        “A long way from your stables, hmm?”  The tallest of the goblins smirked up at her under a glinting pair of work goggles.  “Does the pony come here to sell manure?”

        The last pony stared blankly back at him.  “What?  And outshine your line of work?”

        The other two goblins poked at their talkative companion and laughed.  He fidgeted where he stood before smirking awkwardly.  There was a loud hissing noise of compressed hydraulics as the rattling elevator came to a stop.  The door flew open with a clatter, and the three goblins scurried out, snickering and chattering in a noisy cloud.  A slumped Scootaloo marched after them, making her lonely way through the middle streets of Strut Twenty-Five, Level Beta.

Here, the streets were crowded, positively drenched in imp life.  Scootaloo imagined the Geist-Bleeders to be a very important clan, in that their districts were filled to the brim with merchants, craftsmakers, traders, and even peddlers of food.  If fate could somehow take the open market of pre-Cataclysm Ponyville, replace every pony with a goblin, and bathe it with soot and grime, such could have poetically described Strut Twenty-Five.

        This stretch of an analogy ended the very moment Scootaloo found herself having to step over a bloodstained patch of metal sidewalk.  Her brow furrowed as she glanced around the streetcorners of the rusted district, spotting random bulkheads splotched with the tell-tale signs of ancient scuffles, all of them having achieved a juicy end.  The distant sounds of angry shouts and steam pistol shots added to the foreboding ambiance of the crowded latticework as Scootaloo shuffled along.

        Level Beta was a claustrophobic thing, a thin sandwich of a horizontal space squished between two separate and identical floors.  Everything about the place was a hollow web of porous metal.  Glancing down, Scootaloo saw straight through the bulkheads to witness the paths and buildings of the district directly beneath her.  Looking up, the last pony spotted the topmost level of Strut Twenty-Five and the many soles of pedestrian feet shuffling immediately above.  She figured that every circular platform of Petra was built in this same, highly revealing way.  The goblins had very little to hide in their city of industry.  The only opaque things in the neighborhood were the iron factories and aluminum houses that randomly dotted the platforms, but even those buildings spared enough windows for wandering eyes to peer through.

        Still, Petra was a machine first and a dwelling place second.  Every shop, every saloon, every blacksmith, every foundry, and every office was really just an offshoot to a giant contraption that never stopped expanding for a second.  As Scootaloo trotted along, she gazed about and spotted random clusters of goblins huddled around welding tools, applying the finishing touches to new metallic structures that would never truly be finished.  There was no end to construction, so long as the imps lived and breathed; there was no end to Petra.

        Through the latticed walls of metal webbing, endless clusters of rotating gears and pumping pistons filled the rattling metropolis with a constant, mechanical heartbeat.  Millions upon millions of kilometers of pipe snaked around every nook and cranny, pumping steam relentlessly through the circulatory system of the two-kilometer high structure.  If Petra was alive, Scootaloo was navigating its lungs, and those rusted tubes were filled with a smoggy breath that didn't know when to quit.  Occasional vents of steam billowed through the platforms and walls of the place to bathe the last pony in a warm mist, constantly reminding her that she was just a trotting infection in the middle of an alien organism of metal.

        Scootaloo hardly needed the city's mechanisms to remind her of this.  Every set of goblin eyes followed her for the full length of time it took the last pony to wander down a metal-plated street, only to experience the same hard-edged scrutiny upon the next rusted block of suspended urbanscape.  She gazed back at every single one of the imps, meeting their goggled gazes with that of her own.  If what she had read about impkind was correct, her best chance at avoiding the harassment of goblins was to bestow upon them the same distaste that was being tossed her way.  She only wished she had known that when she was much younger.  Books eventually taught her how to avoid pain; experience showed her how to deal with it.  Some way or another, she would always have to deal with it.

        Goblins were short, razor-clawed, thick-skinned creatures.  However, they were hardly monstrosities.  For the first time, Scootaloo saw tiny imp children.  They gazed down at her innocently from the upper stories of rusted shanty houses, their bright eyes reflecting the gold lantern-light of Strut Twenty-Five around them.  Young goblin teenagers huddled around street corners, staring at the last pony with as much curiosity as disgust, too shocked to toss anything insulting her way.  For a brief moment, the pegasus wondered if perhaps she had very little to worry about in Petra after all.

        Then she found clusters of miners.  These goblins loitered around smoldering forges, murmuring amidst each other before their shifts came.  Then they would descend to the lower struts to take a train ride to the Cloudsdalian ruins and face the labor ahead of them.  In the meantime, however, they stopped whatever it was that they were chatting about in order to stare fixedly at the last pony, their razor-sharp jaws locked into jeering smirks as they murmured and spoke hushed, offensive things behind her flank.  One danced out into the open street and charaded a “prancing” motion, all the while braying forth a melodramatic whinnie.  His cohorts laughed loudly, their voices ringing against the metal walls full of gears and steam vents.

        Scootaloo sighed hard through her nostrils.  She glanced aside, spotting a full line of workers—all wearing matching purple eyepatches as a clan sign.  These scarred, one-eyed goblins gave the last pony a lasting glare that could set snow on fire.  For a moment, she imagined that if there were no other goblin clans present, these half-lings in particular would have little hesitation gutting her right there and then, out in the open.

        As she passed more buildings, Scootaloo became aware of a repeating pattern.  Every other street corner had the same poster plastered against the metallic surface of the structure.  It was the illustration of four shadowy silhouettes, all goblin.  In bright, bold letters was the word “Desperadoes,” and the text that followed proclaimed, “Wanted for disturbance of the peace, unlawful disruption of inter-family commerce, theft and desecration of property, and violence committed against the following clans.”  After a prolonged list of names, one of which was Strut Twenty-Five's very own “Geist Blood,” Scootaloo saw the reward for the Desperadoes' capture listed at eighty thousand strips.

        She couldn't help but feel stunned by that.  The bounty for these shadowy miscreants was over five times the amount that Pitt had paid her for three priceless banana plants.  Whoever these Desperadoes were, they were obviously annoying enough to force the higher goblin families to pay out their eyeballs.  The last pony had experienced hatred and intolerance from creatures of the Wasteland most of her life.  Aside from the Mountain Ogres and Fire Ogres, it never occurred to her that communities—such as goblins—would have internal conflict.  The Wasteland was such a fragile place to live a life.  It seemed absurd to allow a society to collapse in on itself, in any respect.  Perhaps, at least, that explained the large amount to which the families were willing to pay to get these unlawful rogues captured.

        Still, she had to wonder:  “desecration of property?”  Scootaloo turned away from the posters and looked at the far side of the street.  She saw, for the first time, several goblins in heavy labor, being monitored by leather-armored overseers.  The sweating, malnourished imps were carrying large loads of equipment from one side of the lofty district to another.  What was more, they each wore a distinctive pair of articles on their ankles.  Scootaloo instantly realized that they were shackles.

        Her brow furrowed.  Slavery: it was as real here as it was in the Valley of Jewels.  Scootaloo had encountered slaves before in various parts of the Wasteland.  Dirigible Dogs were no strangers to forcing several smaller species to perform the less-than-luxurious tasks on their airships.  Ogres never stopped imposing hard labor on whatever sentient bipeds they could get their grubby hands on.  Even the way Pitt treated his brothers was horrible.  But this, the systematic nature in which the imps were forcing solid trains of their own flesh and blood to carry out grunt work across Strut Twenty-Five: it was something Scootaloo hadn't anticipated, at least in its high numbers.  If she had to count, nearly one in every ten goblins she saw was wearing shackles.  She couldn't tell which outnumbered which—the number of slaves in that district, or the number of “Desperadoes” posters.  On top of that, she couldn't tell which nauseated her more.

        She turned to look ahead when something harshly bumped into her side.  She teetered briefly on her hooves, expertly absorbing the brunt of the blow through her thick leather armor.  Scootaloo glanced over her shoulder in time to see a line of goblin miners marching the opposite way down the street.  One imp towards the back of the procession chuckled, rubbing a jutting elbow.

        “Whoops!  By Dimming’s blight, did I just run into a side of meat?” he uttered.

        “Before the next stormfront, I think it will be!”  a companion chirped.  “Roasted at that!”

        “Hahahaha!”

        “Heheheh... Who the heck would eat broiled glue?  Heheheh...”

        Scootaloo didn't have time to frown at them when a splash of horrible, smelly liquid drenched her left flank.  She glanced aside in time to see a mother goblin standing upon the threshold of a household with an empty lavatory tray in her grasp.

        “Watch where you trot, pony.  You might not like what you step in,” she muttered, her glare betraying the fact that the drenching was hardly an accident.  She shuffled back into the house, closing the rusted aluminum door and blocking out the curious gaze of two tiny children within.

        The last pony blinked.  She glanced down at her two left hooves, watching as the offensive yellow liquid oozed down her limbs and dripped grotesquely through the porous grate to the streets below her.  Flaring her nostrils through the offending stench, she marched forward, undaunted... at least until her front right hoof nearly tripped on something.

        With a metal clank, Scootaloo realized that her forward horseshoe had slid loose again.  Cursing briefly to herself, she picked the curved metal object up in her teeth and glanced about for an empty spot to sit.  She decided on a lonely street corner ahead of her and shuffled over towards it, squatting down low so as to have full access to her right forelimb.  Muttering to herself, she worked on the laborious task of attaching the infernal article to her hoof.  Secretly she wished she had visited Bruce for a little bit longer and bought some new shoe pieces.  In a world full of dead ponies, finding a good farrier was next to impossible.

        She was interrupted in the middle of this thought by a chunk of dull sky marble ricocheting severely off her leather cowl.  The last pony barely moved, though the impact caught her attention nonetheless.  Gazing across the street, she saw a gaggle of young adult goblins frowning at her, their reddened ears wobbling as they hurled insults along with their rocks.

        “Glue stick!  Go back to the Wasteland where you belong!”

        “Yeah!  Roll into a ditch somewhere and choke on hay, you dang sky-stealer!”

        “Sky-stealing glue stick!”  One youth twirled his whole body in the effort of flinging an ivory pebble her way.  “This isn't your steam anymore!”

        Scootaloo effortlessly dodged the thrown rock.  Without looking, she pulled a yellow-painted runestone out of her pocket and slid it halfway across the street with an errant hoof.  “H'rhnum,” she mumbled.

        In a purple haze of light, the rune etched across the moonrock faded, and a batch of chemicals inside mixed together.  Soon, a series of bright, golden sparks exploded at the twitching feet of the startled youths.  The goblins shrieked and scampered nervously away from the brilliant, frightening, but altogether harmless flare.  Watching from the upper balcony of a rusted metal saloon, a half-dozen gray-haired imps chuckled and raised drinks in a mock toast.  They scoffed at Scootaloo between sips, murmuring illicitly to one another while casting sly glances the pegasus’ way.  A few meters away, half-a-dozen shackled imps milled about, waiting for their next task.  Hungry and cold, they didn't so much as look up at the commotion.

        The last pony fiddled and fiddled with her horseshoe, suddenly overwhelmed by the noises and sounds of that rusted cage of a city district.  Before her, a ramp rose towards Alpha Level above, but Scootaloo suddenly didn't know if she had the strength to get up from her lonely spot.  As the clanking and rattling of gears filled her ears, she closed her eyes, sighing long and hard.  Everything around her was moving, but she couldn't catch up with it all.  Inside the Harmony, Warden was by himself, likely fiddling with Epona-knows-what.  Obscured by the depths of Cloudsdale, Rainbow Dash's remains were decaying, unchecked.  Scootaloo—the occasional avatar of Entropa—was helpless to outrace time, and it didn't help that she was in the imp city equivalent of a lion's den.

        “This is not your world,” Scootaloo murmured hoarsely, as if desperate to summon a copper-coated pegasus to the surface of her real, frail body.  “So there's no reason to linger.  Just friggin' get it over with already.”

        Suddenly, the horseshoe slapped back onto the hoof as if by magic.  Scootaloo stood up and marched straight for the nearest ramp.  She barely noticed a commotion as several pairs of scampering feet rattled desperately across the metal webbing of Alpha Level above.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        She was an athletic goblin, easily half of Scootaloo's age.  Lithe, blue muscles carried her breathless body—bounding—down an alleway, past overturned garbage, and through a thin corridor of Alpha Level leading into a scrambled mesh of countless metal pipes.  Dark purple braids of hair danced in the steam of a venting cylinder as the goblinette spun about and desperately motioned towards herself.

        That very moment, two older goblins poked their heads out from a thin space between aluminum lean-to’s on the opposite end of the street.  Both were male—one with long, dark hair and an even darker visor obscuring his eyes.  The other was a taller imp with brown bangs poking out from underneath a jet-black fedora.  At the female imp's signal, both shadowy figures briskly escorted a group of frightened, emaciated goblins across the street.  The panicked cluster of imps numbered no less than two dozen, and they followed the footsteps of their two nimble guides as they were swiftly ushered into the maze-like forest of metal pipes.

        “Think you can move any faster?!” the young goblinette hissed as her two companions came within pointed earshot.  “The dang Geist-Bleeders are onto us!  Ryst will be here any second with her goons!”

        “I'd be insulted if they didn't send Ryst after our hides.” The one with the hat managed a brief smirk as he and his shaded companion rushed the last of the frightened imps into the maze of metal tubes.  “This is our biggest bust yet.  We'll be in deep troll crap if we don't get these folks to safety—”  One of the imps tripped.  He sneered.  “Aw shoot!”

        “Watch where you're shoving them!”  The girl goblin was already kneeling down to lend the fumbling half-ling a hand.  “For all we know, they've barely eaten a bite of food in weeks!”  Swiftly, she disentangled a metal shackle on the clumsy imp's ankle from a nearby valve.  The imp limped off to join his companions.  All of them bore the evidence of sundered bindings on their lower limbs.  “Blessed Petra, there's so many of them.  We should have cleared Strut Twenty-Five by now!”

        “Murk knows an escape route through the abandoned mantenance shafts of the inner stalk,” the brown-haired goblin said with a smirk, then glanced aside at his companion.  “Ain't that right, Murk?”

        The visor-wearing imp merely whistled and signaled with a sword gripped in his metal left hand.

        The female raised an eyebrow.  “What's he going on about now, Bard?”

        “Uhm...”  Bard scratched his scalp beneath his hat.  “We seem to be missin’ some.”  He gulped and glanced at the girl.  “Ain't you the one who's supposed to be keepin’ a headcount?”

        “Oh crap!”  She hissed and mentally scanned the shivering cluster of imps in the trio's group.  Her pale blue ears drooped when she realized they were short.  “Seven.  We're missing seven.”

        “Son of an ogre!” Bard seethed.  He and the girl glanced every which way.  The many half-lings huddled with them began to murmur and whine in fright, until Murk silenced them with a chilling wave of his arm.  Finally, Bard craned his neck and pointed across the street.  “Over yonder!”

        The girl pressed herself to the edge of the alleyway and peered out.  Her eyes dilated upon the sight of seven shivering slaves.  They stared at her helplessly—adults and children clinging to each other in rags.  The goblinette gnashed her teeth and mouthed a few desperate words while signaling them to run towards her.  They were anchored into place by sheer terror.  Far too many seconds passed, and just as the separated group was about to rush out—that immediate section of street between them clamored with angry voices and pattering goblin feet.  Several half-lings with black wrist-bands rushed back and forth.  In a sudden panic, the seven stragglers split into two groups and fled towards opposite ends of Alpha Level.

        “No!”  the girl gasped.  Her purple braids billowed like a cape as she prepared to dash out into the alleyway after them.  “Come back!  Don't go that way—”  She was silenced by a brown hand clasping around her mouth from behind. “Mmmmf!”  Her sapphire eyes bulged as she was pulled back into the shadow of the pipes.  She struggled against the muscular arms wrapped around her, until her twitching gaze was hoisted around to stare into a pair of dull, ruby eyes.

        A tall, brown-skinned goblin with long scarlet hair held the girl in place.  She pulled down a red veil that had been obscuring her features.  The imp bore tight lines of an aged face tempered by time.  “Shhhh...” She calmly raised a slender finger before her lips before gripping the girl's shoulder.  “Keep your head on your neck, Rai.  Don't let it fly off without thinking.  The Wasteland never forgives.”

        “But Vaughan!” Rai nearly hyperventilated, pointing a finger out into the urban mess.  “I screwed up!  I lost seven from the group!”

        “They lost themselves, Rai.  I was watching from afar as I came to the rendezvous,” Vaughan said.  Her voice was deep and meditative, like a dark bell lifted from the bottom of a black ocean.  Between the jaded tone in her eyes and the liquid movement of her lips, a shadow of sincere emotion bled through to soothe Rai's jittery muscles.  “You gave them every possible signal to follow you.  Sometimes, a slave panics first and thinks second.”

        “We gotta go after them!” Rai whispered, glancing forlornly at the nearby streets filling with more and more racket.  “Before Ryst and the other Geist-Bleeders get to them!”  Rai made to charge out again.

        Vaughan held her tightly in place.  Her white bandanna billowed from the nearby steam above them as she peered down at her subordinate.  “And if you expose our position, we'll sacrifice seventeen lives in the attempt to salvage seven.  Tell me, what is the sense in that?”

        “But... but...”

        Vaughan calmly turned over her shoulder.  “Bard.  Is Murk close to finding his miracle passage?”

        As she spoke, the goblin in shades was already ripping loose a square panel from a metal wall with his sword, exposing a thin, shadowed corridor leading into the heart of Petra.

        Bard turned and smirked at Vaughan.  “I reckon he already has, V.”

        “Then, quickly, the two of you go on and escort these imps to the base of the city,” Vaughan calmly commanded.  “We'll follow close on your heels.  If there's no sign of us, don't waste any time waiting.  Worst comes to worst, we'll rendezvous at Undersmoke in twelve hours.”

        “Yes ma'am.”  Bard tipped the edge of his hat and motioned towards Murk.  “You heard the boss, buddy.  Let's make like the wind.”  He and the other goblin smoothly guided the nervous slaves into the corridor and dashed along with them, closing the panel behind.

        Once Vaughan and Rai were alone, the older goblinette guided her companion towards an adjoining corridor of rusted aluminum.  “We'll do what we can for the other seven, Rai, but not at the risk of exposing ourselves.  Remember what I always taught you...”

        Rai was struggling to breathe firmly above her guilty shudders.  “'Life is not life without loss...'”

        “'But there is still room for triumph,'” Vaughan finished.  She broke into a faster pace, careful not to break her stealthy gait for one second.  Each clawed toe that touched the ground was like a weightless sweep of feathers as she led her apprentice through the intestines of Alpha Level.  “We've already given freedom to seventeen destitute goblins.  That makes today a triumph in my book.  Now... let's see if we can add to that.”  She raised the red veil back over her mouth and bounded forward, grabbing onto a metal bar and flinging herself upwards onto a lofty stretch of metal roof.  Rai was close behind, a warm shadow to her icy mentor.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Four of the panicked slaves were running briskly through the streets, their sanity stretched as thin as their breaths.  A sea of murmuring goblin workers, merchants, and citizens parted ways as the stumbling quartet sprinted madly down the center of Strut Twenty-Five's Alpha Level.  The faster they pushed themselves, the louder an echo of pursuing limbs resonated off the metal walls of the shops and smithies blurring past them.

        Among the group, an old, matronly goblin was tugging a tiny child with yellow-streaked hair after her.  The little girl's bright green eyes brimmed with tears as she tried to keep up with her parent.  Matching shackles on their raw ankles rattled as they bounded over the metal latticework.

        The commotion of the goblins reached a fever pitch.  All eyes were locked on the four runaways.  Suddenly, the multiple pedestrians flinched.  Before the panicked imps could figure out why, the furthest member of the group ran into something around the next street corner.  He gazed up and gasped as a dark-haired goblin with black wrist bands smirked wide and aimed a rifle into his face.  The slave stumbled back onto his rear, shuffling backwards.

        The second runaway panicked and dashed towards the side, only to be slapped upside the skull by a fistful of brass knuckles.  A bald goblin with black wrist bands marched towards him, seething, as the bloodied slave tumbled to the ground beside his companion.

        Lastly, the mother clutched her yellow-haired child, hyperventilated, and spun to run down a nearby alleyway—only to face a solid line of armed goblins, all bearing the identical wristbands of Geist Blood.  The child shrieked, and the mother imp did her best to stifle the little girl's outburst.

        All four foiled escapees shrunk and huddled against each other as the circle of gun-toting half-lings zeroed in on them in the middle of the street.  A brief commotion rushed through the crowd in one last hushed wave before the bald Geist-Bleeder stood in front of the shivering cluster and grunted towards his dark-haired companion.  “We shouldn't have hurried like we did, Darper.  Look at those twigs for legs—they wouldn't have made it two struts before passing out.  Ugh... Stupid Desperadoes must have yanked them out of the bottom of Fredden's barrel.”

        “Got that right, Otto.”  Darper smirked and lifted the chin of one slave with the end of his steam rifle's barrel.  “At this point, I swear—they're only trying to piss us off.  Kind of sad, really.”

        “You know that there have to be more running around,” Otto muttered.

        “One thing at a time.”  Darper spat into the ground.  Keeping his sharp eyes on the four slaves, he tilted his head up and shouted towards the air above Alpha Level.  “Hey, Lady Ryst!  Over here!  We got four of 'em!”  He slapped his steam rifle, forcing a sharp shudder to jump through all four kneeling imps at once.  “Their shackles are severed.  Looks like the work of a steam-sword, just like the last dozen occasions.”

        “Hmmm... It never ceases to amaze me,” a female voice droned.  Otto and several other Geist-Bleeders stepped aside to make room for a slender goblin with green hair and thin eyes.  Cracking her bony knuckles, the superior imp leaned against Darper's frame and sighed down at the sight of the shivering quartet.  “Everytime the Desperadoes punch a hole in our business, they leave more and more vermin spilling out.  One wonders if they're getting desperate or stupid.”

        “Perhaps both?”

        “Shut up, Darper.  You smell bad.”

        “Yes, ma'am.”

        Ryst scratched her nose and strolled her lanky form forward so that she paced menacingly around the helpless runaways.  “Hmmmm... yes.”  She squinted down at the ankles of the imps and the severed shackles dangling off of them.  “Definitely the work of a burning blade, judging from the singe marks.  I very seriously doubt that some imp is actually attempting to copy the Desperadoes, unless of course he thinks that by stealing slaves and turning himself in, he'd be earning a share of the bounty.”

        Otto, Darper, and a handful of other riflers chuckled.  Ryst glared at them.  They swiftly silenced their laughter.  Coughing, Ryst scratched her nose again and continued circling the quartet.  “Surely, I am not speaking to a ghost town!” Her voice rose higher and higher, causing the many nearby pedestrians of Strut Twenty-Five's Alpha Level to twitch.  “There are goblins here who see this stupidity, day in and day out, and don't do a single thing to stop the madness!  Am I right or wrong?!”

        The voice of Lady Ryst rang off the nearby bulkheads as Scootaloo trotted up the ramp from below.  The last pony was briefly surprised to find a thick crowd of goblins blocking her path.  For once, she was not the center of attention, and that was an alarming thing.  Curious, she adjusted the dial of her goggles and easily peered over the heads of the multiple imps in attendance of what turned out to be a very disturbing scene.

        “Not that I'm complaining, mind you.” Ryst's voice fell again as she sniffled, fought a phantom allergy from a kilometer away, and exhaled with a shuddering breath, as if this entire situation was somehow taxing to her.  “The prime bleeder of Geist Blood pays me handsomely to round up the filth that's left behind from failed manifests of Petra.”  She shuffled to a stop and pointed a clawed hand towards the four slaves under rifle-point.  “But tell me, what profit is there when my hired imps and I are the only ones willing to get our elbows dirty?!  Chaotic vagabonds like the Desperadoes tear Geist-Blood's property apart, and yet you all stand aside and do nothing!  Is this not our city?!  Is this not our one and only symbol of glory in the shadow of the Dimming?!  Is there a single one of you who isn't as sick as I am to see the elite crumble away and the garbage pile up?!  Someday—I'm warning you—no less than half of you goblins shall allow your laziness to catch up with your lives, and you'll be the one answering to steam bolts when instead you could be answering to silver!”

        There was a suddenly a hissing voice.  “Praise Petra.  I would rather be a slave to monsters than an enslaver of children.”

        Everybody within earshot winced.  Scootaloo was included in the grand jolt of twitching muscles.  Silence permeated the metallic, steam-hissing town square, until Ryst pivoted her head to glare at the author of that last outburst.

        The mother imp glared up at her, hugging her yellow-haired daughter to her side.  The slave's eyes were like burning coals, hot and resolute.  The goblin child shivered, but the mother made no move as Lady Ryst icily loomed over her.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Vaughan landed on the edge of a shadowed balcony.  Not a second later, Rai dropped down beside her.  Both goblins looked out onto the scene from up high.

        At the sight of Ryst marching slowly towards the mother imp below, Rai gasped and reached immediately towards a weapon holstered at her side.

        Swiftly, Vaughan shot a hand back and held Rai's limb still.  Rai murmured in protest, but Vaughan silenced her with a sharp hiss.  She then whispered, “There're too many.  There's no way to get at the four without being seen.”

        “But... B-But...!”

        “I'm sorry, Rai,” Vaughan murmured, lowering the veil from her mouth and watching with a stone cold glint in her eyes.  “We’re too late.”

        Beside her, Rai fumbled with her soot-stained fingers.  She bit at her lip as she watched the scene below.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Ryst knelt before the mother and child, quiet as a snowbank.  She scratched her chin and aimed her thin eyes at the older imp.  “A 'slave to monsters'... hmm... but of course.”  She reached a hand over and gently stroked the child's yellow-streaked hair.

        The mother frowned, her eyes glaring daggers.  All the while, the shadows of many steam rifles hung over her features.  She made no attempt to bat Ryst's hand away.

        The little imp shuddered in fright as Ryst's bony fingers threaded through her bangs and then cupped her cheek.  “Tell me,” Ryst murmured.  “What greater monster is there... than a mother who's just abandoned her child?”

        The child's eyes twitched in fear.  The mother's face was contorted with confusion, until she paled in sudden and unspeakable horror.

        By that time, Ryst had stood up.  She paced past Darper, but not without murmuring towards him.  “Now.  Send the rogues a message.”

        Darper cocked his steam rifle and shoved the barrel in the girl's frightened face.  After half-a-second, he smirked, pivoted his aim, and pointed it between the mother's eyes instead.

        The steam discharge reflected in a platinum burst off Scootaloo's goggles.  Her ears barely twitched under her cowl with the thunder that followed.  When the noise cleared, the wails of the imp child were filling the street of Alpha Level.

        “Mama!  M-Mama!”  The young thing howled, her yellow-streaked hair bathed in crimson curds.  She shook and yanked at and curled into the limp figure beside her, burying her sobbing face into what was left of the goblin's upper body.  “Mnnngnhhaaaa-haaaaa!”

        Expelling a smoking steam cartridge onto the ground beside her, Darper marched firmly, cocked his rifle again, and waved it high above his pointed ears while shouting, “Desperadoes!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “When you steal the property of Geist-Blood, or of any of the families, you taint it!  You blemish it!  It becomes garbage, thanks to you!”  Darper's voice bellowed far and wide, blindly reaching the bodies of Vaughan and Rai on the balcony above.  “If you see it fit to treat that which is not yours as garbage, then we shall as well!  No-bleeders who can't earn the fluid in their veins don't deserve your pity!  Your quest is as noble as a broken machine!”

        Rai's eyes were wide, spasming.  She held a pair of hands over her gaping mouth as her ears twitched with every one of Darper's words.

        Vaughan, in the meantime, stood coolly, glaring into the bloodied circle around which Lady Ryst and her lackeys were gathered.

        Darper continued shouting into the noisy air of Strut Twenty-Five.  “A broken machine is a detriment to Petra, as you are!  Each and every one of you!  If you care about our City, if you care about goblin glory in the faceless desolation of the Dimming...”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “...then stop being cowards and show yourselves!” Darper growled, his eyes glaring towards the lengths and heights of the district.  “Bring an end to your pathetic games and allow us to manifest Petra, in the way we were destined to—the most elite and righteous of bleeders!  Geist Blood is the heart of this imp city!  And any goblin who opposes Geist Blood opposes the glory of Petra!  For the last time, show yourselves!  Stop this insufferable crusade!  Or else we swear, by Dimming's blight, we'll make sure the next slaves you try stealing will desire death in place of your pathetic clutches!”

        “Please, Darper,” Ryst muttered, rubbing her temples as the shrieking of the yellow-haired imp continued in the background.  “The more you're poetic, the more you smell.”

        “Lady Ryst, I'm only trying to—”

        “Goblins of narrow minds have narrow ears,” Ryst grumbled.  “If they haven't paid heed to your loud sermon by now, then they won't ever... even if you shoot twenty more idiots by the next stormfront.”  She scratched behind her ear and sighed.  “Send your fellow imps into the alleys.  There should be more slaves running about.  If the spilling of blood didn't frighten the rogues, it most certainly tossed panic into the legs of those they're corralling.”

        “Right.  Whatever you say, Lady Ryst.”  Darper glanced across at Otto and whistled towards the slaves.

        Otto grabbed the child by her leg, yanking her away from the bleeding body she was reaching and sobbing for.  He tossed her into the muscled grip of another imp who dragged her—along with the other two flabbergasted runaways—towards a dark, rusted building at the far end of Alpha Level's main street.  As the remaining Geist-Bleeders fanned out, Darper remained behind with Ryst.  He glanced down at the crimson juices still pooling out of the headless goblinette and whistled loudly.

        “Whew.”  He smirked.  “Funny how the stupider they are, the juicier, y'know?”

        “You have the mind of a vulture, Darper.”

        “A vulture couldn't handle a rifle as well as I could.”

        “The best of us don't have to.”  Ryst motioned and led Darper towards the far end of the street as they joined the search.  Behind them, the thick crowd of Strut Twenty-Five's pedestrians dissipated, slowly shuffling away from the bloody corpse in the middle of the metal road.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        Up above, the red-headed goblin took a deep breath.  She slowly pivoted towards the shivering youngster beside her.  “Rai...”

        “Vaughan, it's all my fault,” Rai was already whimpering.  Tears welled up in her sapphire eyes as she stumbled back against a rusted railing of the balcony and murmured into her eight fingers.  “If I had kept a better eye on the imps we freed...”  She hiccuped and choked on a sob.  “If I-I had only been paying attention, like you always do...”

        “Rai, listen to me...”

        “I-I killed her!  Sh-she's dead because of me and the others... th-the others...”

        “Shhh... Rai... Be silent, or else you might give away our position.”  Vaughan embraced the young goblin, holding her tight to her chest and muffling her mournful breaths.  “There's nothing either of us could have done.  Shhhh.  Listen to me.  The only mistake one makes in this world is being alive.”  She forced Rai to look up at her and strongly cupped her cheeks, absorbing her into her ruby gaze.  “There is evil, and there is suffering, and you, Rai, are doing nothing but your best to keep a few lucky goblins from suffering the worst of it.  The moment you blame yourself for the inevitable perils of this world, you lose focus... you lose strength.  Now, there are still three other slaves unaccounted for.  I need you to be strong for me, so that together we might find them before Ryst and her murderous companions do.  Can you do that for me?”

        Rai bit her lip, still grimacing as the tears streaked down her blue face.

        Vaughan's red eyes narrowed like chiseled gemstones.  “Can you?”

        Rai sniffled, but ultimately nodded her head.  “Y-Yes.  Yes... I-I think I can...”

        “That's a start.”  Vaughan wiped the youth’s cheek dry with a finger, and then smiled.  Her expression was a graceful, ethereal thing, like an extinct moon... or at least a soul who was old enough to remember it.  “When we meet up with Murk and Bard again, I promise you with all of my might, we will not be alone.”  She hugged Rai close one last time, exorcising the last sad bout of shivers from the goblinette's body.  As she did so, she looked past the edge of the balcony and into the dissipating crowd.

        Suddenly, Vaughan's eyes narrowed.

        There were goblins milling about, imps taking random strolls, merchants and miners crossing paths.  But one figure was different from the rest of them—marching towards the heart of Petra, where the capitol building of Geist-Blood sat in the shadow of the city's cylindrical stalk.  The figure was silent, graceful, and somber as a shadow.  What was more, the figure was an equine.

        Vaughan's lips parted, and her brown brow furrowed... as if something deep inside her was expelling a ghost from ages untold.

        “I'm not alone.”

        Rai glanced up, her eyes finally dry.  “Huh?  What was that, V?”

        “Ahem.”  Vaughan parted ways with Rai and slid her red veil back up over her lips.  “We're not alone.  Ryst's group is everywhere.”  She gestured with a last-second command.  “Split up.  Let's find the other three before it's too late.”  Both goblins dashed off in opposite directions.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo rounded a street corner.  She could see a long stretch of metal road leading up towards a tall, black building where the thickest cluster yet of Geist Blood imps was gathered.  The district was drowning in black wristbands, and there was nowhere else to go if Scootaloo wanted to dive into a dark abyss of another sort, where a rainbow lay hidden.

        Two breaths and four trots towards her goal, Scootaloo came to a slow stop.  She lingered beneath a lamppost, her body caught in a flickering spotlight of gold, as if under examination by all of Petra.

        She momentarily raised her goggles and rubbed the space between her eyes.  But each time she closed her lids, she saw a tiny creature with yellow-streaked hair sobbing and tugging at something that wouldn't move.  Her ears rang with the wailing voice, and something in her heart briefly twitched at the contemplation of it all.

        She hated herself for it, with an anger that she didn't realize was there until a cold snarl escaped her lips.  “Just imps... just half-lings...”  She grumbled.  Her mind swam with the programmed snapshots of the Wasteland's detritus: of roaches hiding in the stems of giant mushrooms, of pale and bulbous troll flesh bathed in ash, of cougar meat floating in a bubbling cauldron.  “This place would have just eaten me alive.  It would have...”

        Then her eyelids twitched, and her mind reeled from it—as if being swept over by a rainbow in the deep depths of yesteryear.  All she could see was the yellow streaked hair, and in a foal's tear-stained blink they both refused to wake up no matter how much she tugged at them in bed one golden morning.

        “Just a friggin' imp,” the last pony repeated forcefully, though by the time her eyes opened, she could barely see straight.  Wasn't Warden “just an imp?”

        She forced herself into a heavy march, shoveling away the last vestiges of sour thoughts wafting up to her mind.  Soon, she was approaching the front gates of what turned out to be a four-story tall manor built out of black steel on the very top of Alpha Level.  A sea of glaring eyes parted ways, and soon she realized just how deep she was.  Goblins stood in droves on either side of her.  Whatever random, murmuring conversations they were engaged in came to a drastic halt, drowning out the steamy air of the street as her clopping hooves resonated louder and louder in their place.

        Scootaloo paid the intimidating stares of the imps no mind.  After the filth and blood she had just witnessed, showing fear was like showing a hole in her armor.  Audaciously, she marched straight up to the steep steps leading into the manor entrance.  She saw two bright, white strips of ashen stone hanging on either side of the iron doors.  Halfway down the strips, a black stain had marked the pale material.  She at first thought that it was a symbol of Geist-Blood, but the two strips hardly matched the patterns on the many goblins' identical wristbands.  The closer she approached the entrance, she came to realize that the black stains on the strips were splashes of liquid.  But not just any liquid...

        “Glue stick!”  A frowning goblin in black shades was suddenly growling into her face from the entrance above.  “What in the Dimming's blight is the meaning of this intrusion?!  Has one of the other families pulled a joke on us?!”  Several rifle-toting thugs murmured in low, menacing tones as the Geist Blood representative, flanked by two bodyguards, marched down the steps to interrupt Scootaloo's path.  “Is it enough that we have to deal with no-bleeder filth and the Petra-forsaken Desperadoes—now we have a sky stealer insulting the very platform of our most righteous prime-bleeder?!”

        “Much obliged,” Scootaloo droned with a nod of her cowled head.  “Now allow me to introduce myself.  I am Scootaloo.  I arrived at Kevin's Nest just two hours ago.”  The many goblins around her broke into a commotion at her vocal audacity.  Nevertheless, she didn't waste a second in stating her purpose. “I'm here to conduct business with the clan leader of Geist Blood, who—if I understand correctly—manages most of the operations of the central steam pits west of Petra.”

        “He also happens to be a goblin, you rancid sack of manure!” The imp frowned, adjusted his shades, and clenched his four-fingered fists on either side of him.  “Our prime-bleeder is old and wise. He's been through too much in this dastardly Wasteland already without having to be pestered by a phantom of the past like you.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some loose merchandise on the run—”

        “So I've noticed,” Scootaloo cooly said.  “He must have so many slaves that murdering one of them in the middle of the street is of little loss to him.  That strikes me as a goblin with a lot of silver.  Perhaps he would be interested in gathering more.”

        The nearby bodyguards murmured.  The imp in the center glared down at her, his shades glinting in nearby lantern-light.  “And just how many strips is a wayward pony suggesting she might offer him?”

        “Not enough on me at the moment that would be worth shooting a hole in my head to retrieve,” Scootaloo insisted.  “I came here to discuss a proposition with your boss, not to die.”

        “What do you think, Fredden?” one of the nearby goblins murmured to the supervisor.  “She may be a sky stealer, but you know how much the boss hates it when we turn down opportunities.”

        “The Star-Bleeders have been earning a lot of profit as of late,” another whispered.  “We need as many prospects as we can take advantage of.”

        “I know... I know...”  Fredden scratched his chin as his eyes narrowed behind his shades.  “But... must it come in such disgusting packages?”

        “Dealing with out-bleeders has its advantages.  You know this, Fredden.  Remember the dirigible dogs of the Northern Heights?  They gave you safe passage to—”

        “Shh!” Fredden hissed, then muttered a few harsh words to his subordinate.

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, waiting for the imps to finish squabbling with one another.

        Finally, Fredden brushed his companions aside and took two more steps down the front entrance, glaring at Scootaloo from above.  “No deal, pony.  I'm the right-hand to Geist's prime-bleeder, and I'd say you're nothing but a galloping bucket of wasted time.  Now get lost—”

        “Fredden, if I'm not mistaken, I'm the right-hand to our wise and righteous leader,” uttered a voice from the side.  Every goblin turned to witness a tall, golden-haired goblin with green eyes shuffling up towards the awkward scene.  “And you,” he uttered with a soft smirk, “Are more akin to a left-foot than a left-hand.  Now, what is the meaning of all this commotion?”

        “Rosen?!”  Fredden frowned.  “Where in the Dimming have you been?!  I have slaves running amok, and Lady Ryst is turning the hunt into a circus act—as usual!”

        “I was there when Lady Ryst caught up with the boss' lost product, Fredden,” Rosen firmly said.  “You should have realized when you hired her that she had a fetish for blowing holes into things.  That's hardly a profitable investment.  I don't know how our prime-bleeder tolerates her.”

        “About as much as our leader tolerates absent supervisors,” Fredden said, casting an accusatory glare.  “Shouldn't you be off conducting negotiations with Wind Blood on Strut Twelve?”

        “And miss an opportunity of a lifetime right here?”  Rosen winked and marched up towards Scootaloo.  “So, ma'am.  You're a pony, I gather.”

        “Last time I checked,” Scootaloo droned.

        “Do forgive my curiosity.  It's been a long time since I've seen one up close,” Rosen stated, running a clawed hand through his golden bangs, straightening them.  “The oldest of us are the most privileged of goblins, to be able to remember such bright things before the Dimming.”

        “I've never taken much stock in brightness,” Scootaloo murmured.  “It's the colors that have meant the most.”

        “Of that, I wouldn't know,”  Rosen remarked with a nod.  His green eyes were thin, curious, and calm.  “What could an equine like you need so badly that it's worth trotting deep into the heart of Petra's wealthiest clan to acquire?”

        “Geist Blood is merely a means to an end,” Scootaloo said.  “What I wish to acquire is from the pits.”

        “Sky marble?”

        “Something I left behind.”

        Rosen chuckled, his bright teeth showing.  “My little pony, you have left a great deal of things behind.  This imp city wouldn't be here today if that wasn't the case.”

        “I've noticed that,” Scootaloo said, avoiding his gaze as she lost her eyes among the rivets of the grim architecture around them.  “Not all the silver in the world can buy it all back, no matter how much of it has been dirtied by goblin hands.”

        “Then why bother with a proposition to begin with?”

        “Because there is something there—something priceless...”  She paused briefly, swallowed, and said, “Priceless to me, and I left it there after the Catac... after the Dimming.”

        “You... were in the collapsed cloud city after the Dimming?”  Rosen blinked.  “Personally?”

        “And I would very much like to go there and get it back.  I'm searching for nothing else.”  She stared at him again.  “Say what you want about what ponies may or may not have 'stolen' in the past.  I'm only concerned with what I've ever set my own hooves to.”

        Rosen nodded thoughtfully.  “The Wasteland has taken so much.  There are few left who truly own things and even fewer who know that they do.”

        Scootaloo's eyes narrowed at that.  She hadn't expected a goblin to think on her level, not for a million stormfronts.

        Rosen cleared his throat and smirked Fredden's way.  “I'll alert the prime Geist-Bleeder.  He's got a soul here who would like to conduct business.  It would be a shame to turn down a potential opportunity.”

        “R-Rosen?!” Fredden made an ugly face.  “Now way in the Dimming is he going to see this glue stick!”

        “Shouldn't that be up to him to decide and not you?”  Rosen stifled a chuckle and walked halfway up the steps.  “I'll take the fall for this if there is indeed one with my name on it.  Fear not, Fredden.  It's out of your hands.”  He turned and gestured towards Scootaloo.

        Scootaloo glanced back, nodded, and began trotting up the steps.  She was barely at Rosen's side when the golden-haired imp's voice sounded out again.

        “Leave it.”

        Scootaloo scuffled to a stop, blinking.  “Leave what?”

        “Your rifle,” Rosen stated without looking.  He examined the edges of his claws and murmured, “It's a retracted, copper ensemble holstered at the top of your saddlebag.”  He glanced cooly at her.  “If you are to step one hoof into this building, I must ask you to remove it.”

        “I'd much rather remove my spinal column,” Scootaloo grunted in indignance.

        “Move so much as another meter against Geist Blood's wishes, and I assure you, that can be arranged.”  Rosen smirked proudly.  “Please, Miss—Scootaloo, was it?  I've gone out on a limb to allow you to see my boss.  It is only... honorable that you pay me the same respect.”

        Scootaloo stared back at the goblin.  Something thundered in the deep pockets of her ears.  At first, it sounded like blood rushing to her head.  Then it ever so briefly resembled the wailing sobs of a stabbed young foal.  Somewhere beneath it all, she reached deep and dredged up enough courage to comply.  Using her pink tail hairs, she effortlessly slid the copper rifle out from her bag and tossed it at the nearest bodyguard.  The imp gasped—more surprised at the dexterity of her tail than the sudden weapon rattling in his clawed hands.  He held the thing up close, blinking at the custom-built device.

        “There's... no trigger to it...”

        “Only when there has to be,” Scootaloo said.  She followed Rosen past the white strips and into the manor of Geist Blood while a worrisome Fredden took up the rear.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo was no more than two rooms deep into the clan house of Geist Blood, and already she felt like she was in another building.  The floor was polished.  The walls were immaculate.  The lanterns arranged along the ceiling were clean and well-oiled.  The grime, rust, and smells of the street were utterly missing inside this place.  It was as if a tiny piece of the pre-Cataclysmic world was sliced out of the past and dropped in the middle of an industrial nightmare.  If it wasn't for the feel of her leather armor and the brown coat on her legs, Scootaloo's blinking eyes could have convinced her that she had just performed an inexplicable time-jump to someplace in the Third Age.

        Rosen strode calmly ahead of her.  Fredden shuffled to the side, casting several glares from under his dark shades.  Scootaloo paid them both little heed, for suddenly her eyes were locked to the walls—or more appropriately, the numerous objects that she found strung up along the walls.

        There were artifacts here, slices of the past that rivaled the preciousness and fragility of her tiny shrine above her workbench inside the Harmony.  There were shields, spears, chariot wheels, signposts, guild crests, and rows upon rows of unblemished horseshoes.

        A pulse built up in her heart when she realized that these weren't just any artifacts.  These were mementos, and they all had a common place of origin:  Cloudsdale.  With a shuddering sensation, Scootaloo wondered who could possibly have owned this place, to possess so many ghostly relics of the past that haunted her with each glance.

        A pair of double doors creaked wide, and Rosen was already speaking.  “Prime Geist-Bleeder, so sorry to disturb your duties, but you have someone here who would like to discuss a business proposition.”  Rosen's charming demeanor clashed with the numerous waves of trepidation wafting through Scootaloo suddenly.  Nevertheless, he stepped back and gestured towards a space between her and a metal office desk as a pale goblin stood up, marching with authority towards the arriving equine.

        Scootaloo's fears were confirmed the soonest that the leader of Geist Blood stepped into the lantern-light.  She raised her goggles above her eyes and maintained her composure the best that she could.  A combination of her stiff leather cowl and Rainbow Dash's feather kept her ears from foalishly drooping.

        “Well...” the pale elder remarked, his pale eyes glimmering under an alabaster frown as he walked up to the sight of Scootaloo.  A white strip much like the ones outside his door dangled from a necklace around his neck, sporting the same splash of black stains.  “If this certainly isn't the highlight of my week, I don't know what is.”  His voice was the only part of him that wasn't old, that still danced around Scootaloo's ears like a tiny blade.





        He marched towards her and plunged it into her orange flank.

        Scootaloo screamed.  Scootaloo bled.

        Cloudsdale swallowed her agony as he leaned over and leered into her twitching vision.




        Scootaloo shuddered, sweating briefly before regaining an even breath.

        Matthais saw the fear in her eyes.  Somehow, he always could.  His pale eyes narrowed as he tilted his head aside, a thin curtain of black strands dangling from his balding crown.  He stroked his chin thoughtfully with a metal gauntlet over his aged fingers.  “Have... we met, pony?”

        Fredden jolted at that, his shades rattling.  “Boss?  You've talked to ponies before?”

        “Of course I have, you inane child.”  He brushed past Fredden as he paced around a stock-still Scootaloo.  “It sickens me what little attention you imps pay to the past.  There's a reason that the wealthiest prime-bleeders are also the oldest.  We know why manifesting Petra is important.  We know that there was a time when it was a struggle to build so much as a steam generator, something dwarfed by the mesmerizing feats of today.”  He stopped and glared icily into Scootaloo's peripheral.  “We've had to earn the glory we have now.”

        Scootaloo was silent.  She avoided his gaze.

        Rosen said nothing.  He watched with silent curiosity, his green eyes dashing back and forth between the reunion of bitter souls.

        Matthais leaned even further.  His breath was even, cool, as calm as his teeth were sharp as he smiled and said, “Yes.  Yes, it is you.  Your coat is different, and so are your eyes.  But it's you.  I see the Wasteland has taken your colors over your years.”

        Scootaloo gulped.  When she spoke, her voice was only half as firm as she meant for it to be.  “It wasn't all the Wasteland.”

        It took Matthais a few seconds, but he smiled at that.

        Suddenly, Rosen's voice spoke up.  “I brought her here because she wishes to acquire something from the pits.”

        Scootaloo glanced at Rosen.

        “Does she now?”  Matthais remarked, pacing past the Cloudsdalian mementos hanging along the wall.  “I don't see how that could be.  After all...”  He glanced over at the last pony.  “You did leave with all of your limbs intact, did you not?”

        “I was only in your 'company' for one stormfront, maybe two,” Scootaloo muttered, not looking at him.  “The rest of the time, I was on my own and we rarely crossed paths.”  Her voice briefly had a vicious edge.  “How could you possibly know what I possessed or didn't possess down there?”

        “Better yet, how could I possibly care?”  He fingered the edge of a Cloudsdalian chariot wheel for signs of dust.  “We gave you plenty of opportunities to be helped, and you refused them all, pony.”

        It was then that Scootaloo finally looked at him.  The glare was venomous, but her voice was calm.  “It wasn't you who offered to help me and we both know it.”

        Matthais stared calmly back at her.

        After a space in time, Fredden stupidly barked, “You two were in the pits... together?”

        Rosen's eyes wandered across the ceiling.

        “Fredden...”  Matthais paced over and slapped a hand on the subordinate's shoulder.  “Make yourself useful, and perform a daily check of the slave pens.  The accursed Desperadoes are wearing at my patience—I don't need you doing the same.”

        Fredden's mouth dropped in disbelief.  He glanced at Rosen, frowned, and marched off with a furious scuffle of his heels.  Once he was gone, Matthais turned around and stared at Scootaloo once again.

        “For the first time in my long life,” he said, “I wish my father was alive again.  If he could witness this moment... this very second, it would be worth more than all that Geist Blood has accomplished in the spirit of Petra these last two-and-a-half decades.”  He shuffled slowly towards her.  “Nearly a quarter of a century has passed, and what have you done for yourself, pony?  Look at you.  You are nothing but a relic—much like the treasures that I keep here—and unlike those trophies, you have gathered more dust than any of the lower civilizations that the sky-stealers toppled in their millennia of hoarding the Sun and Moon.  How does it feel, pony, to be the foolish appendix to the calamitous accident that your entire race was—?”

        “Twelve hundred strips.”

        “I beg your pardon?”  Matthais craned his pointed ear towards her.

        She stared emotionlessly at him.  “Twelve hundred strips, and all I ask is a single trip to the pits, and I'll be out of your ears forever.”

        “Snkkkt-Hahahaha!”  Matthais grinned wide, his sharp teeth glinting in the lantern-light.  “You actually... actually think we're in a place to still discuss services and payment?  There was a time, pony, when I could have tossed you into a deep, black ravine like the battered little bird that you were, and even then you had more of a right to talk business than you do now.”

        “If I remember correctly, you never had the right to talk business when we first met.”  Scootaloo's eyes narrowed on his frame.  “No matter how powerful you may be now, you started as a lackey.  Not even your blood belonged to you.”

        The grin on Matthais' face slowly left him.  The strip dangling around his neck appeared to pale as it fell within the shadow of his drooping chin, until the black stains blended into the darkness... like a body at the bottom of a deathly, gray cavern.

        Rosen gazed with interest at both characters, quietly observing.

        “I... earned my blood, pony,” Matthais said in a low, ominous voice.  He clenched his metal fingers tightly behind his back, maintaining his composure.  “And in all the stormfronts since, I have manifested Petra where others failed... including those so foolish as to think that there was room for compassion in the Wasteland.”

        “Compassion was merely something you failed at,” Scootaloo retorted.  “You could have been the product of imps greater than you, but you dashed those chances.”  Her gaze fell briefly.  “You always... always had an issue with loyalty.”

        “Fetters are fetters,” Matthais replied.  “I've cast loose what kept me oppressed, and I've consequently blossomed in a dim world.  Can you say the same?”  He strolled a few steps toward her, and his lips curved slightly.  “The way I see it, pony, when we parted ways... we were on even terms.”

        “Were we, now?”

        “We are both alive, are we not?  That's worth something—at least, that's the only thing you can pretend to believe in, yes?”  He folded his arms and leaned back against the doorframe to his office.  “Believe it or not, I would very much like to keep things so balanced.”

        Scootaloo merely raised an eyebrow.  She waited for Matthais to deliver.

        He did.  “You will leave my home with your life intact,” he said.  “And, consequently...”  He grinned wide as he spoke, “I promise you, glue stick, you will never, ever enter those pits again.  Not in this putrid lifetime, or the next, or in all the ages left for this shattered world to run its course.  You can ask around town.  You can try to proposition out-bleeder mercenaries.  You can even invite an entire army of ogres—but so long as Petra is manifested over the rubble of your pathetic cloud city, you will not place a single hoof into its many crevices.”

        The last pony's nostrils flared above a tight frown.

        “Do you doubt me?”

        “Hardly,” she grunted.

        “Good.  I am Matthais of Geist Blood,” he hissed.  “I am the wealthiest clan leader in this imp city.  I am the steaming heart of Petra.”  He pointed a metal finger at her, his digits clinking with one another.  “I want you to remember that, as you leave my city, as you return to the endless graves of your loved ones that you are too stubborn to drop yourself in, as you live out the rest of your pathetic years pretending to be worth something in this dim world.”  He clenched his metal gauntlet into a fist and all but spat at her.  “The most you will ever be is a mere pleasantry of the past, something I was once amused with in the belly of the world, as I peeled the skin off a tiny little foal and showed her what belonged to goblins, and what belonged to the cesspool of yesteryear.”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard.  The air had suddenly grown sterile, as if the ashes of the Wasteland had somehow found their way in.

        “Sir...”  Rosen bravely spoke up.  “She has strips to give us, and we've lost many slaves as of late...”

        “It is not about strips, Rosen!”  Matthais barked.  “I know you were around before the Dimming, but you can't possibly understand, like I understand.  She will not be allowed around the pits.  No amount of bars can change that.”  He then swallowed and added, “Unless...”

        Scootaloo couldn't help it.  She seized the moment with a sharp breath.  “Unless what?”

        Matthais turned to look at her.  His grin was like a sea of knives, inviting Scootaloo in for a swim.  “Get down on your haunches before me... and beg.”

        The silence that filled the room mimicked death.  Scootaloo merely stared back at Matthais.  Without speaking, she slid the copper goggles back over her eyes, turned around, and marched towards the exit.  A cold wave of chuckles raised the coat hairs beneath her leather armor, and she broke into a canter, all but bursting through the doors to the street beyond as the bodyguards struggled to keep up.

        “Take a mental note if you can, Rosen.”  Matthais stood up straight, clicked his metal fingers, and winked at his subordinate.  “The world never stops dying.  We are the inheritors of coins in a land full of coffins.”  He gave an errant wave and walked back into his office.  “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more digging to do.”

        Rosen watched after his boss, until the double-doors closed.  He then cast a cool, thoughtful glance towards the front of the manor.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        A Geist-Bleeder thug limply held the retracted copper rifle out.  Scootaloo viciously snatched it, flung it into her saddlebag, and marched firmly towards the far end of the street.  Goblins murmured and chuckled on either side of the last pony's swift trot.  She kept her goggled gaze on the metal floor beneath her, or else she might be tempted to kick the nearest imp's face in.

        A series of clawed feet sounded off behind her.  Rosen was suddenly there in a brisk walk to keep with her pace.  “Evidently, my boss does not desire to do business.”

        “Evidently, your boss is full of crap,” Scootaloo grumbled.

        “I must abide by his decision, pony.  Yes, the pits are off-limits to you, but that doesn't mean you can't conduct any other sort of business in this town—”

        “This is the most pathetic pitch for silver I've ever witnessed,” she said, not bothering to bless him with a glance as she marched straight ahead.  “And I've dabbled with monkeys.  That's saying something.”

        “I only mean to convey that you are obviously in need of something, and there are still plenty of opportunities to earn your keep,” Rosen said, dashing forward to walk backwards while facing her.  “I know that a life in the Wasteland must make you pretty desperate—”

        “You know nothing!”  Scootaloo stopped in her tracks to snarl directly at him.  “You think you're familiar with the imp you work for, but you couldn't possibly understand anything, not like I do.”  She pointed towards a distant line of shackled imps, all lacking the colored banners of Petra clans.  “Matthais is a coward and a sadist.  Over the past two decades, he's built an entire empire through slavery.  A lifestyle crafted out of misery will only lead to a legacy tainted by the same shades of suffering.”  She sneered in his face.  “The day you realize that is the day you'll wish he had ostracized you, instead of me.”

        Scootaloo bumped into Rosen's shoulder on the way towards the next metal street.  Rosen watched her leave from where he stood, blinking curiously.  His pointed ears pricked to the sounds of mournful slaves across the street, and the random bursts of steam rifles from an unseen distance.  The world of goblins was nothing but noise since the day the Sun and Moon disappeared, and from the drooping of his ears it looked as though it was the first time he took notice of its volume.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo soon found herself marching into a shadowed alcove junctioning off from the main street.  She wasn't there for a detour.  It just happened to be the first dark and secluded spot she could find.

        Once there, she collapsed, resting her haunches against a wall and deflating her entire body with a heavy sigh.  She reached a hoof up and raised her goggles before rubbing her clenched eyelids and fighting a series of shakes.

        No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get Matthais' leering grin out of her mind.  She peeled layers and layers off of the image, and the first thing she could salvage from underneath was an imp with yellow-streaked hair bathed in her mother's blood.  Scootaloo was tired.  She was always tired.  It was moments like these when she couldn't tell where her pity ended and her anger began, but lately it all had become jumbled, sprinkled with spices from her jumps to the past.

        Spike was right.  She had been tucking herself into a comfort zone.  Marching through streets built by goblins was a bitter wake-up call.  Suddenly, a cruise across the sea beyond Dream Valley seemed utterly superfluous, no matter how many stars she may have charted from the experience.  Neither was there any merit to be had in a parade through Stalliongrad or an awkward dinner date in Appleloosa.  Scootaloo was the avatar of Goddess Entropa, and she had been spending all of Spike's green flame on vacations.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath and tilted her head up, gazing towards the dead sky.  Her sight was interrupted by several metal discs looming between Alpha Level and the golden, glowing summit of Petra.  Beyond that, smog and steam obscured even the twilight, so that she found herself buried beneath an alien part of the Wasteland too dark to bear witness to the shades of yesterday, no matter how much she tried collecting fossils to prove that she wasn't insane, and that colors once existed.

        Matthais was a rich goblin who surrounded himself with mementos from a civilization so wasted that in his deranged mind he probably fancied that he had conquered ponies.  He allowed the wounds of the past to govern his actions, so that goblins around him suffered and would continue to suffer.  Scootaloo may have been hurt to have run into such a creature as him... twice.  However, she could solace herself with the fact that she believed in more than him, and could become a better soul because of it.

        She could... so long as she didn't waste time.  She stood again and reached her hoof up to drag the goggles back over her eyes.  As she did so, her hoof brushed with the edges of her brow.  She paused, then dug the limb further so that she felt her ear underneath the leather cowl.  The feathery strands of Rainbow Dash kissed her coat, and she once again remembered what it meant to chase something, no matter how impossible the goal.  So long as she held onto that, she had something that Matthais never had, no matter how much silver blocked the path.

        Fluttershy's corpse was being guarded by an Ursa Major.  Pinkie Pie had been buried by a piece of Ponymonium.  The only reason Rainbow Dash's remains were waiting for Scootaloo was because they would still be found... somehow.  Scootaloo had to keep moving.  She was too loyal to stand in one place.

        And she was also too loyal to forget that—regardless of the legitimacy of Matthais' threats—she still had another reason to be there in Petra.  Gazing around, Scootaloo realized that the alcove she was in opened up to a narrow line of shops, forming a humble bazaar of goblin storefronts that stretched across the middle of Strut Twenty-Five's Alpha Level.  She trotted leisurely down the narrow commercial district, avoiding the shocked faces of half-ling males and females on either side of her, until she stumbled upon the hanging sign of a textiles shop located at a dead end.

        Marching through a curtain of dangling, bead-like screws, she was greeted with a rustic aroma of burning moonrock.  She heard the whirring of machines as several aged imps worked on weaving and sewing various fabrics together.  An imp strolled up to a metal counter and prepared to smile at her latest client.

        “Petra's fortune to you.  How can I be of—”  The imp instantly froze, a shocked expression blanching across her face.  It was with fright—and not disgust—that she gulped and leaned briefly away from the undeniable equine inside her store.  Several of the machines were silenced in the back as multiple imps craned to get a good look.  “Uhm... H-how can I help... h-help...”

        Scootaloo was suddenly calm.  For the first time since she had arrived in the imp city, a goblin had looked her in the face without attempting to be menacing.  She was almost surprised when the smile came to her lips.  “Hello.  I would like to have some clothes made.”

        “Uhm... Of course!” the imp murmured sheepishly.  Two children peered in from the rear of the establishment, presumably the goblinette's children.  She stood protectively in front of them and absorbed the last pony's goggled gaze.  “But... B-But I'm afraid we don't tailor outfits to fit sky stea—erm... that is... I-I mean...”

        Scootaloo raised a hoof and gently rested it on the counter.  “It's not for me.  It's for a goblin.”

        The imp blinked.  “Oh.”  She took a brave step towards the counter and flipped open a notebook.  “Well... uhm... our rates start at fifteen bars and vary based on design...”

        “Nothing extraordinary.  A pair of shorts—or ‘trunks,’ as bipeds are apt to call them.  Dark material, preferably.”

        “Okay.  We can do that, though... uhm... not all goblins wear pants like—”

        “You don't need to explain it to me, ma'am,” Scootaloo said in a polite voice.  “And, if you must know, ponies hardly wore clothes at all.”

        The imp didn't know quite what to say to that, but something in the statement drained a good half of the tension from the room.  She let loose a nervous chuckle and pretended to be writing measurements in the notebook beneath her.  “So... Wh-What size should be the shorts be?”

        Scootaloo glanced briefly at the two children behind the shopkeeper's shoulders.  She pointed.  “To fit someone slightly bigger than the older one there.”  Scootaloo then glanced directly at the goblinette.  “Shorts for a teenage male.”





        Two hours later, in another part of the district, a door burst open to a storage warehouse.  A crimson glow filled the room from a shoulder-mounted lantern attached to Darper's vest.  Glaring, the imp swept the aim of his silver steam rifle left and right as he examined all corners of the dark, abandoned interior.

        Otto drifted in with a pistol in his grasp.  His bald crown glinted from the red glow of Darper's lantern as he glanced across the many rows of shelves.  “Oh, for blight's sake!  Not here neither?”

        “What does it friggin' look like?”  Darper grunted, his nostrils flaring as he hung his rifle by his side.  “Just like the previous block.”

        “Those three morons have to be hiding around here somewhere.”

        “Jee, Otto, does Matthais pay you to state the obvious?”  Darper jabbed a finger behind his back.  “Go and report to Ryst.”

        “Mmmff... Whatever.”  The stout goblin strolled back through the door and shouted into the alleyway.  “This place is empty too, Lady Ryst.  I'm beginning to think that we lost them.”

        “I haven't lost anybody,” Ryst's voice said between sniffing breaths.  “Nor have you, Otto.  Darper's led us on another wild goose chase as usual.”

        “Heh... Yeah!”  Otto chuckled in a deep, bass voice.  “If only his brain was as sharp as his aim, huh?”

        Darper fumed.  Frowning, the dark-haired imp grabbed a metal box from a nearby shelf.  “I'll show you sharp.”  He tossed it into the middle of the warehouse so that it made a striking, rattling noise against the floor.  “Grenade!” he shouted.

        Suddenly, there was a scraping of three pairs of feet.  A trio of shadows darted out of hiding from behind a stack of boxes and made for a rear door.

        “Nnnnngh!” Darper's eyes throbbed as he slid after them, knelt, and fired a wild volley.  Several steambolts sliced the air, ineffectively bouncing off the doorframe as the breathless slaves scampered desperately into the next street beyond the warehouse.

        “What?!  What?!”  Otto gasped.

        Ryst stuck her thin neck in.  “Darper?  Did you have an argument with the far wall of this room?”

        “I discovered the runaways!”  Darper dashed for the far end of the warehouse, reloading the steam cartridges into his rifle.  “I scared them off with my bullets!”

        “You sure it wasn't with your smell?”

        “Nnnghh—Just come on!”  Darper kicked the pock-marked door open and ran down the street.  He was followed by the blurring figures of Lady Ryst, Otto, and several more Geist-Bleeders.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Three panting goblins limped their way through a crowded street.  Goblins immediately ran towards the flanking storefronts, knowing what was going to come next.  Sure enough, no less than ten seconds after the trio had surged by, Lady Ryst's squad was on the chase.  The black-braceleted imps shouted commands to one another, splitting up into three groups as they sought to surround the alleyway down which the targets had fled.

        High above, on an overlooking rooftop, a silent shadow stopped crouching.  Rai's sapphire eyes—dried of tears—focused squarely on where Ryst's group was headed.  Tilting her gaze towards the adjacent rooftops, she spied an alternate route and leaped into action in a desperate attempt to outrun them.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        An exhausted slave collapsed against a wall, her claws incidentally shredding a “Desperadoes” wanted poster as she fell to the ground.  One of her two companions—a child—struggled to lift her back to her feet until the tallest one lent his arms and carried her back into an awkard jog.
        
        “Come on... just... just a little further...” the tall runaway murmured between heaving breaths as his friends leaned against him.  “There's... there's a hiding spot... a h-hiding spot down... down here...”

        “You mean here?!” the child whimpered, gazing at the narrow bazaar of storefronts surrounding them claustrophobically.  “There's no way out!  Only the way we came in!”

        “Tr-trust me... th-there's gotta...”

        “We're dead meat!  We're dead meat ever since we g-got split up from the others—”

        “We can't just stop!  We gotta... keep moving...” The tall one heaved and all but dragged his companions down the alleyway.  “We gotta... gotta...”  His eyes widened.

        “A dead end...” one of them murmured as the three suddenly stood before a wall of rusted aluminum in front of a pair of shops.  They were cornered, and the echoes of Ryst's mob were increasing in volume.  “Oh blessed Petra, we're done.”

        “There... there has to be...”

        “It's over.  They're gonna find us!”

        “Shut up!  Lemme just think!”  The tall one started pacing, but he could barely stand straight from the dizziness of malnourishment.  His shackles dangled and jingled loosely from his ankles.  “Just... just need to find... Need to find—”

        He would have said more, only he ran into a flank of leather armor and promptly fell to the ground.  The other two slaves huddled around him to help him up, only to gasp at the sight of what they were cornered with.

        Scootaloo's goggles reflected their horrified faces.  She stood at the entrance to the textiles shop, her saddlebags thicker from housing several freshly-sewn clothes.  The last pony stared down at the three imps with a silence that persisted for far longer than was sane.

        The runaways bit their lips, trembled, and gazed down the far end of the narrow alleyway.  The bazaar lit up with a crimson glow as Darper's growling voice sounded from around the distant corner.

        Scootaloo gazed towards the red light as well.  Slowly, she stared back at the three slaves.  Her face tensed, and she proceeded to flash several looks around the urban environment directly around them.  Just then, she froze—her goggles locked onto a patch of off-color metal just beneath the trio.  Silently, she trotted forward and tapped her hoof into their legs.

        They instantly scuffled away from her with a mix of fear and obedience.  For the last half-a-minute, they had been seated on a hinged panel of some sorts.  Forcing a blade out from her right horseshoe, Scootaloo bent over and stuck the metal dagger into the crease between the floor and the panel.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Two floors up, Rai jumped to a crouching position.  She cursed inwardly, for a porous metal grate was blocking her path to the thin alleyway below where she knew the three slaves had fled.  Rai rummaged through her belt and produced a thick metal wrench.  With a flick of her wrist, she produced a tiny buzz-saw and began cutting her way through the fence with a tiny shower of sparks.

        Behind her, a body landed without a sound.  She strolled up, knelt, and very gently planted her finger on the younger one’'s shoulder.  “Rai...”

        The young imp gasped, the buzz-saw jolting briefly in her gasp.  Quickly, though, she relaxed at the sound of the shadow's voice and resumed her work.  “I found them, Vaughan.  They're down below.”



        “Yes, and I need to concentrate,” Rai murmured as she sliced through one metal branch and proceeded to make a larger hole with the saw.  “I just might be able to beat Lady Ryst to them.”

        Suddenly, Vaughan was narrowing her green eyes on a sight below them.  She tugged on the back of Rai's vest.  “Rai.  Stop.”

        “Wh-What?!” Rai gasped incredulously.

        “Turn your wrench off.”

        She did so, but protested, “But Vaughan!  They're right below!  I don't want any more innocent blood on my—”

        “Shhh.”  Vaughan lowered herself and her apprentice so that they were lying face-forward and staring down through the grate at the bazaar below.  “Look...”

        Rai's sapphire eyes narrowed curiously.  Below them, an equine figure was opening a panel of metal and gesturing towards it with a hoof.  Jittery, but thankful, the three imps immediately darted down into a mantenance chamber just beneath the street and crawled off towards the obscure plumbing of Strut Twenty-Five.

        “What.... what is that?” Rai made a face.

        “A pony,” Vaughan breathed.

        Rai looked at her in shock.  “A pony?!  That's crazy talk!  They're all dead!”

        Vaughan's lips curved slightly.  “Your father's always believed they weren't.”

        Something about that brought a frown to Rai's face.  “My father believes in a lot of things.”

        “For good reason.  He lived in an age of brightness and blessing.”  Vaughan pointed.  “Look now.  I think we've just been blessed ourselves...”

        Rai watched in wonder as the last of the slaves disappeared and...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo slammed the panel shut.  The sounds of Ryst's gang were within spit's distance.  Scootaloo cast the far end of the alleyway one look.  Coolly, she reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a tiny ivory rune.  She slapped the lunar material over the lid of the metal panel and uttered, “H'rhnum.”

        With a spark of bright white light, the moonrock burned out and melted, fusing the panel to the rest of the street with only an ashen sneeze of white to show that it had ever been tampered with.  By the time Darper and his companions rushed onto the scene, she was already trotting leisurely towards the far end of the bazaar.  The slave-hunting Geist-Bleeders paused to blink awkwardly, a pony being the last thing they had ever expected to see there.

        Scootaloo should have said nothing, but this had not been a very pleasant day.  “Careful where you point those,” she said, brushing awfully close past the silver rifles in the goblins' possession.

        Ryst sniffed.  She scratched her nose and glanced numbly at Otto and Darper in turn.  Darper's brow was furrowed.  As the pony trotted away, he shuffled to the very end of the street and peered all around, even glancing into a shopfront or two.  There were no slaves, no targets whatsoever.

        “They... got away again?”  Otto made a face, his ears drooping on either side of his bald-head.  He clapped his brass knuckles together and thought aloud, “Desperadoes must have trained them really well behind our backs.”

        “It's a waste of our time,” Ryst huffed.  “It always is.  Congratulations, Darper.  I think you should consult Matthais for a career change.  'Exercise instructor' comes to mind, considering how much you make us run for nothing.”

        Darper was panting at this point.  He glanced left, right, up... and finally down.  His eyes squinted.  He saw a white, powdery burn on the edge of a metal panel.  His jaw tightened as a furious snarl escaped through his mouth, “Like the blight, I am.”  He turned and ran briskly down the alleyway.  Shrugging, Otto and his cohorts jogged after him while Ryst—sighing—followed in a gangly stride.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~




        Scootaloo was halfway to the ramps leading to the lower levels of Strut Twenty-Five, and the elevator car that would take her back to Kevin's Nest, when the shadow of Darper ran out into the middle of the street behind her and shouted.

        “Hey!”  he spat.  “Glue stick!”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She kept trotting slowly as if it was a warm, summer afternoon in the Third Age.

        Darper merely snarled.  He raised his steam rifle, loudly cocked it, and aimed it at her flank from afar.  “I said—hey!  Glue stick!”  Several goblins ran out of the street for the umpteenth time that day as Lady Ryst's group gathered beside Darper.  “Are you deaf?!”

        As the entire street cleared around her, Scootaloo came to a stop. She sighed, then lethargically turned around to stare at the impish rifler.  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can hear.  I can hear well enough to know when I'm being insulted.  Now, if that was something I wasn't used to, then I might pay attention to whatever it is you have to say to me.”

        “You've got some nerve, ya stinkin' sky stealer!”  Darper's frown loaded his words like steam cartridges.  He was already squinting one eye over the sight of his rifle while the pony fearlessly looked back.  “Don't play the idiot!  I know what you did back there!”

        A thin hand grasped the edge of Darper's barrel and lowered it.  “Hmmm... Darper, Darper, Darper...”  Ryst murmured into his pointed ear.  “Do we have a problem with four legs here?  I do not think she is on the menu for Matthais today—”

        “Don't worry, Miss Ryst,” he gently pushed her aside.  “I'll take care of this.”  He pumped a lever on his steam rifle.  An intimidating cloud of mist wafted up from the heated weapon, summoning an uncomfortable murmur from the many goblins in the background.  “Do you not see the signs all across town, glue stick?!  Do you not know that it is a crime—a highly unlawful crime to mess with the merchandise of the local families?!”

        “Then perhaps you should speak with someone who's messed with the merchandise of local families,” Scootaloo said back.

        “I'm talking to you, ya big bag of vomit!”  Darper growled, the veins around his eyes pulsing.  “You're long overdue for a tranquilizer shot, glue stick—straight through your flippin' brain stem!”  He held the rifle high in the glistening lanternlight.  “Now tell us what you did with those goblin slaves in the alleyway—!”

        “I don't care about slaves,” Scootaloo said, icily.  Her goggles coldly reflected the image of Darper from afar.  The longer she spoke, the more stealthily she tensed her muscles underneath her leather armor.  In a single flinch, she could have her copper rifle aimed straight back at him.  Regardless, she stayed put.  “I don't care about goblins.  I don't care about gremlins, and I don't care about you.  I only want to return to my airship, and you're bothering me.”

        “You can take your airship and suck it!”  Darper's frown had become a searing thing at this point.  “You picked the wrong day to flash your flank around Geist Blood territory.”  He wrapped a clawed finger around the trigger, and aimed it at the pegasus' snout...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Above the scene, a metal crossbeam shadowed Vaughan and Rai as they both shuffled up to a stop and peered over the loft's edge.  Vaughan immediately leaned forward and took in the scene with a fiery gaze.  She reached into a pack hanging off her shoulders.

        “I don't get it, V!” Rai was panting from the rooftop sprint there.  She barely managed to keep her voice below a whisper amidst her trembles.  “Shouldn't we be finding a way to meet the slaves in the maintenance chamber?

        “They're safe,” Vaughan murmured.  She slapped together what looked to be two sharp polearms.  Upon joining, they converted into a long-barrel steam rifle.  “The pony made sure of that.”  She slapped a magazine of steambolts into the chamber, cocked the weapon, and aimed down at the street.  “Now we must make sure of her.”

        Rai's face contorted in confusion.  “V-Vaughan... I thought we weren't supposed to give away our position.”  She gulped.  “What are you doing with the rifle?”

        “Do not worry.  We have a safe avenue of escape from this position.  We will come out of this just fine,” Vaughan murmured while squinting down the sight trained on Darper's skull.  “Now it's her turn.”

        “But... but why?!”  Rai frowned.  “She's just a glue stick—”

        “She's a pony, child.  And that's something more valuable than ten years' worth of rescued slaves, much less our meager four months'.”

        “I...”  Rai slumped down beside her, breathing nervously.  “I-I just don't get it.”

        “Shhh...”  Vaughan's finger rested over the trigger.  “Just trust me, Rai.”

        Rai was silent, gazing at the scene unfolding below.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo stared solidly down Darper's gun barrel from afar.  Even if she did suspect that this would somehow end in her bloody demise, she wasn't about to face death cringing.  After all, death was something she had come to respect... and then to pity.  Darper was lowlier to her than mud.  She stood her ground.

        Darper took several breaths, then held on, steadying the rifle as his finger curled over the trigger.  Just then, a gangly wrist clamped onto the rifler's upper arm.

        “My little Darper, let four legs go.”

        The dark-haired thug blinked wide.  He glanced over to gawk at his leader.  “L-Lady Ryst?”

        “Doesn't Matthais pay us to hunt slaves?  Hmmm?”  Ryst sniffled and casually hung her thin arms down past her dual pistol holsters.  “Killing horses is something legendary, and is worth putting off until a bounty healthier than our annoying rogues' is attached to the feat, yes?”  She motioned towards Scootaloo.  “She's from the Wasteland, Darper.  No matter how angry you think you are, odds are she has been—and can be—far angrier than you.  Let it go.”

        “But... but...”  Darper's breath came out in pitiful spits.  “This filthy glue stick is sticking her flank in our business!  I just know it!  The slaves—!”

        “Darper Darper Darper...”  Ryst shut her green eyes and sighed.  “Don't make me sick Otto up your butt.  I highly doubt that he could very easily come back out.”

        Darper frowned, fumed, but ultimately hung his silver rifle harmlessly by his side.  “So is this it?!  Matthais bends over for the first pony that struts through his neighborhood?!”

        “I know our prime-bleeder more than you ever could.  He's had his share of ponies.  It's best that you avoided your own.”

        “Best advice I've heard all day,” Scootaloo said, forcing Darper to blink at her.  She turned and marched away.  “I suggest you spend your time blowing holes in defenseless slaves' heads like a good imp,” she said.  She couldn't help it; she monotonously added, “Like a good coward.”

        Darper's eyes twitched as if a wire had sparked in his skull.  Otto was oblivious, but Ryst saw it.

        “Let it go—” Ryst said, planting her hand atop Darper's shoulder.

        However, the imp was already snarling.  In one motion, he shrugged his leader's claws off of him and aimed the long barrel of the steam rifle straight at Scootaloo's leather-clad spine.  “I'll show you a coward, you oats-huffing piece of filth—”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Up above, Rai was gasping.

        Vaughan's finger was pressed to the trigger.  At the last moment, she stopped, blinked, and lowered her rifle instead.

        “Behind your flank!” she bravely shouted from the shadows.

        Rai flinched at the unexpected outburst.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo also flinched, but in a completely different way.  Her joints jolted, and without a second thought, the pegasus dashed to her right.

        Darper fired.  A gust of steam flew towards the metal rafters above as a red hot bolt soared out from the long barrel of his gun.

        The searing projectile disappeared into the top of Scootaloo's cowl and miraculously came out just above the ear where Rainbow's feather fluttered.  In the molasses motion of a single lurching second, Scootaloo had bucked her body sideways and flung her copper rifle free.  Several gaping imps watched as the metal device spun like a top in the air, only to be clutched in the hooking fibres of an expert, pink tail sliding out from underneath the pony's armor.  At the end of that breathless second, time resumed in a maddening gust of hot air.  Scootaloo's tail twirled the rifle in a blur, extending it.  With a magazine full of glowing runestones, the last pony flung the stretched weapon into her front hooves as she spun about in a sideways lurch, shouting:  “H'rhnum!”

        The manabullet from her rifle flew true.  It burned a clean path through the street.  Every goblin watched with muted awe as the magical projectile soared violently down the barrel of Darper's very own rifle, exploding from inside the metal stock with a burst of purple fury.

        The resulting pop knocked Darper back, so that he rocked briefly on his own heels.  Blinking, the dazed goblin glanced down to see his weapon scattered about his toes in a sea of smoldering shrapnel.  Also, his hands were gone.

        “Ah... Ahhhh!”  He shrieked, his eyes as wide as saucers.  He fell to his knees and stared in horror at the two bloody stubs his arms had become.  “Aaaaah-Aughhhhh!”

        Scootaloo watched with a deadpan expression.  She calmly cocked her rifle, spitting the worn, smoking rune out from her magazine.  The murmuring goblins alongside the street struggled to hold their lunch as Darper's wails filled the rusted lengths of the platform.

        “Nnngh—Haughh!”  Darper shuffled pathetically on his knees, shoving a wincing Otto aside to plead up at the green-haired goblinette.  He sobbed and waved his bloody stumps in front of her.  “Miss Ryst!  Miss Ryst!  Nnnngh—In the name of Petra, call one of Matthais' medics!  Help me, pl-please!”

        Ryst rolled her eyes.  With a groaning sigh, she unholstered a pistol, twirled it to a stop against Darper's forehead, and pulled the trigger.

        Scootaloo blinked, choosing to stare at the ground as the echo of the discharge wore off.

        At the end of the resulting thunder, Darper's wails were no more.  Ryst stood above him, wiping a splatter of red off her knee.  “Well, at least he doesn't smell so bad anymore.”  She glanced over at Scootaloo through a squinting eye and pointed with her pistol.  “I like you, four legs.  Well, that is, I like you more than the the pathetic blowhard whose brains I just spilled all over my toes.  Are you here to trade or to do some honest-to-Dimming dirty work?”

        “That depends.”  Scootaloo leaned on her rifle and gazed at the tall goblinette with green hair.  “Dirty work appears to be a relative concept around Petra.”

        “Hmmm... yes.  Well, if you ever fancy yourself some slave-hunting, I think your hooves could earn themselves some silver.  I... uh...”  She side-stepped from the bloody mess of a body beside her.  “I seem to have some openings as of late.”

        “Thank you for the consideration,” Scootaloo uttered.  “You won't be getting any of mine.”

        “Hmmph... suit yourself, four legs.”  Ryst scratched her nose.  She then bent over and salvaged what remained of the steam rifle's metal stock from a fresh pool of blood before tossing it into a dazed Otto's arms.  “Come along, Otto.  You're the new Darper now.  Try not to smell as bad as he did, hmmm?”  With a nervous gaggle of black-braceleted Geist-Bleeders in tow, Miss Ryst marched off towards the next order of business.

        The goblin crowd nervously dissipated, their eyes lingering on the last pony as she quietly retracted the copper rifle and slid it back into its leathery holster across her spine.  She was about to walk back down the ramp to rejoin Warden in the Harmony several platforms below, when she paused.  Not caring what imps were watching from streetside, she reached up and pulled the cowl from over her head.  Scootaloo's pink mane fell free, blowing majestically in a gust of high Wasteland winds.  She raised the brown article to her eyes and fiddled with the earpiece, marveling at the twin holes that had formed from the steambolt passing through her headpiece, missing her skin by less than a centimeter.

        With a shuddering breath, she gazed up towards the metal rafters of Strut Twenty-Five, looking for the source of the voice that had cried out to warn her... to save her.  Finding nothing, she felt the flutter of the blue feather in the free wind.  She reached up and softly graced the sapphire strands with her hoof, her numb expression awash in thought.



> End of Ponies - Petra Arc - HHH Edition pt 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


The End of Ponies – by short skirts and explosions


Chapter Twenty-Eight – Dead Worlds




        “What are they?” Warden asked, blinking up at her.

        Scootaloo yanked the black article of clothing out of her saddlebag and slapped them down onto the floor of the Harmony's upper cabin where the teenage goblin was squatting with a pen and several sheets of paper.

        “They're pants,” the last pony said.

        “Pants?”

        “Yes.  Y'know,” she murmured, trotting across the cabin of the moored vessel toward her locker.  “Things you bipedal creatures wear over your abdomens and... dance around in.  I dunno.  I never took much stock in trunks myself, to be perfectly honest.”

        “I know what they are.  It's just...”  Warden dropped his pen and reached over to awkwardly hold the black leggings in eight fingers.  “...why'd you bother to get them?”

        “H'jem.”  Scootaloo opened the locker and glanced back over her flank.  “Why do you think?”

        Warden blinked.  He glanced down at his left thigh and the permanent horseshoe burned into the green flesh.  The teenager bit his lip and muttered.  “Oh.”

        “Yeesh.  You're welcome,” Scootaloo muttered, sliding off her leather saddlebag and armor before slipping them onto their respective shelves.  “I figure you won't look too out of place, even if only half of the goblins I've seen in Petra bother to wear shorts themselves.  Seriously, what's up with that?  It's just like with monkeys and diamond dogs.  Some bipeds wear clothes; others don't.  I can't tell which precedes which anymore: modesty or sentience?”

        “Whatever,” Warden droned, pivoting about on the floor to awkwardly slide the black bottoms up his good and bad legs.  “I can't even pretend to be as philosophical as you.”

        “Heh.”  Scootaloo smirked, backing up to the stool beside her workbench and reaching for the leather cowl on her head.  “When it comes to clothing, ponies rarely ever got philosophical.”  She sat down and yanked the cowl off her skull, freeing her ears and pink mane.  “We got fabulous.  Heeheehee... Well, the fairest of us did, at least.”

        “If you say so.”  Warden finished with his task and stood, holding himself up with a pair of hands gripping the edge of the last pony's sealed bookcase.  “So... uhm...”  He pensively straightened his lower half as best as he could.  “How do I look?”

        Scootaloo barely glanced at him.  “You're... uh... suave.  Whatever.  I can't see the burn mark, for what it's worth.”

        “A lot.”  Warden shuddered.  “It's worth a lot.  Erm... th-thank you, pony...”

        “Yeah, don't mention it,” she was murmuring, her voice as distant as her eyes.  She was turning the leather cowl over in her hooves.  Her vision swam over the fresh hole that the late Darper's steambolt had made in the article.  No matter how many times she played with the damaged fabric, she couldn't shake the fact that she was indescribably lucky to have her skull in one piece.  “Having something nice done for you isn't the end of the world, cuz we already had that happen twenty-five years ago.  Heh...”  She exhaled long and hard, her ears twitching with a brief series of strong heartbeats.  “The best blessings come from the most unpredictable of places, from those whom you can't return the sentiment to... even if it's what you desire the most in life.”

        Warden narrowed his aquamarine eyes on the pony, on the perforated cowel in her grasp.  His vision tilted aside and gazed with equal interest at her copper rifle that was presently leaning against the center of the open locker.  The magazine was full of glowing moonstones: all except for one spent cartridge that was conspicuously missing.

        “Did you... run into trouble out there?” he nervously asked.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  “If I ran into real trouble, kid, I wouldn't be talking to you right now, would I?”  There was a space of silence.  She glanced over to witness his unenthused expression.  “Heheh...” she chuckled.  “What do you take me for?  I know how to look after myself.”

        “I wasn't suggesting you couldn't.”  He gulped and leaned forward.  “I just... hope that you didn't risk your neck only to get me some pants.”

        “If you count the awkwardness of getting a mother goblin to tell me the measurements for a teenage imp's hindquarters, then sure.”  Scootaloo stood up from the stool, marched over, and slapped the last of her things into the locker.  “H'jnor.”  She turned from the cabinet to face him.  “I'm only sorry that I was gone for so long.”

        “It's... uhm... it's okay,” he said softly, settling back down onto the floor and grabbing the pen once more.  He scribbled a few more numbers and letters across his assortment of paper sheets.  “To be honest, I was kind of expecting you to be gone longer.”

        “Pffft!  Well!”  Scootaloo tried her best to toss him a playful smile.  “I'm sorry to disappoint, Wart.”  She marched to the rear of the cabin to check on the pressure level of the steam pipes beside the dimmed boiler.  “You goblins have built yourself a pretty snazzy city full of grandfather clock intestines and all, but—quite frankly—the longer I spend my time out there the closer I'll come to having a gasket of my own blown.  And I'm not talking about the Harmony.”

        “Did you find what you were looking?” he asked.  It wasn't until half a minute had passed when he realized the gravity of his own question, and still it remained unanswered.  Curiously, he glanced up from what he was writing.

        Scootaloo was staring deep into the interior of the boiler, at the few ashes dwindling within.  The heart of the Harmony was almost always alive with constant, roaring flames.  Right now, it was as dead as her spirit... as all of Equestria around the cancerous imp city in the middle of the Wasteland.

        “It's... It's going to be a while before I get what I want,” she murmured.  “What I need.”  The interior of the boiler was covered with deep soot, resembling the inside of a cave bathed with Cloudsdalian steam.  A few embers cracked, hissing into nothingness, like a bleeding foal's dwindling sobs under the shadow of a passing stormfront.  With a deep breath, Scootaloo turned from the ashes and trotted past Warden.  “Let's just say that I ran into... an old acquaintance, and it's made my task a lot, lot more complicated than I thought it'd be.”

        Warden's gaze turned to follow her.  “You mean that nobody's willing to lend you a hand?”

        “What did I expect?”  She shrugged, sat down at her workbench, and pulled a hoof-brace out of a drawer.  “This whole place, Warden—this whole valley was once Pegasus Central, including the sky above it.”  She slipped the brace over her left forelimb, fitted a metal tool to it, and began tightening the bothersome horseshoe on her right hoof.  “That's hardly the case today.  Whether I agree with it or not, everything in this place belongs to impkind.  And if impkind is not willing to part with it—silver or no silver—then I'm at a loss.”  She sighed as she squinted at her annoying task.  Nevertheless, she reveled in the fact that she could somehow approach a problem for once that day.  “At this point, Wart, the only thing I can do is go door to door and hope that some goblin in this city is crazy enough to bend so low as to help a 'glue stick' for money.  In the Wastelands, I've fought monsters, looted corpses, and scavenged from cesspools.  If there's one thing in life I hate...”  She frowned and sweated as she fiddled harder and harder with the horseshoe.  “...it's being a charity case.”

        Warden silently contemplated that.  After a soft breath, he sat up straight and asked, “What is so special that you have to go through all this trouble just to scrounge it up?”

        “Dang it!” Scootaloo was already shouting, for she had stabbed her hoof at an awkward angle and the metal horseshoe was falling free to the floor.  It rattled loudly, filling the bulkheads of the cabin with annoying reverberations.  The last pony took a deep breath.  “It's not what I'm looking for, Wart.  It's who.”

        The teenager's pointed ears tilted upwards at that.  “'Who?'”

        Scootaloo was halfway through bending over to scoop up the horseshoe.  She paused, hesitated, then muttered, “Yes.”

        “It's... someone you know?”

        “Mmmmhmmm.”

        “A goblin?”

        Scootaloo said nothing.  She planted the horseshoe back on her right hoof.

        Warden blinked.  “A pony?” he uttered.

        “She's dead,” Scootaloo finally said, her exhalation as cold as the metal that was kissing the end of he right forelimb.  She tightened it with remarkable precision this time.  “I came all this way because... I need her remains, and I left them here a long, long time ago.”

        “I... I had no idea...”

        “It wasn't your job to know, kid.”  Scootaloo finished fastening the metal article.  She waved the hoof around to make sure it stayed on.  “I don't expect any of the imp families in Petra to know either, though it hardly matters.”

        “So...”  Warden stirred where he sat, his face scrunched in thought.  “You've flown clear across the Wasteland, risked your airship, and then stuck your neck into a dangerous place for ponies... all just to get the body of someone you used to know?”

        “Pretty much, yeah,” she muttered.  With bored eyes, she watched herself slide the hoof brace off her left limb and slip it back into a drawer of the workbench.  “After I drop you off with your parents, I'll still be at it.  Life isn't boring so long as you don't know when to quit.”

        “Jee...”  Warden scratched his neck above his vest with four clawed fingers.  “That sounds really...”

        “Heh... What?”  Scootaloo smirked, chuckling towards the metal bulkheads around them.  “Pathetic?  Desperate?  Lame?”

        “Loyal,” he said.

        Scootaloo flashed him a deadpan look.

        He bit his lip.  “That is to say... it... it sounds really, really loyal of you to do that for some pony who's been... gone all this time.”

        She took a deep breath, exhaling twenty-five years and then inhaling the haunting memory of warm Ponyville afternoons.  She talked to the rainbow and the rainbow talked back.  There was laughter, hope, and joy.  But more than anything else, there was awesomeness.  Scootaloo always knew she was lucky to have been a witness to such.  For the first time in so many years, she realized she was also lucky—instead of cursed—to have the capacity to remember it as well.

        “Not all creatures can afford to be loyal, Wart,” the last pony nevertheless muttered.  “Some creatures are just alone, and nothing more.”  She took a deep breath, but somehow managed a soft smile.  She gazed off beyond the windshields of the Harmony, as if a sunny sky was blossoming beyond the glass instead of Kevin's grimy hangar.  “No, there is something far... far more valuable than loyalty, something that can survive the Wasteland and outlast the twilight.  I wouldn't be alive today if I didn't have it.  It's not just enough to be alive.  It's important to still be able to feel, even if only for a few frightful situations.  And I have that something to thank for it as well.”

        “What?” Warden murmured curiously, his soft voice bearing a hint of warmth for the first time since Scootaloo rescued him from a cave.  “Just what is that 'something,' pony?”

        She opened her lips, paused, and decided to say, “You'll find out, kid.”  She smiled.  It was a genuine thing, like quietly crying her way through one of Princess Celestia's journal entries.  “In your own way, the goblin way, with your parents or others that you care about... you'll know what it is when you have it.”  She took a deep, shuddering breath as her scarlet eyes fell to the floor.  “It's a heck of a lot better than realizing you've spent your entire friggin' life forgetting about it.”

        Warden was about to respond to that, when his eyes took notice of something bright and colorful.  He glanced up and focused on the fluttering, sapphiric feather strung to Scootaloo's ear.  Something about it calmed him, but his face registered little to no understanding.

        Scootaloo pierced the silence of the moment by gesturing towards the many sheets in front of the goblin teenager and exclaiming, “So when are you going to tell me just what the heck you're doing down there anyways?”

        “Oh!  Uhm...”  He bit his lip.  “I'm sorry, pony.  Really... I should have asked before borrowing your pen and stealing some sheets of paper.”

        “Heh, don't sweat it, Wart.”  Scootaloo paced over towards him and squinted down at the sheets.  “I was gone for a long time.  If that stuff was supposed to be off-limits to you, I would have planted a glowy purple forcefield over it just like the cockpit.”

        “Uh... okay...” He smiled nervously.

        “So... just what are you—?”

        “Ahem.”  He cleared his throat and gestured with the pen towards the numerous figures he had sketched over the past few hours.  “While you were gone, I briefly walked around the lower level of your airship and I noticed that you have several samples of lunar rock.”

        “Yes.  Yes I do.”  Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “What of it?”

        “I... uhm... I imagine that you collect so many of the rocks from the Wasteland in order to salvage the consummable materials within and convert them to fuel for your aircraft's engines?”

        “Well, yes,” Scootaloo said with a nod.  “Among other things.  I happen to collect multi-colored gemstones and flamestones and—”

        “But I'm guessing that, after all of the extraction of precious samples, you're left with a lot of excess, inert moon dust?”

        Scootaloo blinked, suddenly witness to a very talkative, very analytical young goblin in her midst.  “Er... yes.  Though a lot of that stuff I incorporate into runeforging.  I'm sure I don't need to explain to you where I get all of my nifty, glowy stones that you see all over the ship.”

        “But I notice that you've still got a lot of surplus dust just lying around,” Warden said.

        “Yeah, so?”  Scootaloo made a face.

        “Isn't it weighing down your airship by just lying in the bottom level of your gondola and doing nothing?”

        “Hey!  I'm going to get to making runestones out of them sooner than later!”  Scootaloo said with a brief frown.  “I'm not wasteful, Wart.  I'm just busy.  I assure you, nothing I grab from the Wasteland is taken for granted.  I use every part of the buffalo.”

        Warden made a face.  “What's a 'buffalo'?”

        Scootaloo replied, “A race of nomadic, hoofed creatures who are thankfully extinct, which is precisely why I can use that expression.”  She took a deep breath and squatted down beside the imp and his sheets of scribbles.  “Tell it to me straight, Wart.  Where're you going with all of this?”

        He gestured towards his multiple figures.  “Well, I made a visual count of all the stuff you have.  I'm guessing you've got over two hundred kilos of the dust.”

        “Mmmm... Sounds about right.”

        “Well, if you were to extract a terrestrial mineral like Blight Ash from a barren part of the landscape—take for instance the Eastern Fringe of the Briar—and mix the material with the lunar dust at a ratio of—say—three to one, I think you could produce a far more combustible material that could minimize your reliance on current fuel reserves by about thirty-three percent.”

        “You... It... H-Huh?!” Scootaloo shook her head, her eyes blinking painfully.

        Warden didn't stop.  “I wouldn't suggest this personally, but you seem to be a brave pony.  If you were to fly far east to the slopes of Mt Ogreton—avoiding the airspace over the Valley of Jewels, of course—you could even grab yourself some Ogre Fire Granite and mix that with the lunar sediment and make a far more potent fuel.  I made a prediction: based on your current reserves, and assuming you acquire at least forty kilos of the Ogreton minerals, you could upgrade to a more efficient fuel source and save yourself approximately five hundred silver strips every ten stormfronts.”

        “Uhm... Wart?”

        “That is, of course, assuming that the political climate doesn't undergo a major shift anytime soon—which would only happen if either the Fire Ogres or Mountain Ogres win their war—and a dramatic shift in silver exchange takes place to off-set my predictions...”

        “Wart...”

        “Or if you didn't want to use the fuel personally, you could sell it to some of the monkeys in the Northern Heights.  They seem willing to buy just about anything that won't blow up in their face, from what I can tell.  Now gremlins, on the other hand—”

        “Yoohoo!  Hey, kid!”  Scootaloo planted a hoof on his shoulder, stopping him.  She leaned down and absorbed his eyes with her own.  “Before you finish your college lecture on burnable lunar powder, just tell me one thing.  Why are you doing all of this anyways?”

        “B-Because...” He gulped.  A fascimile of a smile graced his humble face.  “Because it's what I'm good at.  I do figures and numbers.  That's why my parents gave me so many jobs to do.  It's also why they sent me on an airship trip to the east to do trade.  That was, of course, before harpies came and ruined everything—”

        “No, I know all that.  I haven't got the right to even question it.”  She narrowed her eyes.  “What I mean is, why're you doing all of this...”  She gestured at all of the sheets.  “...for me?”

        “Because it could really save you on silver strips and—”

        “I'm doing fine on strips, kid.”  She helplessly smiled.  “You're right about one thing.  Monkeys can and will buy just about everything.”  She rested her hoof over the back of his hand, forcing him to release his grip of the pen.  “Wart, thank you for all of the consideration, but right now fuel consumption and experiments in lunar compounds is the least of my concerns.  I didn't bring you here to be my... my... my little clerk, okay?”

        Warden suddenly inhaled with a sharp breath.  He dragged his hand out from her contact and folded his arms tightly over his chest.  It wasn't a pouting expression necessarily, for the drooping of his ears broadcasted more melancholy than anger.

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow.  “Was it something I said?”

        He hesitated, squirming where he sat.  Finally, without looking directly at her, Warden murmured, “You're not the only one who hates being a charity case, pony.”

        Scootaloo was about to retort, but she had nothing.  She merely bit her lip.

        Thankfully, he spoke on, “You've done so much for me.  You dragged me out of a cave that could very well have been my grave.”  His voice was cold, somber, like many pale beams of sky marble that had once buried Scootaloo in the wounded earth.  “You've fed me, warmed me...”  He bit his lip and his lower body shuffled as he added, “...and clothed me.”

        “You were an imp in need,” Scootaloo said.  “It's as simple as that.”

        “No it's not!” his voice sharply exclaimed, forcing her to blink.  He calmed his breath and returned once more to a pensive tone.  “I'm a goblin, pony.  My blood is worth the extent of my talents, of the silver I can earn, of the strength I have to manifest Petra.  I've...”  He gulped hard and dragged a hand through his green hair as a cold shudder ran through his tiny frame.  “I've failed on all of those fronts, ever since I took that stupid trip east.  I've let myself down...”  He gnashed his teeth and stared down past the sea of scribbled figures on white sheets, all of which were suddenly useless, like everything else.  “I've let my parents down.  If I return to them as a no-bleeder... I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

        “'No-bleeder?'”  Scootaloo blinked, her mind attempting to process the term that she had heard sporadically during her trek through Petra, though it was hard to remember through the ugly filter of steam, suffering, and impish cruelty.  “I... I don't understand.”

        “I told you who I was when we first met,” he murmured.  “I am Warden of Stock Blood.  That name means nothing if the blood has no worth.”

        Scootaloo's eyes scanned invisible clouds through the ceiling as she thought aloud, “And... if you're compensated for your talents, then your blood—”

        “Stock Blood will have no value,” Warden explained.  “With no value, I might as well have no blood.”

        Scootaloo stared knowingly at him.  “You're afraid that your circumstances have stripped you of value.  So you think that suddenly makes you a 'no-bleeder?'”

        He sighed long and hard.  He hugged himself and leaned back against the nearest bulkhead.  “I know it.”

        “Wart...”  Scootaloo sighed and smiled gently.  “I know only so little about the way goblins tick, but if you ask me: they're way too dang hard on each other.  You're just a kid, but a very smart and resourceful kid.  I can't imagine your parents giving you so many responsibilities if they didn't have great respect and trust in you.”  She grasped all of the paper sheets and shuffled them neatly on top of one another so that the floor was no longer cluttered.  All the while, she spoke, “You've had a run-in with bad circumstances.  So what?  You're alive, and—believe me—that's what counts the most in this pathetic Wasteland.  Returning to your parents with or without profit isn't half as awesome as returning to them, period.”

        “Still, it's not right that you should do all of this stuff for me without getting something in return,” Warden exclaimed.

        “Who says I haven't got anything in return?”  She smirked at him.  “It's taken a stormfront, a run-in with gremlins, and a pair of pants—but I've finally got you to join me in witty repartee!”

        “I'm not joking!” Warden suddenly hissed at her.  His sharp teeth showed, as if an animalistic side of goblin nature was bubbling up from the evolutionary surface of his being.  “Without equivalent exchange, I'm nothing more than your pet... your servant... your... y-your slave!”

        “You are not a slave!” Scootaloo suddenly shouted back at him, her eyes flaring a hot red.  She was even surprised by her own angry reflection in his widening eyes, but that didn't stop the next words from pouring out of her mouth, tempered by fresh memories of steam and blood and pain.  “Get that friggin' idea out of your head this very second!  You're a living being, not an object!”  She fumed briefly, but gradually lowered the volume of her voice.  “I don't know where goblins get off thinking that blood is something that can be measured.  Wart, either you're alive or you're not.  Whatever the case, you're you.  And what you are is significant.  It's meaningful.  It's... it's...”

        She took a deep breath and glanced up suddenly at the collage of dangling souvenirs hanging above her workbench.  In the center of past relics, Suntrot's crayon drawing hung, filling the last pony's mind with golden hues, like tears of jaundice, or a long lock of yellow-streaked hair.

        “It's precious,” she added, her voice wavering like one of Octavia's sad violin chords.

        Warden glanced at her in curious silence.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath.  Clearing her throat, she stood up.  “You ain't my slave, kiddo.  Not now, not ever.  You're just someone I happened to run into, someone who deserved a break in life.  We all deserve breaks, and no matter how ugly the world wants to be, we're fated to help each other at some point or another.  I didn't always believe in that, but things in my life have... have seen brighter shades as of late.  I can't expect you to understand, kid.  You were born after the Cataclysm—or the Dimming, whatever imps like to call it.  I wish you could understand what it means to lose so much color, and...”  She took a deep breath, but her next smile was blissfully painful.  “...and to have so much of it come back.  It just... It only hammers it all in all the harder.  We're all worth something, kid.  I may not be able to make a difference in the lives of everyone, but I could make a difference in your life.  And I did, or at least I've tried to.  So sue me.”

        Warden slowly shook his head.  “I-I wouldn't sue you even if I could afford it.”

        “Hah!  Best compliment I heard all day, and believe me: that's not grabbing at straws.”  She managed a wink.  “Good to know you're not that kind of a goblin.”

        “Uhhh... What?”

        “Never mind.”  Scootaloo turned around.  “I'm taking you to your parents.”

        His ears perked up.  “Right n-now?”

        “Nah.  I need to rest up a bit, collect my head, plan out what I'm going to do next to get to my friend's remains.”  She started trotting towards the cockpit.  “Tomorrow, kid.  Get a good sleep.  Epona knows I need some rest myself.  Then, soon as you and I wake up, you'll be homeward bound—”

        “Uhhhh...”  Warden nervously hobbled up to a standing position and waved a hand dramatically towards the last pony.  “I-I wouldn't do that—”

        “Sleep is good for the soul, Wart.  You can have the hammock again tonight.”

        “No!  Not that!”  He pointed. “The cockpit—”

        “What about it?”  She looked back in mid-trot.  “You can try sleeping in that, but it'll give you a sore back—”  Scootaloo ran full-force into a glowing, purple forcefield.  She had forgotten to disenchant the moonrocks.  “Dah!  Sonuva—”  Scootaloo stumbled into the record player's shelf, her front coat smoking in a few areas as she rode down a wave of brief, shuddering pain.  “Nnnngh... I... uh...”  She smiled nervously.  “I meant to do that.”

        Warden blinked.  “Snkkkt...”  He held a hand over his face.  His eyes thinned, beginning to tear.  Then a sound came out of him that Scootaloo could never have expected to hear from a young goblin in a million stormfronts.  “Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

        Scootaloo stared at him, but slowly smiled herself.  “Heh... heheheh...”  She ran a hoof through her mane, straightening the singed ends of her pink hair.  “I suppose if I was a goblin, that'd make me a 'Dunce-Bleeder', huh?”

        “Heeheehee... You don't have the ears for it.”
        
        “Go to bed, Wart.”

        “Yes, pony.”






        Thirteen hours later, in the lofty mesh of metallic crossbeams that formed the barrier between the Beta and Alpha Levels of Strut Fifteen, four goblin figures were gathered in a shadowy alcove high above the clamoring hustle and bustle of impcity life.

        “Alright, y'all,” Bard muttered, adjusting his black hat before holding up a tattered “Desperadoes” wanted poster that he had snatched off a wall several blocks away.  “I just want to get this off my chest.  There is no way in heck that I'm this short!”  He pointed at a dark outline that was meant to represent his figure beside the other three.  “Will you take a gander at that?  Total bunk if you ask me.”

        Murk glanced over, his dark visor glinting from a dim red lantern hanging beyond a metal grate above them.  He paused in polishing his sword, tilted his head sideways for a better look at the poster in Bard's grasp, then silently shook his head with a smirk.

        “Oh, you would be a smug sonuvagun about it!”  Bard frowned at his companion.  “At least they got your hair right.”  He sighed, crumpled the sheet up, and tossed it into a dark corner littered with soot and refuse.  “You'd reckon that infamy would come with a lick of decency.  We need another Dimming to kill off this generation's worth of lazy artists, I swear to Petra.”

        “Will you shut your trap about the stupid posters already?!” Rai hissed across the claustrophobic, lofty alcove.  She was in the middle of hammering together an elaborate smoke grenade with a multi-purpose wrench held in her expert hands.  “It's nothing to be friggin' proud of.  With all the stupid mistakes we've made in the streets of Strut Twenty-Five, we're lucky we don't have detailed portraits made of us by now.  Those posters could very well be our undoing someday.”

        “Yeesh! I normally don't say this to a lady, but would ya fancy taking the stick out?”  Bard smirked and raised one of his two steam pistols.  He opened the steambolt chamber and spun it before his squinting eyes.  “Have you been keepin' track of our numbers as of late?  Cuz I have.”  He slapped the chambers shut, twirled the revolvers on his fingers, and holstered them.  “One hundred and fifty slaves freed in three stormfronts, and that's just from Geist Blood alone!  I dunno about you, missy, but I call that a victory.”

        “A victory isn't worth celebrating when so much blood has been spilled,” Rai muttered.  She sighed and resumed tinkering with the weapon in her grasp.  “I couldn't sleep last night.  I kept hearing that poor little girl's crying.  We shouldn't have losses like that.  We should be better.  We can be better.”

        “I ain't all too proud myself of letting a few goblins slip back into Lady Ryst's shackles, Rai,” Bard remarked softly.  “But expectin' all of our raids to go perfectly is like expectin' this world to be perfect as well, and if that was the case than we wouldn't have to be doin' what we do to begin with.”

        Murk nodded.  He planted his sword down just long enough to make a few hand-gestures with flesh and metal fingers.

        Bard looked at him and nodded.  “Yeah, I know that Twilight Hollow's gonna be mighty prettier than this stinkin' city, but we can't expect it to stay paradise forever, no matter how many goblins we send there.”  He smiled back in Rai's direction.  “It'll be up to all of them to work together to keep life all equal-like, or else something like Geist Blood's legacy will happen there all the same.”

        “We can't expect them to do everything we hope for them to!” Rai retorted.  “What?  Are we going to go there ourselves and form a council or something?”

        “Well, shoot!  Why the heck not?”  Bard leaned back against a bulkhead, resting his arms behind the back of his head.  “I've enjoyed the ride, but I reckon we can't be 'Desperadoes' forever.  Twilight Hollow sounds pretty nifty, and I wouldn't mind bein' a member of a new city's council.”

        Murk smiled and gestured something.

        Bard laughed at him.  “Hah!  You?  A mayor?  Wouldn't that kick some major troll hide!  Well, shucks, sign me up for that!  Not like you don't have a big enough fan club as it is, Murk.  Even Geist-Blood is sketchin' more muscles on you than me.”

        “Oh will you two get out of bed together already?!” Rai snapped.  “By Dimming's blight, I swear...”

        “You're just angry cuz it looks like you dipped your head in an outhouse.”

        Rai frowned.  “It's not like I asked for deep blue hair!”

        “Yeah, yeah.  Just blame your father like you do with everything else,” Bard said, elbowing Murk.  Murk snickered breathily.

        Rai sighed and glanced tiredly across the tiny alcove towards the fourth figure.  “Please tell me you've got something important to say for this meeting, V.”

        “Bard pretty much said it for me, child,” Vaughan murmured, perpetually gazing down at the brightly-lit street below.  Beyond several whirring pistons and twirling gears, the entrance to a hangar could be seen.  Several goblin miners, sales-imps, and families wandered to-and-fro in the busy district of Strut Fifteen.  “We've done our task for the time being.  Over one hundred and fifty slaves have been safely escorted to Undersmoke.  So long as they're under your father's gaze, Rai, they'll remain undiscovered until the Encore flies into station.”

        “You sure we can trust Bel?” Rai said, her pale brow furrowed.  “That pilot seems a little... too cheritable to me.”

        “I've been with him on several trips,” Vaughan spoke.  “I've known him for over a decade.  He's a good imp; I trust him with my life.”  She gazed calmly over at her three companions.  “Just like I trust each and every one of you with my life.  What we're doing here is miraculous.  I know it's hard to believe, but Twilight Hollow has become something very real, a true blessing in the middle of the blight.  It wouldn't be possible without fine blood like Bel and the rest of you.”

        “Aww shucks...”  Bard smirked and tilted his black fedora lazily over his brow.  “You're makin' me blush.  When do we get to bust heads again?”

        “We'd better lay low for several hours.  Maybe even a day or two,” Vaughan said.

        “Then what are we doing here, V?”  Rai made a face.  She clapped the grenade shut, her work finished.  “And in Strut Fifteen of all places?  I mean, I think it's a wonderful idea to have our meetings so far away from Geist Blood territory, but you've never had us rendezvous here before.”

        Vaughan glanced back down at the distant street.  “Tell me, Rai.  How is it that I came to work with your father?”

        Rai slid the grenade into the compartment of a metallic backpack and snapped the thing shut.  “What, is this some sort of weird test or something?” the young goblinette asked.

        “I'm not hearing an answer.”

        Rai sat up straight like an obedient soldier.  “You both met over a decade ago, when he still had his property on Strut Eighteen.  When the Slave Initiative began, and the majority of the Family Council allowed Geist Blood to begin its purges, you and him agreed to smuggle several no-bleeders to the fringes of Undersmoke—”

        “Dear child, I wasn't asking for a history lesson,” Vaughan remarked, looking back at the youngster.  “Think with your heart while you can still feel the difference between it and your mind.”

        Rai bit her lip, fidgeting.  “Well... I-I suppose it's all on account of the fact that you've both been around since before the Dimming.”  She ran a hand over her hair, straightening the purple braids.  “You both saw the yellow light, the green life, the bright oceans...”

        “...the extensive, poetic soliloquys,” Bard uttered.  Murk whacked him with the dull edge of his sword.  “Ow!”  He tilted his hat up and frowned at his companion.

        “Hmmm...” Vaughan's lips were ever so slightly curved.  She glanced back at Rai.  “We saw more than that, Rai.  We saw a world where the only creatures who enslaved others were ogres.  They made property and garbage out of impkind, and goblins suffered for it.  Today, manifesters of Petra have forgotten that.  Out of fear and intimidation from the shadow of powerful families like Geist Blood, the industrial souls of this city have surrendered decency for survival.  Give it a decade or two, but this entire imp city will be as ugly and destitute as the Wasteland that so many foolishly believe has been sealed off on the outside.”

        “I still don't see what this has to do with us being here in Strut Fifteen of all places...”

        “Bard had a good point earlier,” Vaughan said.  “It'll be up to the goblins we've freed to maintain a proper lifestyle of equality in their new township of Twilight's Hollow.  There, they can manifest Petra without the horrible blemish of slavery.  Perhaps they can even build a city that rivals this place.  But none of that will be possible without hope.  Hope is an edge that your father has, Rai...”

        The young goblinette's ears drooped as she gazed lethargically towards the side.  “Yeah, well...”

        “Whether you believe in it or not, it's there.  It's what has helped him maintain so much integrity throughout the years.”  Vaughan took a deep breath.  “And it's what helped me keep my sanity.  The Wasteland is a horrible place.  You don't need me to tell you that anymore than I already have over the past few months.  But surviving in a place like that has meant clinging onto something that so few imps believe in, but even fewer—like myself and your father—have seen for ourselves before the Dimming.  It's what gives us our edge.”  She slowly turned and stared once more down at the street.  “But we are not the only ones...”

        “What do you mean?”  Rai leaned over.  “You have another ally that we don't know about?  Someone besides Bel's crew on the Encore?”

        “Rai, child, you are like a sister to me,” Vaughan said, reaching a hand out and gently clasping the youth's shoulder.  “And it's not just because you're such a reliable imp.  We were destined to meet long before our paths crossed, before you were even born.”  She smiled gently.  “For I believe that there is an essence that defines us, that makes us the same, that makes us virtuous souls... so that we are righteous in what we do, however we do it.”  She tilted her neck, her lips pursing at the sight of something below.  She gestured down at the street.  “And I do believe I have found another such soul...”

        The other three glanced at each other.  Curiously, they shuffled over and stared down through a metal grate.  At the exit of the hangar, a pair of figures came out.  One was a petite goblin teenager with a limp.  The other was...

        “A pony?”  Bard scratched his brown head of hair beneath his hat.

        “The pony,” Rai uttered bluntly.  “Lady Ryst is short one annoying-as-balls Darper on account of that walking leather tank with hooves.”

        “You mean she's the one who saved those three stragglers yesterday?” Bard exclaimed.

        Murk whistled shrilly in awe.

        “It figures she'd be hanging around here,” Rai remarked.  She pointed at the hangar.  “That's the out-bleeder garage.  Y'know, the one owned by the vulture gang.”

        “Oh yeah!  Those birds!” Bard nodded.  “What's their ringleader's name again?  Jeff?  Rick?”

        “Kevin.”

        “Ah.  Well, I was close.”

        “No you weren't.”

        “Shhhh!” Vaughan hissed, instantly making the two as silent as Murk.  They watched as Scootaloo virtually passed underneath them with Warden hobbling beside her.  “She's old, a lot older than any of you may think.  What's more, she's obviously quite experienced in lunar crafting and—I dare say—magic.”

        “Magic?!” Bard made a face.  “I admit, I never thought I'd be seein' a live pony with my naked eyes, but that's a little too much to chew on.”

        “You weren't there, Bard,” Rai muttered in a low breath as she squatted beside her red-headed mentor.  “She spoke a single word and her gun fired a bullet on command.”

        “Well maybe she's got tiny flutter ponies livin' inside the rifle and cranking on tiny valves or something!”

        Murk gave Bard a crazy look and gestured briskly.

        Bard hissed back at him, “Well, I wanna hear you come up with a better explanation!”

        “Magic is as real as ponies, and was once in as much abundance,” Vaughan calmly said.  “This world was theirs.  Decades of prosperity—ugly or not—cannot excuse goblins in denying the truth.”  She looked steadily at the other three.  “Our kind is here because her kind no longer is.  If ponies had that much of an impact, imagine what one equine—old enough to harbor the gifts of her own species—could have on this city, right now, when the “Desperadoes” are so infamous that we can hardly afford to begin a new, daring campaign on our lonesome?”

        “Boss...?”  Bard squinted at their leader.  “Just what do you reckon you're gettin' at?”

        Vaughan turned and looked at Rai.  “Not all of us can afford the edge that I and your father have, child.  But where we lack...”  She gazed once more at the trotting figure below.  “...she can help.”

        Murk squinted curiously from behind his visor.

        Rai cleared her throat.  “And... uhm... just how do we know that she'd be willing to help us out?”

        “Simple.”  Vaughan nodded.  “We ask her.”

        “Heh...”  Bard folded his arms.  “Really, now?  I wouldn't even know how to ride a horse, much less open discourse with one.”

        “Seriously, V,” Rai gazed at her with mixed confusion and worry.  “Even if... Even if she could help us with all of her skills and lunar glowy stuff... Why would she?  What would she owe us?  She's a pony.  We're goblins.  You can't buy loyalty from the likes of glue sticks.”

        “She's a living soul, child, and no more deserving of ignorant insults than you or me,” Vaughan said with a frown.

        Rai folded her arms and blew a dangling braid out from her face.  “Hmph.  Now you're just sounding like my father.”

        “Duly noted.”  Vaughan nodded, then glanced down at Scootaloo as her and Warden's figures grew distant.  “No, we can't buy loyalty from a pony.  But if she's as old and experienced a soul as I believe her to be, then she has hope.  And hope has a loyalty of its own.”  She thought aloud, murmuring in a meditative breath, “It's something that's worth a hundred Twilight Hollows, or else she wouldn't be alive for us to witness now.”

        Bard and Murk exchanged thoughtful glances.  Rai gulped and leaned closer towards her mentor.  “So... what do we do?”

        Vaughan stood up, stretched her limbs, and said, “We follow.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “See anybody you know, Wart?”  Scootaloo asked.  She heard a grand response of nothing.  The sounds of the whurring, clattering imp city filled her ears, along with the distant murmurs of several goblins staring at her slow march through Strut Fifteen.  With a lethargic breath, she gazed aside.  “Warden?”

        He was limping alongside her, wincing with the effort.  His aquamarine eyes darted left and right with twitching paranoia, as if he was being cornered by timberwolves.  Warden gazed pensively at the multiple imp figures watching him, watching her, watching him and her—as if they were a paradoxical pair of grotesque souls vomited out of the Wasteland to defile the sanctity of goblin decency.

        Scootaloo looked at him, then back at the many random imps standing at streetside who were staring at them both.  She was used to creatures of the Wasteland treating her like a bizarre spectacle.  She realized Warden couldn't relate to her infamy, but walking alongside her—constantly having to lean on her armored weight to remain upright—he suddenly had no choice but to share in it.

        “Just pretend you're a celebrity or something,” she muttered.  “For we all know, this is your prophetical return.”

        “H-Huh?” he finally managed to vocalize.

        “Yeah.”  She smirked as she slowly trotted forward, allowing him to shuffle at an even pace.  “Think of yourself as a goblin messiah or something.”

        “I'm... I'm hardly a goblin anything,” he said.  His voice had a wavering pitch to it as he adjusted his vest and hid his expression from the bystanders by turning to face the last pony's armored flank.  “I j-just want to get home and see Mom and Dad, then my body doesn't have to see the lantern-light of the streets anymore.”

        “You say that as if you have something to be ashamed of, Wart.”

        “Mmmm...” He merely muttered.  Though his black leggings opaquely covered the flesh of his thighs, he constantly kept to the right of the pony so that his limp, left thigh was being dragged obscurely between their bodies.

        Scootaloo bit her lip.  She was used to awkward situations in the Wasteland.  It occurred to her that Warden wasn't.  “So... Uh... Strut Twenty?”

        “Huh?”

        “That's where you said your parents lived—”

        “Y-Yes.  Strut Twenty,” he exclaimed, nodding earnestly.  “We'll know when we're there because most of the lanterns have a green tint to them.”

        “Or, y'know...” Scootaloo smiled his way.  “We could just take the elevators.”

        Warden didn't return the expression.  He merely nodded.  “Yes.  Yes, we c-can—Augh!”  He suddenly tripped, his limp leg finally failing him.  He stumbled to his knees, wincing, struggling to get up.

        Scootaloo shifted nervously where she stood above him.  As she stretched a brown wing out to give him something to pull himself up with, she glanced back and saw twice as many goblins watching as before.  She was starting to feel a twinge of what made Warden nervous, though she was hardly thinking about herself.

        “Look... uhm... Wart...”  She looked back as he stood—wobbling—back on two legs.  “I know of a way to make this whole trip faster.”

        “I'm... I-I'm all ears,” he uttered dizzily, leaning against her.

        “You may not like it,” she said.

        He gulped.  “Anything's gotta be better than staying around here and being stared at.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “I-I don't think I like this, pony,” Warden murmured.

        “Oh hush.”  She managed a slight smirk and trotted briskly along.  “Just enjoy the ride.”

        Warden did his best, for what it was worth.  He gripped her neck and leaned forward from where he was “saddled” on her armored spine.  His limp leg dangled past her wing as the last pony carried him effortlessly towards the elevator shafts that led up to the higher platforms.  “I think more goblins are staring at the two of us now than there were before.”

        Scootaloo's goggles reflected dozens of imp faces gawking at the pair.  She ignored them and marched forward.  “If they are, it's cuz they're jealous.  I mean...” She smiled.  “Who doesn't want a pony ride in this day and age?”

        “Please.  Don't try to sound silly.  It makes me nauseous.”

        “When I was younger than you, Wart, I knew a highly intelligent pony named Twilight Sparkle.  She had this cute little dragon assistant who was a biped like you, however he could hardly make any ground on his two stubby feet.  So, Twilight would constantly be seen trotting around town while giving the dragon a ride on her back.  I swear, he became addicted to horse-back riding.  He wouldn't have it any other way, which is probably why he ended up looking so plump and out-of-shape before the Cataclysm happened.”

        “Uhm...”  Warden squirmed nervously atop her back.  “What's a dragon?”

        Scootaloo merely sighed.  “It's alright.  That was the start of a boring conversation anyways.”  Her ears pricked upon seeing a row of elevator doors stretched ahead.  She aimed them towards the one marked with “20 – 21.”  “Here we are.  See, that didn't take so long, did it?”

        Warden was silent.  He gripped onto Scootaloo harder, all but burying his face into her neck.  Gazing past him, Scootaloo could still see many goblins staring.  No matter how quickly she made for their destination, she couldn't outrun the suspicious gazes of impkind.  She figured Warden realized this truth long before she even bothered to contemplate it, and he trembled from the uncomfortable reality of it all.

        The last pony bit her lip.  She was constantly helpless to settle the branded imp's spirit.  So, with all the vestiges of knowledge that a bleak life in the Wasteland had given her, she settled for something that was more to her taste.  She attempted appealing to his mind.

        “So, tell me about Petra.”

        “Uhm...”  Warden blinked, peering up from her neck.  “We're in Petra.”

        “I can use my eyes, thank you very much,” she muttered, walking up and planting her hoof over a lever.  There was a dull ringing sound, and a dim yellow lantern above the elevator doors flickered to life.  The sounds of metal chains and hydraulics hissed loudly as a car rattled slowly towards them from some distant location within the vertical shaft.  “My ears, however, could use some exercise.  Care to humor me?”

        “I-I don't do comedy...”

        “It's an expression, silly,” Scootaloo muttered.  “If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that I can only pretend to know so much about a culture of Wasteland crea—erm... beings.”

        “What... uhm...”  Warden breathed a little easier as the two waited in isolation before the elevator doors.  “What do you wish to know?”

        “How did Petra get so big?”  Scootaloo murmured as she looked behind them, quietly relieved to see less goblins paying them any mind.  “Can other goblin townships compare?  Is Petra really the biggest of them all?”

        “They're... uh... they're all Petra.”

        Scootaloo blinked from under her goggles.  “I beg your pardon?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Petra isn't just this one city, or any city... really,” Warden explained in a surprisingly calm voice.  The two were alone in the elevator car as the metal platform slowly lifted them up the height of the megastructure and past several golden platforms.  The dismal gray Wasteland stretched from horizon to horizon beyond the metal webbing of the elevator frame's shell.  “Petra is what burns in every imp's soul.  It's what separates us from the lowly creatures of the world that we eat or turn into pets.  It's what inspires us to become bigger than what we actually are, to put our eight fingers to good use and turn the dead world into a complex and gorgeous thing.”

        “I can certainly admire the 'complex' part,” Scootaloo remarked, staring out the elevator frame at the multiple glowing platforms sparkling with life.  Her head then tilted up to gaze at the smog-filled sky and billowing steam beyond.  “As for 'gorgeous', well, to each their own... I suppose...”

        Warden went on.  “If it weren't for Petra, we'd be defenseless little creatures with nothing to show four ourselves,” he said.  “It's tough enough as it is to avoid becoming troll food or servants to ogre soldiers.  Harpies treat us like tiny vermin to snatch in their talons, and diamond dogs would have us all buried back in the ground if they had their way.”

        “What do you mean back in the ground?” Scootaloo exclaimed.

        “It's part of imp legend,” Warden explained.  “All half-lings—goblins, gremlins, and hobs—dwelled underground, long before we were intelligent enough to recognize the fires of Petra burning deep inside us.  It's hard to believe that we once lived like moles beyond the ivory gates of Deep Ash.”

        “'Deep Ash?'” Scootaloo's face briefly scrunched in thought.  She then brightened.  “Oh!  You mean 'Tartarus!'”

        “Huh?”

        “Tartarus: it's where the chaotic legions of Discord had long dwelled in perpetual imprisonment.  The place became home for abominable hermuculi that Discord gave sentience to after tearing apart the minds of past pony species during the Second Age—” She abruptly stopped in the middle of the lecture, biting her tongue.  “Ahem... N-Never mind any of that, Wart.  'Tartarus' is just a pony name for a place, that's all.  I kind of like 'Deep Ash' better, come to think of it.”

        “Yeah, okay...” Warden remarked, his voice sounding distant again.

        Scootaloo was desperate to salvage the conversation.  “So... uhm... there are three kinds of imps?”

        “Hmm?”

        “You mentioned that, beside goblins, there are 'gremlins' and 'hobs',” she said, smiling softly as the platforms of Petra blurred past them in their ascent.  “Tell me about 'em.”

        “You seem to know enough about us,” Warden muttered.  “What's to tell?”

        “I know as much as I can afford to know,” she replied in a droning voice.  “Some of you walk around with guns, others of you fly around with guns.”

        “It's... It's hardly that simple,” Warden said.  “For instance, goblins and gremlins are like water and steam.”

        “Do tell.”

        “Gremlins make up barely a twentieth of the imps who live in this city,” he explained.  “They don't belong to clans like goblins do.  They have families, of course, but they're all engineers first and sons and daughters second.  They gang together in city-wide corporations that the bigger, far more powerful goblin organizations hire for their security and flight skills.”

        “What's with the helmets they wear?”

        “Helmets?”

        “Yeah,” Scootaloo nodded.  “The ones I saw were wearing breathing apparati and visors.  Do they have a problem inhaling the Wasteland air or something?”

        “It's more of a religious thing.”

        “Religious?”

        “Yeah, they believe that Petra is an actual imp, and not a spirit inside all of us.”  Warden managed a slight smile.  “I used to have a gremlin buddy in Strut Twenty.  I asked him how come he never showed his eyes.  He said that it had to do with Petra being an all-seeing entity, and that gremlins weren't worthy of exposing their mouths or eyes nakedly to Petra's glory, or else their souls might fall apart and they'd no longer be vessels for manifesting their engineering skills and stuff.”

        “Heh.  Trippy.”  Scootaloo shifted where she stood.  “And what about hobs?”

        “Hobs just smell bad.”

        “Oh.”  Scootaloo blinked.  “Really?”

        “Yeah,” Warden said, shivering briefly.

        Scootaloo stared blankly into space for a prolonged period of time, then shrugged.  “Well, okay then.”

        “Was there... Was there anything else you wanted to know?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “What's with the white strips?”

        “Uhmmm...”  Warden was distracted.  He sat upright as Scootaloo carried him down the metallic blocks of Strut Twenty.  His aquamarine eyes blinked and finally glanced down at her.  “What white strips?”

        “Those white strips,” Scootaloo said, pausing in mid-trot to point at a random clan's main household.  The entrance to the family's headquarters was framed by a pair of ivory bars, both blemished by splashes of yellow—unlike Geist Blood's black discoloration.  “I've seen them all over the place, even hanging from the necks of—what do you call them?—'prime-bleeders.'”

        “Oh, those.”  Warden took a deep breath, momentarily snapping out of his daze.  “Those are blood bars.”

        “Blood bars?”

        “They're tiny shavings taken from the ivory gates to Deep Ash,” Warden explained.  “Every goblin family has them.”

        “What for?  Cultural heirlooms?”

        “More than that.  They serve a purpose,” he muttered.  “They help determine the different bleeders of imp kind.”

        “Uhm... how?”

        “When a goblin's red blood is applied to the white material, the stain shows up as different color.  Every family's imprint is significant.  For instance, those yellow marks on the house we just passed indicate the family is 'Bright Blood.'  On the other side of the district, there's 'Luck Blood', and their strips are colored blue.  'Wind Blood' is platinum and 'Star Blood' is violet...”

        “And the leaders of the family wear the strips to show their authority, I imagine.”  Scootaloo nodded and smiled.  “It all makes sense.”  She flashed a glance behind her.  “What about 'Stock Blood,' Wart?  What's your family's color?”

        “We... uhm...”  He bit his lip.  “We leave a green imprint, but... but it doesn't matter much...”

        “What do you mean it doesn't matter?  It sounds like goblins are all pretty obsessive about keeping track of whose juices belong to who.”

        “Mmm.  We are, but...”  He sighed.  His next utterance limped out of his lips.  “Nobody in my family is a prime-bleeder.”

        “Meaning...?”

        “We don't have a reason to show off our blood bars.  We serve another family.  We've done so for generations.”

        “Oh.”  Scootaloo blinked under her goggles.  She thought about the lowly miners and laborers she saw in the Geist Blood District of Strut Twenty-Five, such as the seamstress who made her the trunks for Warden.  “I guess that makes a lot of sense.  Not every imp can be in a position of power.”

        “M-Most aren't,” he remarked.  “It's best that way.  Authority belongs to a seldom few who are instilled with the righteous blood to wield it.”  He sighed and leaned forward on her back.  “I certainly could never hold onto that kind of power...”

        Scootaloo made a face upon hearing that.  She suddenly had so many questions, but they were no longer aimed at distracting Warden as they were purposed towards placating some unbeknownst flame of curiosity billowing deep within her.  As she glanced down at the metal street passing beneath her hooves, she realized that her canter had slowed down to a sluggish trot.  Sooner than she had imagined, her conversation with Warden was going to end.  More than that, anything and everything with Warden was going to end, for she was soon to have him delivered to his own household.  They were going to part ways, and something that would never have been possible before... would soon no longer be.

        “Do you see it, Warden?  Do you see your family's home yet?” the last pony asked.  Companionship in the Wasteland was an accidental thing, and this was destined to end just as abruptly.  “We've walked all over the Ceti and Beta Levels and you haven't said a thing.  Should I take us up to the top district or what?”

        “No.  No, only the lead clan of the platform lives on Alpha Level,” Warden said.  He breathed evenly and pointed ahead.  “Go around two more blocks.  My place is up ahead.”

        Scootaloo wasn't sure why these next few words came out of her mouth, but she didn't stop them.  “You sure about that, kid?”

        “Yes.”  He nodded slowly.  “I may have been through some tough times, but I still know my hometown when I see it.”  His voice was nonetheless dry and stale as he added, “I'm more than capable of taking care of myself in this place.”

        “And...”  Scootaloo tilted her head up.  “And your parents as well, right?”

        “Right...” Warden said.  A long breath escaped his lungs.  Scootaloo felt as though his grip on her armored backside was tightening as he spoke, “I-I just hope they're not mad at me.”

        “For what?”

        “For losing track of the business deal on account of the harpies.”

        “Kid...”  Scootaloo suppressed a chuckle.  “You're alive.  A pair of imp parents should be outright ecstatic to know that their very own kid has returned from the depths of the Wasteland in one piece.”  After a bit of silence, she gulped and not-so-smoothely added, “Shouldn't they be?”

        “Yes.  Yes, of course they will be.  I just hope to make it up to them, somehow.”

        “One thing at a time, Wart,” Scootaloo said as she rounded the street corner he had pointed at earlier.  “You've got an injured leg to look at.  I doubt you can 'manifest Petra' much until you and your parents get that checked out first.”

        “Yeah...”

        Scootaloo glanced at the many buildings surrounding them.  Every metal face and aluminum lean-to looked as alien to her as in the rest of Strut Twenty.  “So... uhm... where's your stop?”

        “Right here is just fine, pony.”

        “Well, okay.”  She squatted down so that he could dismount.

        Warden stepped over and leaned against a wall of rusted panels.  He did a double-take at a hoof that was thrusting a pair of silver bars towards him.  “T-Two hundred strips?”  His lips quivered as he gazed up at her.  “You... You can't be serious!”

        “Take them before I think twice about it,” the last pony droned.  Her goggles reflected his gawking face as she all but shoved the bars into his vest.  “Seems to me like you've lost enough as it is.  I know this isn't nearly capable of covering whatever shortage your family's endured since the harpies busted in on you and your shipment.  Still, it was hardly your fault that your leg got busted up the way it did.”

        Warden finally clasped onto the bars.  They weighed heavily in his clawed fingers as he clutched them to his chest and murmured up at her, “It was hardly your fault either, pony.”

        Scootaloo stared at him... beyond him.  She once again smelled the ash of the Wasteland beyond all of the fumes and metal alloys of Petra, as if the dead detritus of Equestria was calling her name.  She remembered how alone she had always been, and how alone she was about to be again.  “That remains to be seen, kid,” Scootaloo spoke.  “I'm here for a reason.  It'll be a long time before I determine for sure just what is or isn't the fault of ponydom.”

        “Where will you go?” he asked, his aquamarine eyes imploring.

        “Mmmm...”  She tightened the leather cowl on her head.  “I figure I'd head up to Strut Thirty-Five and work my way down, looking for a family besides Geist Blood who's willing to help me into the pits for a right price.  It won't be the first time in my life that I've gone door to door.  Heh.”  She smirked.  “How about you, kid?”  Scootaloo glanced at the enrtance to the small, metal building where she just placed him down.  “Gonna go drop the jaws of your parents now or what?”

        “I'm...”  He bit his lip and smiled sweetly.  “I just need a moment first.”

        “Want me to stay with you for when they—?”

        “No!” he exclaimed, then calmed down.  “No, pony.  I... I'm forever grateful for what you've done for me, but my parents...”  He winced.  “They're imps through and through.  If they saw you here... Uhm... that is, if they knew that a 'glue stick' had carried me all the way home...”

        Scootaloo waved a hoof.  “Say no more.  I understand, Warden.”  She smiled gently nevertheless.  “Just tell them that a flock of chickens carried you halfway across the Wasteland.”

        “A flock of what?”  Warden's face twisted grotesquely.  “I don't get it.”

        “That officially makes this the best day ever.”  Scootaloo briefly chuckled.  After a breath, she murmured, “Well, so long, ya little Wart.”

        “Good bye, pony,” he waved with one hand while he clasped the bars to himself with the other.

        Scootaloo very swiftly, very determinedly spun away from him.  Her march towards the far end of the district was brisk.  The darkly-lit buildings of Strut Twenty's Beta Level blurred by her.  When she was halfway to the location of the elevator entrances, the movement stopped.  Scootaloo was standing in place, biting her lower lip.  Against her better nature, she turned and looked back from where she came.

        The distant, green speck of a goblin teenager was still standing in front of his family's house, clutching the silver like it was a piece of something that was lost to both him and Scootaloo.  The commonality between the two souls ended then and there.  With one blink, Scootaloo lost track of him, and the shadowy memory of Warden blended in with the rest of the imp city's noise and commotion.  Imp bodies drifted by.  Gears and pistons clattered ceaselessly.  Smog and steam filled all of the gaps in between, and Scootaloo was once again a lonely pariah piloting her way through the lifeless clouds of it all.

        It was an easier way to live; Scootaloo only had to remember it.  With a blank face, she turned back towards the elevators and marched forward, undaunted.






        “Ta-daaaaa!”  A young Scootaloo held her engineering feat up in two orange hooves.  “What do you think?”

        Rainbow Dash squinted.  She hovered down to the little filly, joining her atop a bridge that crossed a babbling brook just outside Ponyville.  Gently, with a curious gaze, she grasped the item in her forelimbs.  “They're... They're goggles...”

        “No, they're your goggles!”  Scootaloo grinned wide.  “You fly around so fast up there in the sky, I figured you might want something to protect those awesome, hawk-like eyes of yours!”  The filly bit her lip and dug her hooves into the ground.  “Do you like them?”

        “H-Hey!  Not too bad!”  Rainbow Dash held the article up to her blinking eyes, magnifying them.  “I sure as heck could have used these two days ago when the stampede of bunnies rampaged their way across downtown Ponyville!”

        Scootaloo blinked.  “There was a stampede of bunnies?”

        “Oh, you didn't know?!”  Rainbow Dash chanted, “Your flank better calllllllll someponyyyy!  Hahahahah—Ahem.  No, seriously... These are really frickin' sweet.  I... uh... I don't owe your parents a bunch of bits for them or something, do I?”

        “Nope!”  Scootaloo bounced.  “I made 'em!”

        “You made these?”  Rainbow Dash did a double-take.  “No friggin' way!”

        “What's so crazy about that?”  Scootaloo stuck a tongue out.  “I may not have a cutie mark yet, but that doesn't mean I can't have hobbies.”

        “Heh, well if making sweet flying goggles is your 'hobby,' I'm kind of scared to find out what your special talent is.”

        “Maybe it's singing!”

        “Yeah, uh, no.  Ahem.  Let's check these things out, shall we?”  Rainbow Dash straightened her prismatic mane and slid the article over her face.  She grinned with refracted red orbs aimed down at the foal.  “How do I look?”

        “You...”  Scootaloo braved a smile, but then it turned into a slight grimace.  “....y-you look a little bit like a bookworm.”

        “Oh dear Celestia, no!”  Rainbow Dash gave a mock gasp.  “Soon I'm going to start smelling like a newspaper stand and begin lecturing ponies!”

        Scootaloo giggled insanely.

        Rainbow Dash wasn't done.  “Come along, my little dragon assistant! I must wave Galloping Gala tickets in front of my friends' faces and then act all shocked when they nearly fight each other over them!”

        The little filly was practically rolling in the dirt by this point.

        Rainbow Dash smirked.  She slid the goggles up to her forehead, then paused to sniff their canvas straps.  “Say... any reason why they smell like a month-old can of kitchen junk?”

        Scootaloo blushed.  “Uhm...”  She gazed down and played with a few loose pebblestones atop the bridge.  Just two days ago, she had snuck her way into a landfill outside of Ponyville.  It took her several hours of rummaging through piles of filth and junk, but she had found two bottles to slice into convex lenses and a leather belt that could be fashioned into a headstrap.  The actual process of making the goggles took her the better part of a sweating, aching afternoon, especially since she hadn't anticipated how hard it would end up being to find copper rings malleable enough to shape into the frames of the lenses.  “I-I guess I must have walked south of Strawhead's outhouse along the way here,” she managed with a crooked attempt at smiling.

        “Kid, I'm the chief weather flier of Ponyville.  Only I can afford to call Applejack 'Strawhead.'”

        “S-Sorry.”

        “Don't be sorry.  I just don't want to see your face turning inside out from Kicks McGee.”

        “Who?”

        “Never mind,” Rainbow Dash briefly groaned, then smiled again as she tightened the strap on the goggles and proudly posed in mid-air with them.  “I totally dig these.  Thanks again, kiddo.”

        “You're always trying to do the impossible, Rainbow Dash.”  Scootaloo's tail flicked happily as she sat on her haunches and murmured, “I just thought you deserved to wear something that might make it easier to do.”

        “Lemme level with ya, pipsqueak.”  Rainbow Dash touched down beside her and rested a hoof on Scootaloo's shoulder.  “Nothing can make doing the impossible easy.”

        “No?”  Scootaloo asked, her violet eyes blinking sadly.

        “More than anything, it's a windy path you gotta fly by your lonesome.”  Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes glinted in the sunlight as she smirked.  “But even though you can't make impossible stuff any easier, you sure as heck can make it cooler.”  She winked and tapped the front of the goggles.  “Looks like I owe that to you, squirt.”

        Scootaloo beamed.  “I-I'm glad that I could help!”

        “Eh, enough talk,” Rainbow Dash yawned, stretched her back, and grinned.  “Wanna watch me nearly kill myself doing the Buccaneer Blitz?”

        “Do I?!” Scootaloo gasped wide.

        “Heheh...”  Rainbow Dash's ruby eyes lit up as she flew like a reverse lightning bolt into the air.  “Follow me, kid, and you'll be going places.”

        “Heeheehee... Sure thing!” the tiny foal scampered after the blue blur.  In a single instant, Scootaloo's entire week had been made.




        “You're going places, pony.”

        Scootaloo paused in her steps, blinking.  She gazed up from the metal floor of Strut Thirty-Five, Level Beta of Petra.  The last pony was only residually aware of the time and distance that had gone by.  Now she was nearly at the doorstep to the “Wind Blood” clan, and all she knew was that a young goblinette with blue braids was standing directly in her path.

        “I beg your pardon?” Scootaloo grunted.  She had left her gentle voice back in Strut Twenty with Warden.

        “I said that you're going places,” Rai remarked.  She had a heavy utility belt strapped around her waist and several glittering tools filling the multiplicitous pockets of her vest.  A large wrench hung from her side, jointed in many places as if it could change shape with the flick of a wrist.  It somehow looked familiar to Scootaloo, but the female imp's voice snapped her out of staring at the device.  “But you don't know how to get there, pony.”  Rai took a few quiet steps towards her, darting several looks over her shoulder in a noticeably paranoid fashion.  “The right kind of goblins can help you.  But you're not about to go see them.  The prime-bleeder of Wind Blood is as self-centered as the Geist-Bleeders' leader.  He will hardly lend you a hand, much less the generous warmth of Petra to do anything else for that matter.”

        “Fascinating words of advice,” Scootaloo droned.  “You must be an expert on inter-imp relations.”

        “Something like that.  Look...” Rai groaned and shuffled forward.  “Come.  Follow me.  My boss would like to speak with you, but she's got this thing about hanging out in the shadows.  You see, we've been following you for a while now—”

        “Have you?” Scootaloo's eyebrow raised above her goggles in a bored fashion.

        “Yes.  And we can tell you're determined to get somewhere.  But the determination of a glue sti—of a pony can only come across as threatening to the manifesters of Petra.  However, if you had some help...”

        “For how much silver?  Hmm?”

        Rai frowned.  “It's not about that!”

        “I'm sure it isn't.”  The last pony could easily stare down this goblin teenager.  She was only a few years older and a few more centimeters taller than Warden.  “Perhaps it's about finding newer pockets of sky marble that a 'sky stealer' such as myself would know about.  Or maybe your clan is in desperate need of someone with an airship who can deliver resources for you.”

        “Nnngh...” Rai sneered, her razor sharp teeth showing.  “For crying out loud, I only want to make a business proposition!  Seriously, were all ponies so friggin' temperamental?!”

        “Only the awesome ones,” Scootaloo muttered.  She glanced suddenly at a “Desperadoes” poster hanging on a street corner beyond them both.  It amazed her that even ten levels above where Geist Blood was situated, the rogues' notoriety had spread.  Among the four shadowy shapes, there was the illustration of a thin and petite goblin.  Scootaloo's gaze then returned to Rai's thin and petite figure.  With a sigh, she said, “Look, whatever it is that you're asking me to do, I think it's best in our mutual interest that we part ways.”

        “You really suck at embracing opportunities when they're given to you, huh?”

        “About as much as you do at taking a hint.”  Scootaloo shoved a gasping Rai up against the nearest lamppost, pressing into her with a metal hoof.  “Back off,” she sneered into her face, “Or I'll foricbly test your juices on the blood bars of this district and find out just which platform I should toss you at.”  Her nostrils flared in Rai's eyes.  “That 'temperamental' enough for you?”

        “You... Y-You...”  Rai's youth and inexperience was showing.  In spite of her fitfulness, she gulped hard and summoned a brave frown.  “You're full of crap, pony.  I'm not trying to shoot you in the back like one of Lady Ryst's thugs.  If you gutted me here in the middle of Wind Blood's district, someone would see and every goblin would be happy to have an excuse to rip the flanks off your bones.”

        “So you're a smart imp!  Good.”  Scootaloo released her hoof and Rai slumped down to the metal street beneath her.  “Then be one, and stop following me.  Or else.”  Scootaloo trotted towards the ramp leading to Strut Thirty-Five's Alpha Level.

        “Hckkt...” Rai rubbed her neck and stood up, her brow furrowed.  “Or else what?”

        “I've got wings, and you don't.”  Scootaloo muttered without looking back.  “Think about that, then think about how friggin' high we are right now.”

        “Hrmmph...” Rai's eight fingers formed into fists as she stormed off in the opposite direction.  “Friggin' waste of time,” she muttered to herself as she disappeared into the shadows of the bustling district.  “Bard totally owes me ten strips.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo entered the dark alcove of the ramp.  Before she could begin her ascent, a voice gently rolled her way.

        “I must apologize for the actions of my apprentice.”

        Scootaloo's horseshoes scraped to a stop.  Her heart was beating, for the voice was no less than a meter behind her.  In the space of a blink, a figure had snuck up on the last pony.  She spun and reached back for her copper rifle.

        She stopped entirely upon seeing a pair of ruby eyes peering at her from the darkness.

        “She's young, wreckless, and enthusiastic, as I'm sure you and I once were,” the figure murmured.  The words were tempered by as much icy seriousness as Scootaloo's own voice throughout the years, so that the twitching pegasus briefly wondered whether she had heard the utterance or had thought it.  “However, she doesn't know suffering.  Not like we do.”  The ruby eyes narrowed, hardened, like they were reflecting the fall of Cloudsdale.  “I won't tolerate anyone treating her roughly, two legs or four.  She is... precious to me.  You should know that it's hard to afford precious things in the Wasteland.”

        “What...?”  Scootaloo's goggles struggled to stay atop a contorted face.  She cleared her throat and lowered her hoof from the rifle-holster in her saddlebag.  With a calm breath, she asked, “Who are you?”

        Vaughan gently walked out of the shadows, her hair as red as a sky exploding with moon shards.  In the dim light of distant lanterns, her ruby eyes were no longer striking.  She was one with the metallic debris of the place. She only exposed herself to Scootaloo because she chose to.

        “I think I've made it clear,” Vaughan said.  “I'm the mentor to Rai, the goblin who just rudely interrupted you a moment ago.  Though, to make things clearer, it was my idea that we run into you.  Rai, unfortunately, took the idea quite literally.  I do hope you forgive me for that.  I take full responsibility.”

        Scootaloo stared curiously at her.  “Alright...” She murmured in a stretched voice.  “You're forgiven.”

        Vaughan paced slowly around the last pony.  “Something bothering you?”

        “Yeah.  I'm not used to a goblin apologizing to me—or any other being for that matter.”  Scootaloo's face tightened into a suspicious frown.  “It's rarely unaccompanied by bullcrap.”

        “Hmmph...”  Vaughan smiled, reintroducing light into the shadows of the alcove.  “I like the way you talk.  I even heard you with Rai.  Your words are equally full of eloquence and brutishness.  I suppose it's fitting, what with you being a repository of your kind's legacy and such.”

        “I don't know what you've heard or what you think you've heard,” Scootaloo muttered, eying the pacing goblinette wearily.  “I'm just here to conduct business with the leading clans of this place.  I'm not here to assist the terrorists of Petra.”

        “Terrorists?”

        Scootaloo sighed.  “Look.  I'm really sick to death of pretense.  Yesterday, I did something that was a bit too gracious for my own good, and now I have Sergeant Redhead talking to me from the shadows.  You think I'm stupid?  Whatever it is you 'Desperadoes' want, I can't and won't provide you with it.  I'm a pony.  There's only so little I can get away with in a city full of goblins.  So... just quit while you're ahead, okay?  I have enough in my trough as it is.”

        Scootaloo turned around and trotted firmly up the the ramp.

        “You must have loved her very dearly.”

        “Mmmf... Who?” Scootaloo grunted.

        “The blue pegasus you're looking for, of course.”

        Scootaloo once more came to an abrupt stop.  This time, she didn't say anything.  She stood in the shadows, her face quivering upon the precipice of a grimace.  Finally, she turned around and raised her goggles to squint incredulously at the goblin.

        Vaughan calmly drank those eyes in.  She spoke, “Surely it wasn't your feather I saw tied around your ear yesterday after Ryst's goon nearly shot your skull off.”

        Scootaloo raised a hoof to her cowled head.  Her scarlet eyes darted from side to side in a sudden nervousness.  Then her jaw tightened as she squinted at the stranger.  “It was you who gave me the warning yesterday.  It was your voice that shouted.”

        “I could very well have taken the shot for you, but somehow I knew that you were more than capable of punishing Darper for his transgressions on your own,” Vaughan said.  “Besides, I've been trying to set an example for Rai about maintaining tactical invisibility.  If anything, the event proved that you're as resourceful as I am, if not more so than myself.”

        “How did you know...?”

        Vaughan took a breath and pushed some red bangs out from her forehead.  “It's my business to make judgement calls about other creatures.  As you can suspect, it only works some of the time—”

        “No.  I...”  Scootaloo winced, wrestled with the words, then tossed them out, “How did you know that the feather belonged to a pegasus?”  She gulped.  “And a female one at that?”

        “You have a look that I've seen before,” Vaughan said, her brown features calm and meditative.  “Because I've worn it before.  You look like you've lost a sister.”

        Scootaloo stared at her.  Slowly, like a thawing glacier, she formed another frown, stronger this time.  “You're right.  Your judgment only works some of the time.”

        “So does your honesty,” Vaughan returned.  “Out-bleeders come here every stormfront for silver, for steam, and for blood.  All of them have the same face, and none of them look like yours.”

        “Perhaps because none of them were friggin' ponies.”

        “Or perhaps because none of them were looking for something that was truly special, something that the families running this place have long forgotten about.”  Vaughan took a few bold steps towards Scootaloo, her ruby eyes haunting and steady, as if she was riding a cloud.  “Imps live high above the ruptured Earth of this world, pony.  They've distanced themselves from the wounds that the Dimming has caused.  When their loved ones die, they either get cremated, tossed over the side, or fed to the vultures of the lower platforms.  There's not been a soul in Petra over the last two decades who understands what it means to bury a loved one... or to have to dig her back up.”  She shuffled to a stop.  “But you're here, aren't you?  What else would a pegasus be on the edge of her kind's pilfered grave for?”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She avoided Vaughan's gaze and glared towards the shadows, where the colors assaulting her mind could easily escape.  “I already told you.  I don't need any of your Desperadoes' help.”

        “But we need yours.”

        Scootaloo practically growled at her.  “Why?”

        “We're here to salvage lives from the city before it makes a grave for them too,” Vaughan said.  “This city is heartless, cold, and unforgiving.  It is not so much a monument to industrious souls as it is a machine that consumes them, makes them do more and more despicable things to each other for the sake of burning steam and earning silver.  Twenty years ago, no goblins would ever enslave one another.  Such was a hideous practice that only ogres—the oppressors of half-lings—forced upon all impkind.  Here we are now, after so many shackled souls have watched their dreams join the ashes of the Wasteland, and what true profit is there?”

        “You don't sound like a goblin.”

        “Would you rather I sound like a pony?”  Vaughan raised an eyebrow.  “I was friends with some, you know, back when there was sunlight.  Unicorns, earth ponies, pegasi... even the lesser known species of the ocean.  They were delightful creatures.  Most goblins think they dominated this world.  I happen to know that ponies only saw to the glorification of it.  When the Dimming destroyed everything, it could only mean that Equestrian souls no longer had the capacity to protect it anymore.  That's a tragedy, no matter how creatures of today try to look at it.  We live in a tragic world, pony, and I am trying to save that which is most precious in it, that which is left to be worth saving.  I get the feeling that you are too.  Now...”  She narrowed her eyes, and her voice was briefly sharp.  “Tell me that I'm wrong.”

        “I don't need to prove anything to you,” Scootaloo muttered.

        “But you do have to prove something, don't you?” Vaughan paced back so that she stood once more upon the edge of the shadows.  “It's awfully risky for a pegasus like yourself to have trekked so deep into the territory of creatures that predominantly despise you.”

        “And you're the exception, huh?”  Scootaloo gave her a bitter smirk.  “You're supposed to be my knight in shining armor.”

        “As hyperbolic as that sounds, I wouldn't deny it.”  Vaughan returned a far more genuine smile, then said, “You're courageous, pony.  But if you poke too far into imp business, you'll have them poking back... with knives.  On the other hand, my team and I may be able to offer you a chance that none of those insufferable prime-bleeders can bother giving you.”

        “I know a thing or two about goblin daggers,” Scootaloo said with an icy chill.  Her blank flank stirred from underneath the leather armor as she turned away from Vaughan.  “If I wasn't aware of the risk, I wouldn't have come all this way.  But it doesn't matter.  I know what I'm doing, and I really can't afford to let myself get distracted when I'm so close to... to getting whom I flew here for.”

        “And I can't force you to take the chance.  I understand completely,” Vaughan said, nodding.  “I just wonder...”  She stepped back into the shadows, glancing up at where Scootaloo's cap obscured a tiny blue feather underneath.  “Would she have wanted you to go through all the trouble of risking your neck when someone gave you a real opportunity?  I imagined that she cared for you just as much...”

        “Nnnngh...” Scootaloo hissed and spun with her teeth gnashing.  “Don't pretend that you know anything about—!”  She stopped, blinking.

        Vaughan was gone.

        Alone once more with the shadows, Scootaloo sighed and sluggishly resumed her trot uphill.  “For once... I friggin' swear...”  She muttered to herself.  “I want to have a conversation that's short and to the point.”






        “No way in dimming's blight, you pathetic glue stick!”  An imp stood in front of a building's entrance marked with platinum-colored strips.  He yelled and shook a rusted canteen in the last pony's face.  “You're not having an audience with the prime-bleeder!  I'm telling you now and for good—Wind Blood doesn't want to do any business with sky stealing Wasteland filth like you!”

        “But if you would just let me explain—” Scootaloo began, but was swiftly finished when the imp doused the contents of his canteen into her face.  Soaked, her goggles dripping with dirty water, she let out a long and painful sigh.

        “You will explain nothing!”  The imp spat and shouted under the noise of dozens of smokestacks churning steam into the Wasteland sky above Strut Thirty-Five.  “You will leave!  Now!  Geist Blood warned us about you!  You're not stealing anything from the pits!  Not if us Wind-Bleeders have anything to do with it!”

        “I have silver and I am willing to trade—”

        “Leave!”

        Several hissing shouts and angry yells filled the air.  Turning around, Scootaloo marched through a frowning sea of goblins in white vests.  The many gang members gestured angrily and threatened her with a mighty show of their steam rifles and sharp knives.  She eventually made for the elevator shafts, knowing they would take her down to the next strut below...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “No!” A goblin raised his goggles from over his pale eyes and frowned at her inside a hangar of Strut Thirty-Four.  “Out of the question!  Those pits don't belong to you!  The steam that comes out of the western mines is the very backbone of Petra!”

        “I'm not after the steam,” Scootaloo groaned, feeling crowded by two goblin thugs armed with rifle pistols on either side of her.  “There's just one inconsequential thing that I need to grab from underground.  I promise that I won't friggin' touch your precious mines—”

        “It's enough to have to be reminded that the priceless marble ever once was hoarded by ponies!”  The prime-bleeder snarled and aimed a wrench at her from where he squatted besides a half-constructed hovercraft.  “I won't give into your deceit!  I won't let you anywhere near that stuff!  It's goblin property now!  Finders-keepers!”

        “Have you heard a single word that I just said—?!”

        “Matthais of Geist Blood told me enough.”  He pivoted his gaze towards the two guards.  “Drag her out of here already!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “I was barely twelve winters old when the Dimming happened.”  A scarred goblin frowned across a metal table at Scootaloo.  His gnarled fingers were folded together as his voice lisped across the dim, smoky interior of a building in Strut Thirty-Three.  “All my life, pegasi like you kept all the world's resources to themselves.  They kept their world pretty and clean while they tossed ugly cyclones our way.  My forefathers encountered so many devastating tornadoes and storms that I'm lucky that I was even born.  Then the world turned to ash from underneath me—the world that your kind was dominating.  And now you come here, asking for us to do you favors?”

        Scootaloo leaned forward and waved one forelimb.  “Look, we can discuss the philosophy and politics of the Cataclysm another time.  I can tell that you don't care much about ponydom.  But do you care about silver?  I'm willing to pay handsomely for a single trip to the pits.  Nothing else—”

        “Unless you're willing to pay with enough pony blood to account for all of my dead and impoverished ancestors, the answer is 'no'.”

        “Nnngh...” Scootaloo rolled her scarlet eyes.  “Oh for the love of Celestia—”

        “No!”  The scarred imp frowned and pointed.  “Do not invoke the name of your merciless gods here, glue stick.  Matthais warned me about you.  You should praise Petra I didn't follow my first impulse and ordered

        Scootaloo sighed and loosened her muscles to allow the angry thugs to drag her out of the office.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~



        “I'll throw in several moonrocks,” Scootaloo said.  “Plus several iron rivets, and—of course—the silver payment I promised as soon as I came here.”

        An elder imp with wrinkled skin and a gray mat of hair leaned forward in his metal chair.  His body shook and his lips quivered as he stared at the last pony with a scrunched face of confusion.  “Eh?  What was that?”

        Scootaloo raised her voice.  “I said, I'll throw in several moonrocks and—”

        “Shuttlecocks?!  What?!” the elder trembled, his pointed ears perpetually drooped.

        A bodyguard cleared his voice and leaned over, whispering into the elder's ear.

        “Huh?!  Moonrocks?!”  The elder made a face, frowning up at his young subordinate.  “What, are we battling harpies again?  Arm the catapults!”

        “No, it's part of the payment!” Scootaloo practically shouted.  “Along with the silver!  Remember?!”  She raised her goggles from her eyes and used her entire face to accentuate the words coming out of her mouth.  “So that I could get to visit the mining pits?!”

        “Mining pits?!  Yes, we have those!  What do you want with them?!”

        “I need to get inside to excavate something that I left—”

        “Left?!  Lady, if you want to find the lavatories, take a right!”

        The bodyguard leaned in and muttered once more in the elder's trembling ear.

        “What?!”  The gray imp's eyes widened in shock.  “A pony?!  Where?”

        “Right here,” Scootaloo snarled.

        The elder spat.  “Bah!”  He waved a wrinkly hand of claws.  “Be gone, Glue Stick!  We don't cater to your kind in... in... Mud Blood?”

        The bodyguard whispered again.

        “Moth Blood!  Us Moth-Bleeders don't want no sky stealers!  Now leave my platform before I have you thrown out in pieces!”

        Scootaloo was already trotting away, groaning to herself.  “I should have just told him I was a griffon...”

        “Confound it!  It's too dark!  When's the sun coming back up already?!”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “Let me get this straight...” An old, muscular goblin with long blonde threads was leaning forward against his desk.  He wore a blood bar splashed with a violet color that matched his purple eyes.  “You want to be allowed into the pits—but you don't want to touch any of the sky marble?  You must understand how hard that it is for me to swallow something like that—”

        Scootaloo took one long breath and emotionlessly droned, “Because I'm a good-for-nothing sky-stealing glue stick whose dead ancestors robbed from your forefathers century after century and you've heard enough rampant gossip from Matthais of Geist Blood to believe that I'm not to be trusted and there's no way in 'the Dimming's blight' that I should be given the right to go prancing about and tossing magical pony dust all over your precious mines.  Is that what you were about to say?”

        The goblin prime-bleeder blinked.  “I... uhm...”

        “Just give it to me straight.”  Scootaloo leaned forward with a chiseled frown.  “Do you want the silver or not?  Cuz that's what this all should be about and nothing else.  So what if I'm a pony?  So what if Matthais and I have bad blood?  The way I see it, all of that is neither here nor there.  I just want to make a short visit into the pits.  It's not the steam that I'm after.  If you must know, I'm trying to excavate the remains of a very dear friend of mine.  She and I are perfectly harmless to you, dead or alive or both.  I don't even have to spend more than an hour inside the pits.  Heck, I know where to go and what to do.  I may not even be in there for more than fifteen minutes.  I'm not trying to throw my weight around goblin business.  I'm in... I'm out... Boom.  I'm gone from your hair.  So, do you want the silver or not?”

        The goblin's violet eyes narrowed.  “All my life, I've never met a pony.  All this time, I assumed your kind to be a haughty, selfish, arrogant race.  But right now, you're casting me a different picture.  If I was to make a guess, I'd say that you were desperate, because this is coming very close to begging.”

        “Heh...”  Scootaloo smirked bitterly, her eyes flaring.  “Like a slave, right?”

        The goblin's eyes narrowed.

        “Yeah.  Thanks but no thanks.”  Scootaloo stood up straight and made for the door to the office.  “Save your breath.  I've got thirty more struts to juggle before I give up on this Celestia-forsaken quest of mine.”

        “Pony, wait,” the voice behind Scootaloo entreated her, the first utterance of such a kind since she began her door-to-door trek.  She turned around to see him holding his arm out in a sincere gesture.  He stared back at her, and then glanced at his four guards lining the exit of the room.  “Leave us.”

        The thugs in matching violet armbands gawked at him.  They exchanged confused looks, shifting nervously.

        “What, are you half-lings deaf?!” The prime-bleeder rose out of his seat and shook a fist.  “I gave you a command, didn't I?!  Now leave us!  I'll call if I need something!”

        Reluctantly, the four armed imps left the room, closing the door to the office behind them.  The last pony was soon alone with the prime-bleeder and the unnerving hiss of steam pipes beyond the office's metal bulkheads.

        She turned to squint at him from underneath her raised goggles.  “Hadron of... Star Blood, was it?  Have I struck a nerve?  A good nerve?”

        “You've struck something, alright,” Hadron muttered, shuffling towards her with a suspicious glare.  “Now that we're alone, I want you to tell me who it is.”

        Scootaloo blinked awkwardly.  “Who what is?”

        “The Mountain Ogres?  The Fire Ogres?”  Hadron frowned, standing eye-to-eye with her.  “The Harpy Pirates?  The Dirigible Dogs?  The Golden Gang?!  Who?!”

        “I think I made myself clear...”  Scootaloo eyed him warily, pacing at a cautious distance.  “I came to request safe passage into the mines in exchange for silver.  I can't venture there alone without being threatened by hovering gremlins, angry goblins, smelly hobs, or Epona-knows-what.”  She paused in her shuffling to give him a piercing gaze.  “What?  Are you expecting someone from the outside to be stirring up some nasty business?”

        “I've been manifesting Petra for a long time, pony,” Hadron said.  “During that time, Matthais has been a long time business partner.”  He sighed suddenly, then muttered, “For better or for worse.”

        Scootaloo raised an eyebrow at that.

        Hadron paced away from her, standing before a glass-encased balcony overlooking a busy warehouse full of giant containers of molten metal.  Below, goblins were operating hydraulic limbs that dipped columns of pilfered sky marble into the artificial lava, where several pipes filtered the breakdown of steam into storage tanks.

        “He wasn't always as powerful as he is today,” Hadron muttered.  “Matthais' blood wasn't always his own.  He worked in patronage to another prime-bleeder.  Only in the last decade and a half has he come out on his own.  It was a remarkably rapid ascension, if you ask me.  I'm not the only goblin who thinks so.”

        “None of that surprises me.”

        Hadron glanced curiously back at her.

        “What I mean to say is, I ran into him a long, long time ago.  Right after... the Dimming, as a matter of fact.”  She trotted up to Hadron's side, overlooking Star Blood's extraction of steam from sky marble.  “He was nothing more than an angry servant at the time.”

        “Well, that might possibly explain it,” Hadron said.  He was exhaling sharply, as if relieving a great deal of tension.

        “Explain what?”

        “If there's anything about Matthais that impresses me, it's how calm he is while under pressure.”  Hadron murmured, staring down at his clan's operations.  “Barely ten hours ago, Lady Ryst's goon squad comes marching by my platform, delivering a letter signed in the juices of the prime Geist-Bleeder.  Matthais had the same communication sent to all of the upper and lower platforms.  He told us to be on the look-out for a rogue sky stealer attempting to deceive her way into the mines.  He told us that your plans were 'nefarious' and that you 'weren't to be trusted.'”

        “Boy, does that sound familiar,” Scootaloo muttered.  “I spent the last hour and a half being told the same thing by several prime-bleeders and their representatives above this platform...”  She glanced aside at him.  “Though they hardly used same polite words you're using.”

        Hadron turned to look at her.  “I've never known Matthais to have a personal grudge.”

        “Believe it.”  Scootaloo muttered.  “The Wasteland is a huge, festering butthole... and that imp is its mascot.”  She shifted a bit where she stood.  “Mmm... no offense to your business relations.”

        “Hmmph...” Hadron's eyes looked tired.  “None taken.”  He strolled slowly towards his desk, all the while murmuring, “I still find it hard to believe that all you want from the pits is something of a personal effect.  It's been a long time since I've had an out-bleeder march up to my manor and demand for something other than silver or steam.”

        “Well, I hope that I'm a pleasant surprise,” the last pony replied.

        “You're certainly confusing, if nothing else.”  He leaned back against his desk, folded his arms, and stared fixedly at her.  “The most realistic picture I can make is that you're lying, and Matthais has seen underneath it.”

        “I'm not nearly as insulted as I am intrigued,” Scootaloo droned, pacing back towards him.  “Please, do continue.”

        “To have angered Matthais so much, it seems more appropriate for you to be a threat from an outside source.”  His purple eyes narrowed on her.  “If that was the case—and if you indeed worked for a competing interest in goblin profit, such as the ogre factions from the Valley of Jewels—then it would explain why you are here in Petra causing such a stir, especially now when the... balance of power is in such flux.”

        Scootaloo blinked in surprise from that.  “It's been in flux?  Since when?”

        “Hmmph... Since the fall of the House of Amber, of course.”

        “House of who?”

        Hadron took a deep breath.  “Now I know you're either playing stupid, or you've been living all your days inside a zeppelin.”

        “Would you feel threatened if I told you it was a combination of both?” Scootaloo said.

        Hadron actually smiled at that.  He shifted his weight against the desk and said, “My longest and most trusted business partner, Allon of Amber Blood, died suddenly... about five and a half months ago.  He and I were close allies. We manifested Petra together, back in a day when this landscape was flat and devoid of minerals.  With the additional help of Wind Blood and Moth Blood, we dragged sky marble from the pits and built steam forges out of barren rock.  We didn't need slavery or intimidation or guns to get the job done.  We simply trusted in each other.  We were blood brothers.”

        “I'm sorry to hear of his loss,” Scootaloo said in a neutral tone.  “It sounds like he was quite special to you.”

        “Not just to me, pony,” Hadron said.  “Allon was the most important goblin in Petra, for his family was the wealthiest.  Amber Blood was reverred among all the platforms, and my clan—the Star-Bleeders—served in patronage to him.  We garnered enough profit and processed enough steam to be seen as a separate power, but our families had always been joined at the hip.  Because of that, Star Blood had long enjoyed a high seat in the ranks of Petra... but that all changed.”

        “Allon of Amber Blood died,” Scootaloo remarked with a nod.

        “Not just him.”

        “Oh?”

        “It was a tragedy of unprecedented magnitude,” Hadron explained, his voice suddenly cold and distant as his eyes fell to the decrepit floor of the office.  “Not only did he die, but so did his wife, his children, his adopted offspring, his best servants and most trusted advisors.  In one single, horrible stormfront, all of them perished at once.  The mightiest family in all of Petra was suddenly no more.”

        “That's... kind of hard to believe,” Scootaloo remarked.  “I've been all over this city in the past thirty-six hours.  I imagined I would have seen signs of such a tragedy.  Just what platform did they live on?”

        Hadron calmly uttered, “Strut Thirty-Six.”

        “But...”  Scootaloo made a face.  “There are only thirty-five platforms.”

        The prime-bleeder merely gazed at her.

        Scootaloo blinked, her scarlet eyes widening.  “It fell?”

        “More like shattered... and then fell,” Hadron said coldly.  “And all goblins who were on it were whisked away by the winds of the stormfront that claimed it, their broken bodies scattered across the desolate Wasteland around Petra.”

        “I hate to sound unfeeling, but I'm rather surprised that such a thing hadn't happened before.”

        “And why is that?”  Hadron muttered.  He leaned away from his desk and paced towards her.  “Goblin engineering is the best exercise of architectural prowess in the whole ravaged world.  I dare say it rivals the legend of 'mountain sheep' that I've long been told about...”

        “Mountain rams.  But I get it,” Scootaloo nodded, thinking aloud.  “For a platform of Petra to just fall down overnight...it sounds totally kaizo—er... crazy.”  She blinked knowingly, then glanced up at him.  “I'm guessing that you think it wasn't an accident.”

        “Amber Blood perished in a virtual blink,” Hadron exclaimed, gesturing with a clawed hand for emphasis.  “The economic gouge made in the infrastructure of this city was incalculably huge.  Dozens of families that served Allon's clan for decades were suddenly robbed of resources.  Entire organizations collapsed.  Poverty struck more than two-thirds of the remaining platforms.  In desperation and in panic, several of the larger families that still retained power went to extreme lengths to preserve their status.  That is when the slave gangs came into being.  The family council enacted a new measure—one that I voted strongly against, if you must know.  Regardless, the result of this measure was a new and pathetic reliance on forced labor.  The joint edict defined broke and silver-less families as no-bleeders, and any family who got to them first could lay claim to their bodies.  The technicality of the measure claimed that the no-bleeders are bound into indentured servitude, but reality paints a different tale.  Petra is now a machine fueled by slavery, and in the midst of this despicable turn of events, one family has come out on top.”

        Scootaloo stared at him.  Suddenly, the ears under her cow drooped in realization.  “Geist Blood,” she uttered.

        Hadron nodded.  “Geist Blood now controls two-thirds of the pits.  In a matter of years, Matthais will be running this entire city, and the bitter irony is that it won't be by the majority's choice.  One by one, the platforms are falling out from the control of their respective prime-bleeders.  Just ten stormfronts ago, Jax of Snow Blood could no longer afford the resources to run his factories.  He had to sell out most if not all of his property, and all of the families that worked for him fell into poverty.  Would you like to know how many of those honorable, defenseless goblins became fodder for the slave-grabbing families still in power alongside Geist Blood?”

        Scootaloo could only frown at the thought of that.

        Hadron continued, “And it's not like they had any choice.  If they fled to the Wasteland, they'd become victims to harpies, trolls, or ogres.  If they fought against the upper families' slave gangs, they'd be executed in the street and have their children stolen from them.”

        Scootaloo had no way to hide it.  She shuddered at that last utterance.  The last pony briefly turned away from him and ran a hoof over her cowled head.  “I... I imagine some of them fight the likes of Geist Blood, regardless.”

        “Oh, they do.  But they don't last very long.”  Hadron said.  “The ones who are lucky make it to the townships below Petra, where the likes of Matthais have very little jurisdiction.  The rest either fall into slavery, starvation, or worse.  And then there are few—very, seldom few—who evade the powers that be.  Those goblins, pony, are imps of legend and infamy.”

        “The Desperadoes...”

        “So you have been around,” Hadron remarked with a slight smirk.  “Still, I doubt that such outstanding rogues will exist for long.  Sooner than later, Geist Blood and the other families will track them down, and the power of the enslavers shall be absolute once again.”  His nostrils flared as he turned to the far wall, folding his arms.  “It's a reality I have to consider very dearly.”



        “Star Blood... my family...” He sighed, then continued in a melancholic voice, “We can barely hold onto our places in the pits.  With each passing stormfront, we lose more and more silver.  None of the other families are supporting us, no matter what our position used to be... or how strong our alliance was to Amber Blood.”  He glanced forlornly over his shoulder.  “I told you that I voted against the measure of the grand family council.  I opposed the slavery edict.  It... was not a popular decision on my clan’s part.  There are even those on my own platform that would want to see me hanged for it.  In a state of financial desperation, goblin morality has a bitter flavor as soon as it's tested against the sweet taste of opportunity.”

        “Do you regret making that decision?”

        “Not one bit, pony.”  Hadron frowned, turning once more to face her.  “I know that it's what Allon would have done.  Amber Blood stood for more than the manifestation of Petra.  His family upheld the idea of common decency in a land where the Wasteland and all of its ugliness constantly threatened to encroach upon our brilliant township.”

        “But your family's suffering now.  You're losing money.”

        “And soon enough—sooner than I think—I will be losing far more than silver,” Hadron muttered in a defeated voice.  “Do not think that I cherish the fate that's in store for Star Blood.  It may be fifty stormfronts.  It may be five.  But soon, all that I have will belong to Geist Blood and those like him.”

        “Why not get out while you can?”  Scootaloo remarked.  “Make an exodus.  Head for higher ground—I dunno, just get away from it all!”

        “It's far too late for salvaging anything.  If I made the entire platform's population relocate now, the result would be several helpless imps falling into poverty and disarray.  I would only have forced the inevitable to happen early.”  Hadron's clawed fingers clenched into angry fists.  “Still... I almost would rather have us all suffer in the Wasteland than fall prey here.”

        “What's the difference, if you don't mind me asking?”

        “Out there...” He pointed beyond the metal walls of the office, frowning.  “We'd likely be consumed by trolls, maybe even thrown back into the same shackles that ogres had our ancestors in.  Still, it would be a much better fate than what awaits us here.  At least in the Wasteland, we'd know who our enemy was—who was the indeed out-bleeder filth.  Here, in Petra, in the glory of our burning hearts, there is no longer trust.  Our own kind has turned on itself.  There's no blood left in the city that's clean anymore.”  He sighed long and hard.  “When Amber Blood perished, so did Petra's hope.  Maybe... Maybe now you understand why I was so insistent that my initial presumption of your motivations was true...”

        Scootaloo stared at him for a space in time.  With a knowing breath, she replied, “I'm sorry, Hadron.  I'm sorry that I'm not affiliated with some outside source that could explain how this all began.  I must also apologize... because I am what I am.  I'm just a pony coming here to find something she left in the pits ages ago.  I'm not here to bring the promise of outside help.”

        “I was silly to think that you were a hint of any special truth,” Hadron muttered, glancing down briefly at his own feet.  “Especially since I know enough on my own as it is.”

        Scootaloo squinted at him.  “How do you mean?”

        “Tell me, pony, did you see the ruins of Strut Thirty-Six when you first arrived here?”

        “I saw nothing out of the ordinary,” Scootaloo said, shaking her head.  “Then again, I haven't seen this place in years, and everything's changed so drastically.  I really don't have a proper lay of the land.”

        “Well, the collapse of Amber Blood's strut was once more than obvious,” Hadron stated.  “Down below, on the fringes of Undersmoke, there was once massive wreckage... that is—of course—until a unified group of families volunteered to salvage the metals and resources from the debris and reintigrate it all back into the megastructure.”  He leaned forward with an emphatic expression.  “Would you like to know who led that very same salvage effort?”

        Scootaloo's scarlet eyes widened.  “You've gotta be friggin' kidding me...”

        Hadron shook his head.  He said, “Geist-Bleeders have since donned the image of progressive reconstructionists.  Matthais has maintained the face of an economic savior, and his use of slavery—however radical—is but a means to an end of stabilizing his vision of a newer, stronger, far more powerful city.  It's a very enticing idea, but it has cost the liberty of countless families... just as I suspect it has cost the lives of Amber Blood.”

        “You... You think Matthais murdered Allon and his clan?”

        “I wouldn't hold it against him.  His power has risen out of nowhere.”  He stared at her.  “If you were indeed an agent from the Wasteland, sent to threaten Matthais, I would almost be tempted to assist you.”

        “That... is not why I'm here, Hadron.”

        “I believe you, pony.”  He sighed and shuffled over to his desk, taking a seat.  “And even if you were, I wouldn't expect you to deliver.  Alas, as you are helpless to assist me, I am helpless to assist you.”

        She took a deep breath, her eyes falling coldly to the floor.  “So, in other words, you spent all of this time and talk just to say 'no' to my request to get into the pits.”

        “I apologize, but I just can't afford to.”  Hadron gazed up at her with sincerity.  “There's a reason why so many other families have so viciously rejected you.  Like me, they're in no position to conflict with Matthais' wishes.  They can only resist his power to the bitter end, and then Geist Blood will consume us all slowly, until this city has become one giant slave pen.  I am truly, truly sorry, but you cannot find any assistance from Star Blood.”

        “You don't have to repeat yourself,” Scootaloo said, though she was smiling.  It was a painful expression.  She tilted her head up to gaze once more at him.  “I know when I'm humbled.  You're the first goblin in this city to... have apologized to me...”  She lingered on those last words, envisioning a pair of ruby eyes in the shadows somewhere, for she realized that what she was saying wasn't true.

        “Let me be humble as well, and warn you, pony...”  Hadron leaned on the edge of his seat and gazed up at her.  “You will have no greater luck with any other family in this city, on any platform, or in any district.  The reach of Matthais' metal hand is all-encompassing in Petra.  There isn't a prime-bleeder at this point who hasn't been forewarned of your presence, and most of them are more apt to take his intimidation to heart than I am.”

        “Still...”  Scootaloo's nostrils flared as she gazed beyond the glass windows, her eyes engulfed in the distant steam, billowing like her gray past.  “I have to try.  Goblins aren't the only creatures of the Wasteland who are desperate.”

        “Ponies, too, are desperate.  At least I would imagine.”  Hadron said.  “Don't fool yourself.  The more you question the households of the lower struts, the more you test Matthais' patience.  And as if you didn't already suspect such, pony, the prime Geist-Bleeder's patience has its limits.  You may discover, as I suspect, that he is willing to assassinate as quickly as he is willing to enslave.”

        Scootaloo exhaled long and hard, her breath fogging the glass.  She raised a hoof up against the codensation and wiped a broad, colorless arch before her jaded scarlets.  “I guess I will just have to do the impossible...”

        “I beg your pardon?”

        Scootaloo turned around and faced him.  “Hadron of Star Blood, I thank you very much for your time.  And I also thank you for reminding me that your kind is still capable of honor.”

        Hadron blinked at her, then slowly smiled.  “Funny.  I was about to say the same about yours.”






        Scootaloo trotted—more like limped—through the streets of a random platform between Strut Thirty and Kevin's Nest.  She had taken a sporadic trip to get there, utilizing multiple different elevators and ramps in her gradual descent back towards where the Harmony was moored.  Along the way, she passed several homes belonging to countless families and prime-bleeders.  However, she no longer bothered  with visiting any single one of them.

        The words of Hadron rang through her leather-armored ears.  There was suddenly more than sky marble that was steaming beneath the surface of Petra, and none of it carried a pleasant scent.  She wondered why she even bothered with being surprised.  She never had a positive picture of imp kind painted for her.  The fact that they turned so viciously against each other only matched the ugliness of the Wasteland as a whole.  This was hardly Scootaloo's world.  She wasn't about to let the gentle demeanor of Warden or the eloquent words of Hadron convince her otherwise.  The Wasteland was still a blighted shadow of the Cataclysm's life-consuming flames.  All warmth and brightness would remain missing... at least until the day that she and Spike were capable of changing it.

        Scootaloo saw a bright rectangle in her peripheral vision.  Glancing up in mid-trot, she realized that it was yet another “Desperadoes” poster.  As she passed by it, she narrowed her vision on the tallest of the four shadowy figures.  She envisioned a pair of ruby eyes peering towards her from the dark frame.

        The last pony shuddered.  She didn't want to think about it—not after coming so far and sacrificing so much—but there had to be another way.  Hadron had suggested Scootaloo stop parading around the platforms for her safety's sake.  The redheaded goblinette had warned her as an expression of good will.  Why did she not think about leaving Petra until now?

        The city was in the first throes of collapsing.  If Hadron was an imp to be believed, then Matthais was a prime element in Petra's self-destruction.  One lesson that Scootaloo had learned in her torturous life was that distancing herself from goblins was a very healthy idea.  After all, it had worked for her once before when she had previously crossed paths with Matthais... when he had reduced her to a helpless, bleeding—

        “Sold!  To the Wind-Bleeder representatives for one hundred and fifty strips!”

        Scootaloo stopped in her tracks.  She gazed across the district, and instantly realized where she was.  This was Strut Twenty-Five.  She knew this because there was a familiar slave pen just a block away from Matthais' manor.  Erected directly in front of the gated prison was a rusted scaffold, and an auction was underway...

        “You can meet with Otto of Geist Blood to discuss transport,” Fredden remarked.  The goblin executive grinned and  adjusted his trademark shades while two other clan members led a miserable quartet of shackled half-lings down a series of wooden steps and into the company of multiple Wind-Bleeders.  At the same time, Lady Ryst was ushering six more goblins up onto the metal pedestal.  A crowd of murmuring imps stood below the display, eying the living “product” as Fredden once more raised his voice to the potential buyers.  “Here we have a young but physically-fit group of able-bodied workers.  They hail from Strut Twenty-Two.  The wind blows less smog on that side of Petra, so they're guaranteed to have stronger lungs than most bodies...”

        As Fredden's voice rang across the district, Scootaloo lost track of his words.  Her brow furrowed and she reached a hoof up to adjust a dial on her goggles.  She hoped she was only imagining things, but as soon as the image of the slaves atop the scaffold came into focus, her fears were realized.  Two were young adults, three were teenagers, and the sixth—the youngest—was a familiar child with yellow-streaked hair.  Her face was red and her eyes were heavy, as if the helpless orphan had spent the last sixteen hours sobbing nonstop.  Standing before her new potential owners, she was as dead-still as a pillar of salt, and her eyes were just as dry and lifeless.

        Scootaloo wanted to march away.  She had every impulse in her limbs to do so.  But every time her muscles started to move, the ruby eyes in the shadow of an imp city ramp peered out at her, piercing her.  Even if Scootaloo was to fly away from Petra, hire an entire army of griffons to follow her flank, and then lead a violent charge into the depths of Cloudsdale to retrieve Rainbow Dash's ashes by force, she knew she couldn't shake that ruby gaze, soaring above her, aloft in the clouds, magnified by a pair of goggles that she herself had built as a gift to frame them... to treasure them... to preserve them along with the warmth and joy of a single Ponyville day.  Scootaloo winced through each memory burning through her, and with each convulsive second that the ruby crucible of her past mistakes and victories spilled ashes onto her present, they all simply coalesced into the yellow, jaundice-colored streaks of the imp child's hairs, like a tiny foal that had once clung to her in a forlorn place called “Stonehaven.”  That was a soul that Scootaloo had once saved, and yet hadn't, for time had once again been the merciless gravekeeper of all the tiny victories of the past that Scootaloo could barely afford to believe in.  A crayon drawing above her workbench in the Harmony was a poor excuse for a gravestone, so was any slab of moonrock she could ever hammer into the wounded lengths of the earth.  And now...?

        Now she cradled silver in her hoof, more than enough to match the paltry amounts that Fredden was barking forth to the stingy crowd.  Clawed hands raised into the air, lifting the amount higher and higher, and still Scootaloo knew that she had it covered, or else possessed enough ridiculous banana plants somewhere in the universe to instantly barter and dwarf it.

        She still didn't move a single centimeter.  Petra was worse off than Dredgemane.  The creatures who festered there lived off of machines and steam.  Hope was as real to them as mercy to trolls.  The Cataclysm rid the world of more than oceans and forests.  If Scootaloo dropped a tree in the middle of Strut Twenty-Five, none of the imps would know what to do with it.  It'd be the same if she raised the Sun above the smoke-billowing summit of that city.  What more would the goblins know to do with hope?

        Hadron was right to be so despondent.  Scootaloo almost pitied him, but suddenly she realized that he was resigned to his fate, and that was the most peace any creature—half-ling or not—could afford to have in the Wasteland.  It bothered her very little to understand that she was counted in that same, bleak lot.  She only regretted that a part of her had briefly forgotten that beings other than herself had even less to go on, for they didn't have the same gift that the avatar of Entropa did, a chance to glimpse at hope beyond the otherwise impermeable green walls of time.

        Warden was just such a being.  Scootaloo had brought him to his home, had brought him to his parents, and had left him with enough silver for his family to live off of for over a dozen stormfronts.  But, without hope, had she truly helped him?  She shuddered, dreading the very real, very horrifying possibility of repeating herself, of repeating mistakes that not even those ruby eyes could catch.  So when she saw Fredden's arm starting to fall, and she allowed her forelimb to fall too.  The silver returned to her saddlebag, as did the colors to the past, disappearing into the shadows along with a pair of piercing, ruby eyes.

        “Sold!”  Fredden shouted.  He pointed towards a group of Moth-Bleeders and grinned wide, his glinting teeth just as artificial as his shades.  “For one hundred strips!”

        Otto marched onto the scaffold and yanked at the six shackled imps.  They shuddered and stumbled down the steps after him.  The last to move was the tiny goblinette, her eyes brightening in sudden fright as she was dragged off like a yellow-streaked comet.  Soon, she was swallowed into the perpetual smog and noise of Petra.

        A figure took up the foreground of Scootaloo's sight.  She glanced up, and realized that it was Lady Ryst.  What was more, the female thug was gazing in the pony's direction, her eyes thin and emotionless.  Ryst was a merciless creature, a trafficker of her own kind, a peddler of souls.  However, in one single gaze, she regarded the last pony with neither hatred nor admiration.  The neutrality of the mutual glance had the bitter taste of familiarity to it.

        It was enough to finally make Scootaloo move.  She marched firmly towards the distant elevators, already smelling the insides of the Harmony's cabin.  She wasn't sure where she would fly next, or how she would go about entering the ruins of Cloudsdale.  All she wanted was to pierce the clouds again, in hope that she could also pierce the shades of yellow-streaked hair bathing the insides of her haunted eyelids.  The Wasteland was too bleak a world to dwell on regret.  Unlike the simple problems of the past, so much was incurable.  More than that, so much more of it was unforgettable...







        The blood rushed to her head, and her face suddenly slammed against a rocky floor littered with cold ash.  Scootaloo winced and opened her eyes, seeing the ruins of Cloudsdale spinning above her.  For the first time in days, she had been cut free from the wooden stake, but she could hardly feel the difference.  Her back was till raw down the spine.  Her wings ached and twitched with the rhythm of her malnourished body's heartbeats.  What was more, her right flank was numb.

        And then Matthais' frowning face appeared above, followed by a clawed kick to her rear leg.  Scootaloo's right flank came back to life, as did the merciless dagger that had been left hilt-deep in the filly's flesh.

        “Unngh!” Scootaloo shrieked, curling into a fetal position as fresh tears leaked out of her bruised eyesockets.  She barely had a chance to sob, for Matthais' pale hand was yanking her by the shaved strip of flesh that remained of her tail, almost snapping it loose from the rest of her spine.

        “Come with me, glue stick,” he muttered, as if this entire thing was an invitation.  “You're not a corpse yet.  A slave's work has got to begin sometime.”

        She could barely hold her breath, much less fight his cruel grip.  Her body jolted with each slab of rock and uneven granite that he dragged her over.  She heard her hooves scraping against the sky marble.  Whimpering, Scootaloo tried opening her eyes, but every splash of gray light she caught merely stabbed her, sending painful shots surging through her nervous system so that her skewered right limb answered every time with an agonized throb.

        There was a loud clamor echoing around Scootaloo.  At first she thought it was another moon meteor falling from above.  However, the noise started splitting into multiple breaths, multiple voices, and multiple hisses.  She realized she was being surrounded by the bulk of Matthais' cohorts.  Gray twilight burned against her eyelids brighter and brighter as a cold wind brushed her blood-stained coat.  She felt like her right flank was on fire.  By the time that the noise and brightness became unbearble, she felt her body shift as Matthais reached down, grabbed her by the forelimb, and gave her one last toss.

        Scootaloo tumbled painfully to the edge of something.  Wincing, she bravely opened her eyes, only to see something blacker than what her eyelids could provide.  She was staring straight down into an impenetrable abyss.  With a gasp, she shuffled back, discovering herself on the edge of a windy ravine in the heart of sunken Cloudsdale.  A cold wind was billowing down into the crevice, pelting her with snow and ash from the dead Wasteland above.

        As soon as she got her tiny weight situated back on even ground, she felt Matthais' weight pressing down into her raw spine with a clawed foot.  Several sneering, murmuring goblins formed a half-circle around the two as Matthais leaned down and spoke with an icy tone.

        “If I know a thing or two about sky stealers,” he said, “It's that they grow a magical tattoo of some sort on their body that tells them what their purpose in life is.”

        Scootaloo bit her lip.  She stared into the abyss below.  Never before did utter blackness look so appealing to her.

        “It's a good thing that I found you when I did, glue stick,” Matthais said.  He ushered a pained gasp from Scootaloo's body as his hand re-gripped the hilt to the metal shiv stuck in her flank.  “Because I've branded you, haven't I?”

        In spite of Scootaloo's shivers, she struggled to remain perfectly still.  Any slight movement would only summon a screaming pain from her right leg.

        Matthais knew it.  He gave the dagger's handle the slightest of twists.  “Haven't I?!”

        Scootaloo gasped, shuddering.  “You...”  Her voice squeaked.  No matter how much she sobbed or cried, she suddenly realized that the blackness of the abyss would swallow it all up.  “You h-have...”

        “And do you know why I have?”  His voice droned.  He leaned over, shifting his weight towards her neck as he practically stood on her, one hand anchored to the dagger.  “Because you still have a purpose, slave.”  He clasped her chin in four clawed fingers and yanked her head up to look across the deep, black ravine.  “Do you see across the way?”

        Scootaloo could barely see past ten meters.  Her vision was blurry from pain and tears.  Nevertheless, she fixated on a gray cloud of granite platforms across the way and said, “Y-Yes.  Yes I see...”

        “When my companions and I came down to this Petra-forsaken city, a chunk of the moon landed right on top of us.  We were separated into two groups.  Half of us were crushed into pulp.  The other half—the goblins whom I am in charge with—survived, but we were separated from all of the valuable tools that brought us here, the same priceless works of engineering that can get us out of this festering hole of dead ponies.”

        He stepped off of Scootaloo and paced along the edge of the dark ravine beside her.  The longer he stared at the platform littered with metal tools across the way, the harder he fumed and the more his fists clenched.  Scootaloo panted, suddenly afraid of what would come out of him next.

        “It never fails,” he eventually murmured. “My father took days to die, all from a horrible storm that the sky stealers had flung our way.  And here I am, stuck in the shadow of a civilization too pathetic to even clean up after itself, and I too risk dying slowly and miserably.  I am as good as a fossil down here, so long as my goblin brothers and I don't have those tools, for there is nothing in the arsenals of this crumbled city that can possibly give us the ingredients to match them.  This place may very well be my grave.”

        Slowly, icily, Matthais turned to stare at her.  His pale eyes reflected the twilight of the Wasteland, as if it was always meant for him.

        “But I could be worse off.  I could be a slave.”  He marched back towards her.  He knelt down low and all but sneered in her face.  “I stabbed you where I did for a reason, glue stick.”  His hand once again grasped the blade in question.  “In a place without shackles, I wanted your legs to be useless.”

        His words were followed by a scream, but it wasn't his.  Scootaloo wailed, her body spasming as if a giant explosion had blasted a hole in her rear leg.  Rivulets of blood ran down her flank from the meaty wound that was no longer sealed.  Matthais stood above her, palming the stained blade that was in his possession once more.  As her screams calmed down, she could only hear the cloud of snickering goblins watching the scene in grim satisfaction.

        “Your legs may be useless, pony.”  Matthais glared down at her.  “But your wings aren't.  This is your first task as my slave.  This is how you earn food and another day to live.”  He pointed the bloodied dagger across the ravine.  “Fly over there, glue stick.  Fly over and fetch our tools.”  His eyes narrowed.  “And don't even think of flying elsewhere.  You can't fool anyone, pony.  You're wounded, bleeding, and hungry.  You need me... you need the one who's branded you.  On your own, you're good as dead.”

        Scootaloo hyperventilated, coming out of the pain of her twitching leg only to plunge into the agony of this sudden situation.  She could barely move her legs, much less stand.  Her eyes could barely see straight.  And her wings...

        “Well, what are you waiting for?!” Matthais barked, silencing the chuckling voices of his cohorts in the distance.

        Scootaloo bit her lip.  Her lungs felt like collapsing.  The muscles along her raw backside rippled and buckled, but her wings couldn't so much as flutter.  She thought of Ponyville, of warm afternoons, of blue skies and fluffy clouds.  All of those sights were memories of color that had only ever hovered above her, just as the blackness of the abyss was yawning deeply beneath her.

        “I gave you a job to do, slave!”  Matthais shouted, pointing the dagger once again at her body.  “Fly!”






        “What do you mean the lemurs can't open up the airship in Dock Nine?!” Kevin squawked, his bloodied beak framing a vicious frown.  He spun in the chair in the middle of his alcove and glared over a bag of meaty edibles in his grasp.  Two smaller vultures stood before him as he roared, “It's their friggin' zeppelin!”

        Scootaloo stood at the doorframe to the lofty room of the hangar.  She gazed emotionlessly into the nearest bulkhead.  Her brown wings were coiled tightly against her leather armor as she waited for the exchange before her to fonish.

        “They keep making up excuses!” one of the birds replied to Kevin.  “At first, they claimed that they lost their keys.  Then they said that the door to the airship runs on hydraulics and now it's malfunctioning.”

        “Nnnngh...”  Kevin dug his beak into the bag, yanked out a morsel of ragged flesh, and gulped it down before growling, “You tell those furry, ring-tailed sacks of stupid to get their act together and pay up for the days they've spent occupyin' Dock Nine within the next twelve hours, or else I'll have them pay with their lymph nodes!  If they care so little about findin' a way into their zeppelin, then we might as well slice a fresh door in the hull for them... usin' their teeth!”

        The two vultures exchanged glances then chuckled.  “Alright, boss.  We'll tell them.  But I don't think we can be as poetic as you.”

        “Yeah?!  How's this for poetry?!”  Kevin clasped a clipboard in his wing feathers.  “'Roses are red.  Violets are blue.  You've got a big honkin' bruise on your beak.'”

        One of the vultures blinked awkwardly at him.  “Huh?”  Just then, the clipboard was slammed mercilessly across his face.  “Ow!”

        “Now get movin'!”  Kevin sneered.

        “Hahahaha... Yes, Boss,” the other vulture smirked and hurriedly ushered his dizzy companion out the lofty office past Scootaloo.  “What have I told you about opening that stupid beak of yours?”

        “Mmmf... Ah dunh thingh Ah ken openh eht agunn.”

        “Heheheh...”

        “Tch...”  Kevin tossed the battered clipboard behind him and rotated in his chair to face his instrument panel once more.  “Stupid lemurs.  Everytime, I swear.  I think it's on account of them samplin' their own product that they're such idiots.  'We have this brilliant idea to make a hallucinogen out of infernite!'  Tch... 'Good luck with that, you beady-eyed yahoos', I said.  If I had a strip of silver for every species I've met who deserves to be extinct...”

        “Kevin, I'm disembarking,” Scootaloo said in a dry tone.

        “Hmmph...”  Kevin munched on another piece of raw meat from his bag.  “Well.. hmmph... That's a big, friggin' surprise, isn't it?”  He swiveled to face her again.  His pith helmet balanced precariously atop his bald head.  “I could have told you that dealin' with the goblins was pointless from the start.  Not that I'm complainin', princess.  Your strips are clean and untainted.  That's kind of rare in the Wasteland, not to mention a little creepy.”

        “Well, I'll be creeping you out no longer,” Scootaloo muttered.  She gazed out the window of the alcove at the Harmony down below, aglow with purple shielding.  “There's nothing here that can help me.  I was foolish to think that I could negotiate with the imps for passage into the pits.  Even the one goblin that is reasonable is powerless.”

        “Hmmm...”  Kevin squinted at her.  “Which half-ling might that be?”

        Scootaloo briefly frowned at him.  “What's the point in telling you?”

        “Cuz some of us are stuck here, princess!”  Kevin smirked, bit into another chewy morsel, and said, “If I can find one single imp willin' to talk silver, then maybe I can expand my business for once!  You think I like workin' stormfront after stormfront in some grimey hole-in-the-wall?”

        She squinted at him, then at the bloody bag of food he was cradling.  “You call this 'working?'”

        “Tchh.  An old vulture is entitled to some respect, princess.  Especially after he's spent years scrapin' a livin' under the gun of goblins' itchy-trigger fingers.  At least I'm smart enough to know the value of risk.  All of my feather-brained little buddies down below: they would be nowhere without me!”

        Scootaloo sighed long and hard.  “Why do I get the feeling that you were meant to be born with a red nose and long, hairy arms?”

        “Ah-Ha!”  Kevin dropped a strip of meat from his beak as he grinned her way.  “So have met Pitt!  I suspected that you had crossed winds with that monkey!”

        The last pony blinked, bug-eyed.  “Dear Epona, please tell me that the world really isn't that friggin' small...”

        “Oh, I know him alright.” Kevin nodded, adjusting the weight of his helmet.  “I've stuck my head into plenty of rottin' carrions over the years, and still I can't shake the smell of that monkey and his company of hare-brained chimps.”

        “What?”  Scootaloo nervously stirred, not truly wanting to engage in this conversation, but unable to avoid a train wreck when it was already rolling.  “Were you both business partners or—?”

        “Silver is stronger than blood, princess.  Or, at least, it has a better smell to it.”  Kevin gestured with a wing full of mottled feathers.  “Last time I met him was several years ago.  My buddies and I were paid to help him build that godawful drinkin' hole of his on the top of the mountain.  Why he thought of buildin' it up so high is beyond me.  I think it was the idea of one of his brothers, a screwy orangutan that thought he was an architect.  The orange primate may not have been too smart, but—heck—he was certainly tasty.” He stifled a burp and once more reached into the bag.  “At least he was after we pulled him out of the cesspool at the bottom of the mountain and washed all the gunk off.”

        Scootaloo murmured, “Somehow I knew that anecdote was missing another punchline.”

        “Tchh.  Doesn't everythin' in life?”  Kevin winked.  “Like your venture here, for instance.”

        She squinted suspiciously at him.  “How do you mean?”

        “I'm tryin' to figure out what the gag is.”  Kevin said, eying her thoughtfully.  “Whatever it was that dragged you all this way to consort with goblins must be crazy important.  Cuz you had to have known that it was a stupid idea from the start.  I mean, we're both out-bleeders, princess.  There's nothin' to hide here in my hangar.  We both know that goblins are lousy, back-stabbin' freaks at best.  What's to reason with things that have no souls?”

        Scootaloo sighed and shook her head.  “Look, can I just drop off my last payment and get out of here—?!”

        “Seriously, though!”  Kevin persisted with a smirk.  “You of all creatures, princess, should know the truth.  Ponies had everything written down and crap, right?  Then you should know that there was once a war, a struggle over 'chaos' or whatnot.  Some crazy jigsaw puzzle of a dragon-thing lost the battle, and while he was turned to stone, all of his minions were tossed into some gapin' hole in the ground.”

        “His name was 'Discord,'” Scootaloo droned, her eyes as distant as she wanted to be away from this vulture at the moment.  Nevertheless, she spoke, “And the place where his minions were imprisoned by the Six Alicorn Sisters was named 'Tartarus.'”

        Kevin leaned forward.  “And just what part did the half-lings play in all that?”

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  Her eyes were absorbed into the rust of the bulkhead.  A moldy strand of amber lingered on the wall before her, like a lock of yellow-streaked hair.  She allowed it to dissolve from her mind as her words continued to take its place, “Imps were the product of Discord having dissected the remains of flutter ponies—a race of petite equines that he had hunted to extinction.  With chaos magic, he combined their intelligence and dexterity with the essence of ogres and formed a new creature, a bipedal homunculus of small stature with fingers that could put together Discord's infernal weapons of war.”  She sighed and ran a hoof over her face.  “After Discord's fall, imps were charged with maintaining the ivory gates to Tartarus—Deep Ash—which were then fused together by the enchanted bones of Consus to keep the monsters inside from invading Equestria.  When the Lunar Civil War took place, the gates were damaged, and creatures like ogres and imps broke loose to the upper world, where they soon evolved into what they are today.”

        Kevin whistled.  “It's helpful for an out-bleeder to know a lick of history, isn't it?”

        “History is as dead as the world,” Scootaloo stared up at him with a frown.  “Now what's the point in making me recite all of this?”

        “To prove to the both of us that you ain't stupid,” he remarked.  “I've seen your airship.  It's just like your armor.  It's strong, sturdy, and built out of amazin' stuff.  I can't imagine a single pony got all of that over the years by beggin' from other creatures.”

        Scootaloo fumed.  She took a deep breath to calm herself.  “No.  I most certainly did not.”

        “Then why are you frolickin' all over this place hopin' for the goblins to toss you a bone now?”  Kevin chuckled.  “You're resourceful, ain't you?  If there's something from the pits, just go on and take it already!  I won't tell a single imp soul!”

        “I'm not about to do something like that...”

        “Why not?”

        “Because nothing is that simple!”  She barked at him, then sighed.  “Not anymore.”

        “Why shouldn't it be?”  Kevin shrugged.  “You're a pony.  They're all silly descendants of a nasty 'Discount' or whoever it was that the ponies had a war with.”  He bit once more into his bag, swallowed a morsel down, and muttered, “The way I see it, the goblins and all they've built should be of no concern for you.  It just ain't your world.”

        Scootaloo blinked at him.  She tried to retort, but no breath came from her lungs.

        Kevin continued, “Us vultures—we don't have the sharpest of beaks, believe it or not.  Before the world blew up, we didn't have the luxury of buying scraps of meat from traders or merchants.  We had to find meat the hard way, and that was only days after the dang thing died.”  He smirked at her.  “Do you know what the softest part of carrion is?  The hind-quarters.  Heheheh...”  He swiveled in his chair slightly.  “And you think you have it bad when you're starving.”

        “And look at you now...” Scootaloo eventually droned.

        “Darn tootin'!  I'm livin' it up real good.  Life is still full of crap, but it's a lot better than it could be.  And you know why that's the case?”  He pointed at her.  “It took a long time.  It took many miserable years in this sun-forsaken world, but I got to this profitable place through strong work, and relyin' on myself.  Just like you, pony!  There's no reason for you to be standin' around with a long face—well, other than the fact that you're a horse.  Ahem... But you gotta remember that these goblins are lower than you.  They always have been, and so long as they're turnin' on each other like rabid animals, they always will be.  I'm no idiot, princess.  I know this city is slowly fallin' apart all around us.  But that's good for you and me, cuz what Petra tosses loose, my buddies and I get to enjoy the spoils of.”   At the end of this, he pulled half of a furry face out from the bag.  “Raccoon?”

        With a look of disdain, Scootaloo gently pushed his wing away and squinted at him.  “How do you mean, exactly?  What is Petra tossing loose?”

        “Tchh.  Their former brothers and sisters, of course!  A slave's life doesn't last long in these platforms, princess.  Once they're worked to the bone—and they have no labor left in their limbs—their siblings usually just toss them off the sides of the struts like the dead junk that they are.  Slaves may not have much meat left on them, but it doesn't mean my buddies and I can't find something scrumptious.  Circle of life and all that jazz, you savvy?”  Kevin chuckled.  “Why, just today, we had ourselves a change of menu—what, with Geist Blood purging the upper platforms with a sudden raid.”

        Scootaloo suddenly twitched.  Her scarlet eyes flared.  “What raid?  What's Geist Blood been up to?”

        “You mean you haven't heard?”

        “I was in the upper struts most of this time.  Tell me.”

        “Tchh... It's nothin' too crazy surprisin'.  Geist Blood does this sort of stuff all the time, and with help from the other families.  They go through random streets and search for 'no-bleeder' imps... as they like to call them.  When they find goblins who aren't workin' for legitimate prime-bleeders, then it's off to the slave pens with them!  Heh heh... it's all rather efficient, in some really cold way.  Makes sense to hear that they all once lived in the ponies' prison of 'Tartar Sauce' or what-have-you.”

        Scootaloo blinked towards the floor.  Her heart was suddenly racing.  Everywhere her eyes darted, she saw more and more shadows, like she was staring deep into a black abyss.  But it wasn't a little orange foal that was bleeding beneath Matthais' feet.  Instead it was—

        “What strut?”

        “Hmm?”

        Scootaloo all but snarled at him.  “Tell me what strut that Geist Blood's slave squad went purging!”

        “Yeesh, keep your cool, princess!”  Kevin swiveled slightly away from her.  “If you want to get a fresh hoof up on the market, you'd have to at least wait another stormfront before they get all the shackles on 'em—”

        “I'm not looking to buy anyone or anything!”  She leered into his beak.  “Just friggin' tell me what struts!”

        He blinked at her, adjusted the brim of his metal helmet, and said, “According to rumor, Struts Nineteen through Twenty-Two got the third degree.  Geist Blood snatched themselves up nearly one hundred slaves.  They're already talkin' with Ice Blood about settlin' real estate in the abandoned districts—”  He flinched as four silver bars flew his way, only to land in his bag of meat.  “Hey!  What gives?!”

        “Change of plans!” Scootaloo breathlessly uttered as she spun and galloped out of the alcove.  “I need my ship to stay here a little bit longer!”

        “Like how long?!”  Kevin squawked.  When she didn't answer, he flapped his wings and called after her, “Just where in the Dimming are you off to in such a hurry, princess?!”

        She was already halfway down the metal catwalk, scurrying towards the elevator.  “Some of us scavenge more than corpses in this world!”






        Bard and Murk touched down onto a metal rooftop.  Upon seeing Rai and Vaughan crouched along the building's edge, they stealthily shuffled over under the cover of shadow.

        “What's the ruckus all about, Rai?”  Bard whispered, adjusting the brim of his black fedora as he squatted next to the young goblinette.  “Word on the street hereabouts is that Lady Ryst nabbed a bunch of goblins and dragged them up to Geist Blood territory.  Whey are we all hangin' around Strut Twenty when there're imps above us needin' to be freed?”

        Rai merely shrugged.  “You asking me?  I'm not the boss!”  She turned towards Vaughan.  “V?  What gives?  Shouldn't we be scoping Strut Twenty-Five right about now?”

        “We'll get to the slaves in time, Rai,” Vaughan murmured, staring down at the district of Beta Level.  “If we poked our heads around Fredden's grounds this very second, we'd be as good as dead.”

        “You reckon he's expectin' us?” Bard remarked.

        “Absolutely.  Though he and Ryst aren't expecting all that they should be.”

        “What's that?”

        “Not what.  Who.”  Vaughan pointed down at a galloping figure who was bursting her way through the crowd and making towards the far, desolate end of the district.

        “Ugh...”  Rai sighed and slumped down atop the roof, cradling her large wrench.  “Not the stupid pony again.”

        “The timing is rather striking, to say the least,” Vaughan remarked.  “After all, she was here several hours ago.  And after Ryst combed through this very area, she's returned with a vengance.  Now, what are the odds?”

        Murk sheathed his steamsword and hand-signed something with his flesh and metal wrists.

        Bard looked at him, then glanced at the others.  “'Do you think she left something here?'”

        “And how,” Vaughan murmured, standing up.  She flashed her apprentice a look.  “Rai, keep track of her.  Bard, Murk—if the pony starts to ascend the platforms, stay one strut below her at all times.”

        “But V!”  Rai squeaked, reaching out towards her.  “What's the point?!”

        “I suspect you're all about to find out,” Vaughan said with a knowing glance.  “I'm going to go and scout ahead for Geist Blood patrols.  Stay silent, Desperadoes.”  She then jumped into the nearest alleyway and disappeared in the depths of Petra.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo's hooves came to a scraping stop in front of the rusted, metal building.  Panting from the non-stop sprint, she glanced all around the decrepit district.  The signs of numerous scuffles had blanketed the street since she had been there last.  There was tossed refuse on the curb, spent steambolt cartridges in the gutters, and pieces of tattered furniture beneath pale lampposts.

        “Warden?!” she called out.

        Her voice echoed against the walls of abandoned buildings.  The lengths of Strut Twenty, Level Beta were deathly still.  The hustle and bustle of a few hours ago was virtually gone.  Not a single goblin could be seen.  She wondered if all of them had been shackled, or else if the majority had locked themselves away in their homes, too afraid to come out of and suffer a fate like their no-bleeder neighbors.

        “Wart?!”

        She stared left and right.  Finally, she squinted at the dark doorframe of the building ahead of her.  She felt the tiniest of flutters; Rainbow Dash's feather was tickling her ear.  She jolted ahead, trotting firmly through the frame of Warden's household.

        Once inside, she saw no sign of his family.  She saw no sign of anything whatsoever.  The entire place had been ransacked.  Overturned furniture and shredded metal contraptions filled the tight spaces between the walls.  Everything else was dust and mold.  That was when Scootaloo realized that no self-respecting creature—imp or otherwise—could possibly have lived in that home for years.  When Scootaloo dropped Warden off at the side of the building, she could very well have been tossing him off the nearest edge of Strut Twenty.

        The image of a bag of raw meat flickered before her eyes.  “Wart!” she bellowed into the shadows.  The echo of her desperate voice rang back at her.  Dust flew like ash against mounds of sky marble, and there weren't any stones lying around to bury the pile of Scootaloo's endless regret.

        Seething, she paced around the dark interior, her mind spinning faster than her wings could carry her.  Before she could draw any horrible conclusions in her mind, her hoof stepped into something.  There was a cracking sound, forcing her to look below.  With a quiet breath, she squatted down and cradled two halves of a slab of stone in her grasp.

        She was holding the remains of a concrete mold of sorts.  Fashioned into the aged material were six imprints—each with four fingers.  There were two large ones and four small prints.  The smallest of the impressions stood out to her, and she imagined those same fingers clasping a metal can of mushroom brew inside the lantern-lit warmth of the Harmony.

        Scootaloo's nostrils flared.  She stood up slowly and tilted her head upwards, as if her gaze could burn through five platforms at once.






        “It's an invitation,” Lady Ryst muttered, polishing a steam pistol in her grasp as she leaned against a metal column of Strut Twenty-Five, Level Alpha.  “Day in and day out, your boss asks me to round up these filthy no-bleeders.  Yet I wonder if he knows just how much garbage he's heaping on my plate, because it's only a matter of days before I have to stretch my resources in chasing after those damnable Desperadoes once again.”

        “Let them come,” Fredden said with a smug smirk.  He stood proudly before the gates to the Geist Blood slave pens, scribbling numerical figures onto a clipboard while dozens of freshly-shackled imps beyond the gates were corraled noisily into a series of metal-barred prisons.  “We'll be making enough profit from this raid to tackle fifty Desperadoes combined.  Heh... they think they're accomplishing something.”  He flipped a sheet of his clipboard, adjusted his black shades, and continued scribbling.  “Once Ice Blood compensates us for cleaning their streets of no-bleeders, they'll realize what an uphill climb they're making.”

        “It still won't stop them from climbing,” Ryst muttered, twirling the chamber to her steam pistol and squinting at it.  “Imps who have stopped working for silver and started working for glory instead are insane.  You can't argue with the mindless.  You'd have better luck singing to trolls.”

        “At least trolls would give your thugs an easier hunt, I bet,” Fredden mused.

        “Hmmph...” Ryst's nostrils flared as she wiped clean a lasting splash of red from the gun.  “Still smells of Darper...”

        “Huh?” Fredden glanced over his shoulder.

        “I'm leaving,” Ryst sighed, slapping the chamber to the pistol shut before twirling the weapon into one of her holsters.  “Where goblins are in shackles, my work has ended.  I assume you can hold the fort from here.”

        “And how...”  Fredden grinned with glistening white teeth as he scribbled away.  “I've summoned the boss here to personally see our bounty.  I can't wait to see the look on Matthais' face.”

        “Hmmph... 'our bounty.'” Ryst scratched her nose as she walked away, her thin arms swinging.  “The day you break a sweat wrangling up your neighbors, I want to be there to unmask you for the ogre you are underneath.”

        “Heh... You're one to talk,” Fredden muttered over his shoulder.  Even moments after Ryst had gone, he was murmuring out loud.  “Though, to be honest, we're better off than the ogres.  It's a far more respectable business to swing handcuffs at each other instead of fire bombs anyday.  So long as that separates us from them, I can sleep at night.”  He finished one last figure with a stroke of his pen and chuckled.  “That's the least I can say about these despicable morons.”  Fredden barked through the porous metal gates of the building in front of him.  “It's what you get for losing grip of your silver, you miserable failures at imphood!  Heheheh...”

        Four brown legs touched down in a conjoined thud behind him, followed by a brief gust of wind.

        Fredden made a face and waved a hand beside his head.  “Shhh!  How am I gonna get these numbers done if there's so much racket?!  It's enough trying to concentrate over the squabbling sounds of those worthless no-bleeders.”

        “Let me inside the pens.”

        “Snkkt—Too late for an inspection!”  Fredden smirked and turned around.  “Rosen, if that's you, then you'd better explain why you're so friggin' late—Holy blight!” He jumped back and hid half of his face behind his clipboard.

        Scootaloo was frowning at him, her goggles reflecting his jittery frame.  She took one trot forward and repeated herself.  “Let me inside them.”

        “Wh-What for?!” Fredden blinked from under his shades.  “Something in one of those cages that belongs to you?”

        “Something like that,” she droned, her voice as tight as her limbs as she bravely stood in the middle of Strut Twenty-Five, Level Alpha.  Several nearby goblins with black wristbands gasped, as if suddenly noticing her presence.  With a pounding of feet, over a dozen Geist-Bleeders rushed in to surround the last pony, their blades and steam rifles aimed at the ready.  She glanced briefly at them, but remained coolly facing Fredden the entire time.  “I have silver if you want to talk trade—”

        “Nnngh—Screw your silver, pony!” Fredden spout, rediscovering his anger along with his strength as even more goblins closed in on the location.  “I know what Matthais said to you!  Rosen filled me in on the whole thing!  He doesn't want to do business with you!  Not now, not ever!”

        “Listen—”

        “No, you listen!”  Fredden pointed with the clipboard as though it was his royal sceptor.  “This gated building behind me and everything inside belongs to Geist Blood!  And if the prime-bleeder of Geist Blood doesn't want you dealing with him, that includes the product he's most recently acquired!  I know you can't seem to take a hint, glue stick, so lemme tell it to your face!”  He leaned forward and all but spat on her goggles.  “Get lost!  And if you even think about going to any of the other families and trying to talk them into lending you a—”

        “I am going inside one way or another,” Scootaloo said in an icy tone that made the goblins behind her stir in brief uncertanity.  “We can still make this a whole lot easier for you.”

        “The easiest thing you can do right now, sky stealer,” Fredden sneered, “is roll over and die along with all of your pretty, prancing friends in the ground.”  His lips curved liquidly.  “I'm sure there's a very special place in Deep Ash for all of you to cuddle with each other's bones forever.”

        Several of the imps behind Scootaloo chuckled and snickered.  They relaxed, propping their weapons over their shoulders and waiting for the pony's reply.

        Silent as stone, Scootaloo glanced over her flank at them.  She then stared straight at Fredden once more.

        Fredden stared back, his grin wide and brimming with fragile teeth.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The doors to the slave pen's outer gate slammed open with an enormous clang as Fredden's body flew straight through them.  Several guards and overseers spun from the barred cells full of shackled imps.  Every armed goblin inside the place gasped in horror.

        The last pony was charging in.  She jumped, bucked one guard in the chest, came back down, and tripped another to the ground with a sweep of her forelimbs.  A third pulled out his steam rifle and aimed at her, only to have handcuffs from one of the grounded thugs tossed down the barrel of his gun so that the swinging end spun and slapped him in the face.  Jolting from the blow to his eyes, he was helpless to guard Scootaloo's charging head-butt to his chest.  His body flew into a fourth guard while half-a-dozen more ran from the far end of the pens and fired all at once.

        Scootaloo dove to her left and dodged the sea of burning projectiles.  She galloped up the wall, kicked off, spread her wings, flew over a second volley, and sailed her body down into the midst of the group.  The resounding thud of her armored landing forced the legs of every goblin to buckle underneath him.  Twisting her front forelimbs, she extended the blades from her horseshoes and spun in the center of the group, snarling.  Flakes of metal and spurts of blood alighted the air.  In the space of five seconds, all the imps were lying on the ground and clutching their bleeding wrists instead of their guns.

        Fredden was barely standing back up when an entire swarm of frenzied Geist-Bleeders finally rushed in from the district outside the gate.  Scootaloo saw them.  Before the phalanx of thugs could take aim, she grabbed one of the squirming guards' legs in her teeth.  He shrieked as the last pony flung him with all her strength, tossing him like a comet into the unwitting line of victims.  As more of the Geist Blood mob collapsed, she galloped down two rows of cells, dodged more steambolts, and barreled her way into a panicked pair of slave keepers.  She lifted one off his feet, ensnared the length of her pink tail hair around the other's leg, and slammed them both together in mid-air like pendulums.

        Half of the witless goblins whom Scootaloo had grounded by this point were getting up.  Scootaloo saw the thickening crowd, and she was already reaching into her saddlebag and pulling out a trio of rune-capped flash grenades.  Tossing them before the feet of the nearly two dozen thugs, she shouted “Y'lynwyn!” just as she stretched a hoof up to her goggles and tinted them both black.

        A brilliant strobe of light exploded across the chamber.  All of the thugs were instantly blinded.  The slaves shrieked and writhed from the sudden illumination.  Even Fredden, with his shades barely balanced on his face, was having a hard time seeing.  As all of his cohorts groaned behind him, he stumbled forward... that is, until he was stopped by the barrel of a copper rifle clack-a-clacking to a stop against the bridge of his shivering nose.

        The last pony was frowning at him, her scarlet eyes exposed and glittering in the aura of her enchanted runestones.  “Start opening cages before I open a hole in your head.”

        Fredden gulped and raised his hands.  His voice squeaked at first, but he soon managed to shout forth, “At ease, boys!  Lower your weapons...”

        The many thugs, their eyes slowly starting to regain sight, merely grunted and murmured in shock.

        He snarled over his shoulder, a pair of pale eyes briefly flaring from beneath his crooked shades.  “I mean it!  Holster those friggin' boomsticks now!  Don't forget who your families belong to!”

        The crowd of bruised and battered Geist-Bleeders frowned, sneered in protest, but ultimately did what they were told.  However, not for one second did they take their glaring eyes off of the last pony.

        Scootaloo knew it, and she returned the glare.  Keeping her rifle trained on Fredden the whole time, she motioned him towards the general area of the multiple slave cages.  “Move.  The first second you disobey me will be your last.”

        Fredden shuddered, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a metal loop fitted with multiple keys.  “Matthais doesn't pay me enough, I swear to Petra—”

        “Wait!”

        Fredden flinched, nearly dropping the keys as he expected his skull to explode at any second.

        Scootaloo was still riding down a steep series of panting breaths.  Swallowing, she tilted her head towards the rows upon rows of metal bars and shouted, “Warden?!  Warden, tell me where you are?!  I need this moron to open your cage!”

        Silence filled the exhaustive gap that followed Scootaloo's exclamation.  During the seconds that limped by, the menacing thickness of the gathered crowd of rifle-toting Geist-Bleeders made itself more than evident to the last pony.  She felt her heart beating twice as fast as she snarled once more to the air.

        “Wart!  I swear to Epona!  If you don't friggin' speak up after all this, I'm going to turn your ears inside out—”

        “Right... R-Right here, pony,” the tiniest of voices murmured from the crowded sea of suffering behind her.

        The breath that escaped Scootaloo's lungs nearly burst her trachea.  Keeping her composure, she briefly tilted her head towards where the sound had come from.  Beyond the forest of metal bars, in the thick of so many emaciated faces and limbs, a single pair of aquamarine eyes glinted in the cold lanternlight.

        “That cell!” Scootaloo barked at Fredden, poking him towards the enclosure in question.  “Open it.  Right now.”

        Fredden performed with quivering dutifulness.  The cold rattling of his keys was deafening in the tense air of the pens and the many silent riflers standing around.  Finally, after much panicked effort, he swung the creaking door open.

        “Warden...”  Scootaloo backtrotted, her gun propped on one hoof as she sashayed towards the entrance.  “Come out, Warden.”

        The many slaves inside the cell parted ways, their eyes bright with confusion and awe.  Starving adults clung to the metal bars and watched with tired expressions.  Mothers clung to their children and gazed with apprehension.  The green teenager slowly strolled through this thinning group, and when Warden finally came to the light, his green body had been blemished from head to tow with fresh scrapes and bruises.  What remained of his vest and black trunks were torn in several places.

        Scootaloo took a deep breath, darting her scarlet eyes between him and the threatening crowed.  She swallowed and uttered as soon as Warden was outside of the cage.  “Okay.  Now close it up.”

        Warden glanced up at the last pony, his brow furrowed.  Fredden blinked awkwardly from behind his shades.  “H-Huh...?”

        “Are you deaf, or do you want a manabullet in your ear?!” Scootaloo hissed.  “Close the friggin' cell already.  I got what I came for...”

        Warden blinked and stared at the floor beneath him and the pony's shadow.  Behind them both, the metal door creaked as Fredden sealed the large cage once more.  The slaves inside were as quiet as stone.  They shuffled away from the entrance and huddled once more in misery.

        “Now undo his bindings,” Scootaloo said, poking Fredden with the rifle.  As the Geist-Bleeder obeyed, she flashed the antsy mob a look and muttered aside, “Are you hurt, Wart?”

        “I'm fine...”

        “I didn't ask you if you were fine or not!” She grunted, her scarlet eyes covering every moving centimeter of the crowd surrounding them.  She leaned back on her haunches and supported the rifle with two hooves.  “Tell me if they hurt you anywhere.  Yes or no?”

        “No.  I mean... I-I got bruised up a little...”  Warden said, his voice like a trickle of raindrops in the middle of the standoff.  “But that's because I kept bumping into all the others.”

        “Warden,” Scootaloo spoke hoarsely, her breath darting over the body of Fredden as he undid the last of the teenager's shackles.  “I thought I had dropped you off at your family's place.  I thought your parents lived there...”

        “They're...”  Warden gulped and leaned on his good leg.  “Th-They're gone.”

        “Yeah, no crap!” she retorted, frowning.  “From the looks of it, they've been gone for a long time!”

        Warden bit his lip.

        Scootaloo's eyes instantly rounded.  Sweating, she glanced down and said, “Warden... are they in one of these cages?”

        “I... I-I dunno...” He shuddered.  “Geist Blood could have taken them months ago for all I know.”

        “But are they in one of these cages?  Did you see them—?!”

        “I don't know!  I just don't know!” He shrieked, starting to hyperventilate.

        “Shhh...”  Scootaloo hissed, shuffling over towards him so that his trembling body could lean against hers.  Warden hid his face in two trembling hands as Scootaloo watched Fredden stumble back from the two, the empty shackles dangling from his eight fingers as he gazed steadily at the last pony's glowing gun.  “Entropa, give me strength.”  She took a deep breath.  “We'll find them, Wart.  We'll find where they took your parents.”

        “I just don't know anything anymore...” He choked on a sob, suddenly clutching at the folds in her leather armor.  “These goblins came out of nowhere.  They took your silver away and told me I was a no-bleeder...”

        “Shhh... We'll talk about it later, Wart.  Right now, I need to get us out of here.”  She gulped and stared at the thick crowd.  “Somehow...”  Her eyes twitched that very moment.

        The wall of angry thugs parted ways at the busted gates to the slave pen, for Matthais himself was marching straight towards the scene.  He wasn't alone.  Rosen, Lady Ryst, and Otto had also joined the impermeable crowd of Geist-Blooders with their weapons at the ready.  At the sight of the last pony and her gun trained on Fredden, Rosen managed a shrill whistle.

        “Tenacious, isn't she?” the elder managed a slight smirk.

        “She never did know when to roll over and die,” Matthais muttered, his pale glare affixed on the last pony.

        “Is that a fact?”

        “Please, Rosen,” Matthais raised a metal hand and brushed his golden-haired advisor aside.  “Save your taciturn dialogue for when I'm negotiating with the other families.  I'm the only one here who has experience with talking sense into sky stealers.”

        Rosen, Ryst, and the others watched as Matthais took a few brave steps towards the intruder of Strut Twenty-Five.  Once he was within five meters of the pony, he came to a stop.  “How are you doing, Fredden?”

        “Oh... Fine!  I'm f-fine, sir!” the goblin exhaled with a nervous smile.  He adjusted his shades and resumed raising his hands over his head as the gun barrel lingered before his skull.  “Couldn't be any better!”

        Matthais took a deep breath and tossed a bored expression Scootaloo's way.  “He's valuable, you know... but only so much as he capably manages these no-bleeders here.  You've come into my district, kicked down my doors, and tried to make a grab at my product.  Tell me, what's the point in using him as a bargaining chip if you're only going to make me lose profit either way.”

        “I-I think it's worked in her f-favor so far, s-sir!” Fredden exclaimed.

        “Be quiet, Fredden,” Matthais groaned, then stared once more at Scootaloo.  “Well, glue stick?  We both well know that your blatant stubbornness has a touch of intellect to it.  Care to explain yourself while your lungs aren't full of steambolts?”

        “You told me, not that long ago,” Scootaloo spoke, “that you and I were on even terms.”

        Matthais raised an eyebrow and gestured his gauntlet towards the crowded mess around him.  “You call this even?”

        “I came here for him,” Scootaloo gestured towards Warden, not once lowering her rifle.  “He was taken by your goons in Strut Twenty, Level Beta unjustly.”

        “Heh...”  Matthais smirked.  He briefly glanced back at Lady Ryst, then smirked back at the last pony.  “And what makes you so entitled to make that determination, pony?”

        “Because... Because his blood had worth.”

        “Is that so?”

        Warden glanced nervously up at Scootaloo.

        “Yes,” she said firmly.  “He was in possession of two bars.”

        “Two hundred strips?”  Matthais' pale face contorted.  “And just how would a tiny, lame waif like that have stumbled upon two hundred strips?”

        “I gave them to him.”

        “Is that so?”  Matthais paced a little bit, his pale eyes bouncing between Scootaloo and Warden's cowering form.  “Was he running an errand for you?  I can't imagine that another family would have lent him to you for a service.  After all, he wasn't bearing any colors when Lady Ryst acquired him.  Besides, the district he was in had been officially cleared of any true-bleeders.  The Ice Blood clan confirmed it for us before we even went in there.  Geist Blood only enslaves no-bleeders.  Otherwise, we would be blemishing the power of Petra.”

        “Haven't you blemished it enough?”

        “You're not in a position to preach to me, pony.”

        “I easily fought back three dozen goblins to get here.”

        “And you'll have to not-so-easily fight back three hundred thousand just to get out.”  Matthais' pacing stopped as he stood and frowned menacingly at her.  “If you insult the hand of Geist Blood...”  He clenched his iron gauntlets and practically seethed, “You threaten the backbone of Petra itself.  Every family of this city is united with me in this new future of impkind.  It's a future that relies on a system of resolute progress, and all I see you doing is trying to throw a blighted wrench in the works.  So tell me while my patience still stands: why should I let you leave with that pathetic little child in one piece?”

        Scootaloo bit her lip like a little foal.  Sweat was running down the insides of her cowl.  She glanced at the thick crowd swallowing her.  Several of the goblins were already cocking their rifles, just waiting for Matthais to give the command.  Fredden could just as well have not been there from the start.  This was all Matthais' game; it always was.  If she didn't find a way to swing by his rules, her body would be swinging somewhere else by the next stormfront... and Warden's too.

        Princess Entropa's invulnerable skin wasn't about to save her this time.  Spike's flame wasn't close enough to whisk her away to safety.  Somewhere in the pits of Cloudsdale, Rainbow Dash's body was buried because Scootaloo had placed her there twenty-five years ago.  In a world without a sun and moon, that grave suddenly felt like the only treasure the last pony would ever donate to the Wasteland.

        “Sir...”  Rosen spoke up out of nowhere, stepping boldly out of the crowd behind Matthais.  The elder gestured with his wrinkled hands.  “If I may interject, it would appear as if none of the other slaves appeal to the pony.”  He cleared his throat and stood beside the prime-bleeder.  “If I was to make an experienced guess, she's telling the truth.  She came here only for him.  But there may be more to it than that.”

        Matthais raised an eyebrow in confusion.  Then his face washed over with understanding.  With immense curiosity, he returned his gaze to hers.  “Glue stick?  Care to shed some light while my brash servant's given you a last opportunity?”

        Scootaloo blinked.  She stared over at Rosen, and Rosen's green eyes stared calmly back.  There was only one living way out of this predicament, and suddenly both souls knew it at once.  Why Rosen was willing to toss it the last pony's way, Scootaloo could never guess.  She was too busy wincing from what she knew she was about to say.

        “This child...”  She hesitated, trembled even more because of it, and then steeled her nerves to utter, “This imp belongs to me.  He's been my property long before Geist Blood got their hands on him.”

        Matthais blinked, leaning his head aside.  “You mean... he's your slave?”

        Scootaloo's scarlet eyes hardened.  “Yes.”

        Warden gazed up at her with a silent gasp.  She didn't look back, so she was only residually aware of the slow drooping of his pointed ears.

        Matthais squinted.  He grunted, “Prove it.”

        Rosen quietly watched what Scootaloo would do next.



        Warden took a deep breath.  He closed his eyes and defeatedly reached for his black trunks.  He lowered the hem of the article around his left thigh, exposing the shameful burn to nearly a hundred murmuring Geist-Bleeders.

        Fredden gawked at the “horseshoe” image.  Rosen merely scratched his chin in thought.  Ryst and Otto exchanged blank glances while the rest of the thugs behind them stirred in commotion.

        All the while, Matthais was grinning... grinning at Scootaloo.  “Well.. how far we have come.”  He fought to suppress a chuckle and lost.  “I almost wonder if I should be proud of you.”

        “Stuff it,” Scootaloo venomously spat, frowning his way.  “He belongs to me.  He's not your property.  Not a single imp in this entire friggin' district was willing to listen to reason, so I made them listen to my hooves.  Now you know, and I would very much like to leave this festering place with what's mine.  Are we even again or not?”

        “Tell me, did he whimper as much as you did when you stuck the branding in—?”

        “Are we friggin' even?”

        Matthais tilted his nose up, gazing at her with an unbreakable smile.  “I daresay you and I are more than that, sky-stealer.”  He took a breath, then glanced back at Ryst.  He motioned with one metal gauntlet.

        Ryst nodded and immediately gestured towards Otto.  Together, the two of them pushed the crowd of gawking goblins aside, forming a clean path for the pony to trot.

        Scootaloo took a breath and finally retracted her rifle.  She eyed the crowd for any movement.  When there was none, she reached over and nudged the teenage goblin beside her.  “Okay, Warden.  Let's get out of here.”

        He didn't budge one bit.  He stared silently into the floor.

        “Wart.  Come on.  Move.”

        Shuffling, the blank-faced warden reached a hand over and clung to her saddlebag.  He limped along with her as the two took the long walk down the line of imps, all of which were staring nonstop.  It took forever just to clear the pens.  Just as they passed beyond the gates, Matthais spoke up behind Scootaloo's back.

        “I am a manifester of Petra, Pony.  But I am also a keeper of relics.”  He folded his arms and grinned.  “Rest assured, pony, when you are long dead, I'll make sure all of impkind knows what happened here... the day you became one of us.”

        Scootaloo paused in her tracks.  She took a deep breath, pulled her goggles over her eyes, and resumed the long march towards the far edge of the district.  Warden sluggishly tagged along, and soon they were both distant specks.

        “Now we are even,” Matthais uttered coldly.

        “Oh praise Petra, boss...”  Fredden stumbled over, bowing dramatically before him.  “If you hadn't intervened—”

        “Take a shower, Fredden,” Matthais grumbled.

        Fredden merely gawked in confusion.  “H-Huh?”

        “We can smell your piss from here,” Ryst droned.  In the meantime, she marched up to the prime-bleeder while the thick crowd of Geist-Bleeders returned to their posts all around them.  “Sir, I only came back to this... intriguing scene because Otto had gotten word from the upper platforms.”

        “Word of what?  You sure this can't wait after all that's just happened?”

        “I'm afraid not, sir,” Otto said, bowing respectfully.  “You instructed us to have our goblins on the street tailing the pony, yes?”

        Matthais glanced briefly at Rosen, then looked back at the bald subordinate.  “Yes.  I do believe I sent that command down the chain.”

        “Well, she didn't take your words to heart from yesterday,” Otto said.  “She went to nearly ten different families, asking for help.”

        “Hmmph... And a fat lot of good that has done her.”  Matthais glanced after where the last pony had disappeared.  “If anything, it's proven my point to her... in more ways than one.”  He turned and shuffled towards the thickly-filled cells.  “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a great deal of new product to inspect—is that right, Lady Ryst?”

        “Sir...”  Otto leaned forward emphatically.  “Of all the families visited, she spent nearly forty minutes in deep conversation with one of the prime-bleeders.”

        “Yeah?  Of which clan?”

        “Star Blood.”

        Rosen flashed Otto a look.

        Matthais had frozen in his tracks.  Slowly, he turned around and gazed blankly at his subordinate.  “She had a discourse with Hadron of Star Blood?”

        “For an extended period of time, sir,” Otto said.  “Some of our agents even say that she was alone with him—in his office—without guards.”

        Matthais took a deep breath, his face tense for the first time since he stepped through the gates of that place.  He began pacing, a lot faster this time, while clicking the metal knuckles of his gauntlets one after another.

        “Good sir,” Rosen spoke calmly.  “What are you thinking?”

        “Me, Rosen?”  Matthais took a deep breath.  “I'm thinking suddenly that my office is missing a final memento... one that's stuffed.”

        Rosen glanced at the others.  He cleared his throat and leaned towards Matthais.  “Sir, she only came here to claim her property.  In consideration of the family council's edicts, she's operated within the safeguards of her ownership of that boy.  If any of us so much as harms her—out-bleeder or not—it could easily be misconstrued as a violtion of the very law that has supported your rise to power.”

        “Did you practice law in the time of the sky stealers, Rosen?  Because it's starting to sound like it.”

        “I'm only concerned with the integrity of your image, sir,” Rosen explained.  “That's why you hired me, was it not?”

        “You're right, it was.”

        “You said it yourself.  You and the pony are even.”  Rosen gestured with his hand and said, “I suggest you let her go.”

        “Hmmm... Yes.  I did say we were both even.”  Matthais nodded, his face awash in thought.  After a brief pause, he looked over and planted a metal hand on Fredden's shoulder.  “However... she did assault one of my finest, most loyal of executives.  Hmmm... And I can think of... oh... about a dozen laws that spits into the face of.”  He smirked at his own reflection in the jittery imp's shades and glanced back at Rosen.  “I'm sure even Hadron himself is familiar with those statutes.”

        Rosen said nothing.

        Matthais glanced over at his subordinates and uttered in a melodic voice, “Oh Lady Ryst?”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        The doors to an elevator shaft rattled shut.  Scootaloo reached past Warden and slapped her hoof against a lever.  The platform descended with a loud hum, lowering the two of them away from Strut Twenty.

        She leaned back and took a deep breath, adjusting the leather cowl over her ears.  “I've been ambushed by packs of trolls, bands of harpies, and an entire hulking battleship full of dirigible dogs.  I can only praise Epona's celestia mane that we somehow got out of that.”  Her nostrils flared.  She briefly sat on her haunches, only to hear an annoying ringing sound.  Glancing towards her right forelimb, she realized that her horseshoe was loosening again.  With a groan, she fumbled with her other hoof, produced a metal pick, and worked on tightening the article.  “I dunno, Warden.  This city is too hot for the two of us to afford hanging around anymore.  I'm thinking we should take off in the Harmony and go stock up on supplies elsewhere so that I can come back alone and scavenge the pits on my lonesome.”

        Warden said nothing.  He stood in the corner of the rattling car and stared down past his folded arms.

        “I can afford to think on my hooves for only so long,” she muttered aloud, struggling with the metal shoe in her grasp.  “Someday, I'm going to run out of luck.  But I promise you, Wart, that the day won't come until after I've found your parents.  If they indeed were rounded up by Geist Blood within the last few months, then they couldn't have gotten far.  You of all goblins might be able to shed some light on where they went.  I mean, you worked for the family business!  Surely you'd know if there was any competing clan that would have bought them the moment that the bleeders they worked for became broke, right?”

        “I'm a living being...” he suddenly muttered in a cold voice.  “I'm not an object.”

        “Huh?”  Scootaloo raised her goggles over her sweating face and tossed him a confused look.  “What was that?”

        “Something you had once said to me,” he murmured, staring away from her.  The green lines in his face hardened.  “But it was all a lie, wasn't it?”

        Scootaloo rolled her scarlet eyes.  Sighing, she rubbed her left hoof over her face and muttered.  “Warden, look.  I'm sorry.  What I did back there, I know it was really... really...”  She gnashed her teeth and lowered her limb, gazing solidly at him.  “You must understand.  It's what I had to do.”

        “Was it?!”  He turned and frowned at her.  “And what about when you need to pay the hangar-keeper to let us undock from his Nest?  Will you offer me up as trade?  Have me show off my branding to him too?”

        “Kid, we could very well be dead meat right now!” Scootaloo frowned.  “Wasn't it enough that I performed the berserk dance-of-the-million-horseshoes just to friggin' get to you?!”

        He fumed and turned away from her once more.  “I almost wish you hadn't...”

        “Oh-ho really?!” Scootaloo smiled incredulously.  She pointed out at the blurring platforms beyond the elevator car.  “Well, if you like being a pile of steambolt-riddled meat so much, how about I just toss you out right now?!  Or how does forced labor inside a steam extraction foundry for the next twenty-odd decades of your ungrateful life sound?!”

        “You just don't get it, do you?!” Warden flashed her an angry look, his sharp teeth showing in the passing glow of lit platforms.  “I had become a no-bleeder!  They turned me into a slave!  My fate was sealed!”

        “A good enough reason for my stupid flank to have marched up there and pulled you out!”

        “To what end?!” Warden barked, his tiny hands clenched into fists as he leaned on his good leg to shout at her.  “At least as a slave, I might have been able to bump into my parents!  What am I now, pony?”

        “Wart, you're—”

        “What am I now?!” His aquamarine eyes glossed over as he fought the tears.  “It really is a darn good thing that I have the branding of glue sticks on me forever and ever!  Cuz that's all I'm ever gonna be!  Your slave!”

        “That's not true—”

        “You mean you're somehow going to restore my family's blood, plant silver back in our hands, and get us a respectable spot in Petra?!”  Warden sniffled, frowned his way past a tear streaming down his green cheek, and growled, “No matter where I go now, I'm forever going to be a no-bleeder piece of slave filth, branded in public by a glue stick!  And so will my whole family when I'm once again with them!  Imps will never, ever respect the name of Stock Blood after what you did just now!  Did you ever stop to think about what you were doing?”

        “I...”  Scootaloo shuddered and cradled her own aching head with two hooves.  “I-I...”

        “You didn't, did you?!” Warden shouted.  “Not for one second do you stop to think about what this means—about what this really means for me, my future, or any of my family's for that matter!”  He choked back another sob just in time to angrily hiss, “All you care about is getting to your dead friend!”

        “Warden...”  Scootaloo took a deep breath and gestured towards him.  “I... I can get you someplace safe.  I have... I have a friend.  More than one friend, actually.  We can get you a place to live, a meal on your plate every evening.  Do you realize how tough that is to get in the Wasteland?”  She looked at him sincerely.  “I can provide you with safety, Wart.  You wouldn't have to worry about dying or being enslaved or—”

        “Only it will not be my world!” he yelled, then slumped back against the wall of the elevator, hugging himself and hyperventilating.  “Nor would it ever be yours, pony, no matter how much you keep digging stuff up and pretending like things can be bright again.”  He sniffled and glanced towards the floor as his face broke under more tears.  “You can add me to that wall of weird stuff you have in your airship, and that wouldn't change a thing.  I'm from a far darker place than you're used to, and you never should have scooped me up from that mountain and you know it.”

        Scootaloo swallowed dryly and said, “You... Y-You can't give up on hope, Warden.”  Her voice was wavering, as if she was staring once more into a black abyss.  She tried to remember the bonfires of Dredgemane, but they dwindled in the darkness like distant pinpricks.  “You're... Y-You're alive.  You should try your hardest while you still can to—”

        “I'm as good as dead,” Warden coldly blurted.  “Why can't you just accept that and move on?  Just save yourself...”

        “Wart—”

        He suddenly shrieked, “Why can't you just let the dead stay dead?!”

        The last pony stared at him, her mouth agape.  Her eyes suddenly watered as she said, “Because I can't.”

        Warden blinked at that, shivering.

        “I... I have seen things, Warden,” she said, gulped, and managed in a deepening voice.  “I have touched things.  Places that were once impossible to revisit, I have galloped across.  It is so warm, and so real and...”  She tilted her head up towards the ceiling of the car, hoping that gravity would help her hide the tears.  After a clearing of her throat, she faced him once more and said in a dry tone, “There is more than this, Warden.  There is more than all of this.  I can't expect you to see the colors, not like I did... like I still do.  But...”  She shuddered and braved a painful smile in his direction.  “If you just give me the time, Wart, I promise you... I will show them to you.  I just need time.”

        He said nothing.  Regardless, the fury in his eyes had left completely as he hugged his knees to his chest and tilted his crying face towards them.

        “And don't tell me...” She trotted over towards him and tilted his face up to gaze at her once more.  “...that a no-bleeder can't at least afford time.”

        Warden sniffled.  His lips quivered as he gazed hoplessly up at her.  “Pr-Promise me that you won't make me show the branding again.”

        Scootaloo smiled dearly.  “I promise, Wart.”  She smoothed his green bangs back and added, “The secret is safe with me from now on.  Not even your parents will have to know.”

        At that, he took a deep breath.  He closed his moist eyes and leaned his cheek into her hoof.  “I want to see them again so badly...”

        Scootaloo's face grew still, like the settling foundation of an abandoned barn.  “I know you do, kid.  Trust me, I know.”

        The elevator car came to a rattling stop.  The metal doors creaked open to a bright platform.

        “Perfect timing.”  Scootaloo stood up straight and leaned her flank towards him.  “Listen, let's get back to the Harmony.  Once we're airborne, we'll think up a plan together.  We'll find your parents, but we'll do it using your input.  Got it?”

        “Uhm...”  Warden gazed blankly over Scootaloo's spine as he climbed up to his feet from gripping her saddlebag.

        “You deserve nothing less than to have a say in how I—”

        “This isn't Strut Fifteen,” he muttered.

        “Huh?”  Scootaloo made a face.  She turned to look out the elevator's entrance.  “But I set the controls to take us down to Kevin's Nest—”  Her scarlet eyes bulged.

        No less than six goblins with black bracelets were lined up in the street outside.  With a hiss of steam, they aimed a phalanx of hot rifles straight at the two occupants of the elevator.

        Warden gasped.  Before he could scream, he was being flung to the ground.  A leathery weight pressed down on him from above as the air filled with the ricocheting noise of steabolts against metal.  “Wh-What's going on—?!”

        “Stay beneath me!” Scootaloo was howling, shoving her goggles over her face and extending a copper rifle against a second volley of bullets.  “H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!  H'rhnum!”

        Warden shrieked and grabbed his pointed ears as a cacophonous thunder filled the claustrophobic chamber.  Sparks flew as the air filled with purple mana smoke.  As soon as the shots stopped exploding, a loud ringing filled the resulting gap.  Warden felt something wet.  He glanced up and realized that a river of warm, red liquid was trickling out from underneath Scootaloo's armor.

        “P-Pony...?!”

        “Stay still, Wart.”  Scootaloo winced and reached a hoof up towards the lever of the elevator car above them.  Everytime she tugged at the device, the gears of the rigging above the cage let loose a disagreeable buzz.  “Friggin' figures.”  She hobbled up to her hooves.  “Get up.  We're moving.”

        “We are?”  Warden barely had time to obey.  A pink loop of tail-hairs had yanked him forcibly up onto her back-side.  He gasped, his hands jolting away from three impressions that were suddenly steaming from her armor.  “P-Pony!  You're hit!”

        “Not bad as they are,” she grunted hoarsely, trotting boldly out of the elevator car.

        While she checked either side of the street, Warden gasped down at a pile of bleeding, moaning corpses beneath them.  “Oh blessed Petra...”

        “That can't be all of them,” Scootaloo panted.  Her breath was alarmingly ragged.  Warden could feel it through her perforated armor.  “Matthais had a friggin' Hearth's Warming pageant surrounding us earlier, they must still have—”  A lamppost above them exploded from a long-range steambolt, raining glass down on Warden's flinching head.  Scootaloo bolted forward in a brisk gallop, aiming them both towards the edge of the platform.  “That's it!  Hold on!”

        “Where are you—?!”

        “I said hold on!”

        Warden had no choice.  He gripped her rifle holster tightly, his lower half flailing as she sped the two of them past a showering fireworks display of impacting steambolts.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “By the blight, look at her!” Otto grunted, squinting down the sight of his copper rifle.  He, Lady Ryst, and several more Geist-Bleeders stood on the edge of a hovercraft looming above the bullet-riddled street.  “She moves like a troll thirsting for blood!”

        “Undoubtedly something she learned from experience,” Ryst grunted, scratching her ears as she gazed lethargically at the pile of bodies left before the elevator.  “Dear Otto... would you care to lend us some of yours?”

        “If only we can keep up with her,” the balding goblin returned, firing more random shots.  “Dang it all!”

        Ryst whistled shrilly to the pair of gremlin pilots in front of them.  “Take us in.”

        The masked imps replied with a metallic ringing noise.  With tiny hands flurrying across the controls, they veered the hovercraft around so that it flew laterally to the golden, glowing platform high above the steaming Wastes.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        Scootaloo panted and heaved, forcing her muscles into a steady sprint as she barreled through gasping crowds of half-lings on her way towards the platform's north edge.  She felt blood leaking out of her left side from where one of the Geist-Bleeder's bullets had dug far enough through her armor.  Fighting the throbbing pain, she carried Warden's gasping body with her down busy alleyways full of billowing steam and cluttered storefronts.

        “I-I don't get it!” Warden shrieked, clinging tightly to Scootaloo's leathered neck.  “I thought the prime-bleeder let you go!  I thought we were safe!”

        “Nothing's safe in this damned city!” Scootaloo shouted, leaping over a gasping goblin and his children.  She passed underneath a line of metallic wares and galloped breathlessly down a thin bazaar of neon-lit merchants, hoping to lose the goblins that were firing at them from Epona-knows-where.  “Now are you so sure you want me to leave you here on your lonesome?!”

        “I-I just want to know where we're going!” Warden exclaimed, trembling against her.

        “I just need to get us to the edge of this place!” Scootaloo shouted above the rising noise around her.  She felt Rainbow Dash's ear fluttering against her sweat-stained head.  “I just need to fly!”  Her cowled ears pricked to the rising sound of thunder.  She glanced up in mid-gallop to see the unmistakable outline of a hovercraft roaring straight above the metal-caged ceiling of the bazaar.  “Ahhhh Luna poop.”

        “Wh-What?!” Warden gasped.  “What does Luna poop?”  He was answered by a series of exploding shrapnel around him as several steambolts pierced the ceiling overhead.  Warden let out a shrill cry as Scootaloo darted back and forth, forcing the two of them into a serpentine path to avoid the random bullets splashing down from above.  Storefronts on either side of the two shattered as countless imps dove for cover.

        A lamp turned over and burst into flame.  Scootaloo grit her teeth and bravely jumped over for the billowing fire, making straightway for a gray splash of light at the far end of the district that marked the open air of the Wasteland.

        “Quick!  Wart!  Take a look around!” Scootaloo shouted above the splash of bullets at her tail.  “What platform are we on?!”

        “I...”  Warden gasped and looked feverishly at their surroundings.  “I see the brown armbands of Bread Blood!  We must be on Strut Seventeen!”

        “Good!”  Scootaloo ducked under one last obstacle and made a break for the twilight.  “Then that gives us just two levels!”

        “Just two levels?!”  He gulped and shouted past her cowled ear.  “What are you planning to do?!”

        “What do you think?!” She snarled and flexed both brown wings out, her feathers kissing the cold steam of Petra.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “A little less collateral damage would be lovely, Otto,” Ryst grumbled.

        “What do you want me to do?!”  Otto shouted back, reloading the steam rifle and aiming it back over the edge of the throttling hovercraft.  “She's like the wind!  If I don't score a lucky shot any second now, she's going to take off!  I swear—”

        The goblinette snatched the rifle angrily from him.  “It's not about luck.  That's something Darper never learned, so let me teach you.”  Ryst cocked the rifle, squatted with one knee braced against the starboard side of the vehicle, and aimed down with a vicious squint.  “She's the last pony in the whole Wasteland, Otto.”  Her bony finger tightened around the trigger.  “Aim for the only thing that has color.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


        “I don't get it!” Warden panted, weathering each jolting hoofstep Scootaloo made.  “Wh-Why'd they stop firing at us?!”

        “Don't know; don't care.”  Scootaloo ran straight for the edge of the platform.  “Hold on tight!”  Her wings spread wide.

        “But Pony—!”

        “I mean it!”

        The cold Wasteland winds flew into Warden's face, pelting him with ash and bitter flakes of snow as he felt the two of them lift off.  His lungs emptied as soon as Scootaloo banked to the left.

        Scootaloo spun westward around the cylindrical body of Petra, spiraling around so that she'd descend the two of them swiftly towards Strut Fifteen below.  She made incredible distance, speeding faster than any gremlin vehicle could at such a tight angle.  But just as she passed through the shadow of a distant hovercraft above...

        Her left wing exploded.

        “Aaaaugh!” Scootaloo shrieked.  The Cataclysm flashed before her eyes.  Pegasus bodies exploded into dust, and suddenly she was plunging with them, spinning, flailing before endless flame.  She sobbed into the darkness of the abyss, reaching her hooves forward and scratching the pain loose until she formed the black bars beyond which a rainbow was shrinking away forevermore.

        As soon as her scream ended, she heard his.

        Her goggled eyes flashed open.  The air was splashed with red.  She glanced to her side and saw her wing billowing like a loose kite-tail.  Then two things flew past her.  One was the glinting sight of her copper rifle.  The other was—

        “Warden!”

        He plunged towards the burning oil sludge of the Wasteland below.  Petra was surging past them both, one streaking platform every three seconds.

        Scootaloo gnashed her teeth.  Her goggles fogged from the tears.  She gave her tattered wing one last look, summoned a monstrous growl from deep within, and pivoted her weight to the left.  Her muscles tore immediately, setting her entire ribcage on fire.  Howling past the agony, she clung her right wing to her other side and plummeted straight for the teenager's green missile of a body.

        The winds fought her and she fought back.  The leather cowl flew off her skull in a flash, becoming one with the gray miasma whistling around her.  Rainbow Dash's feather, however, stayed tethered to her ear.  It was an impossible thing.  She was about to add to the list.

        Warden's body rolled and plummeted towards the steaming ring of blackness bordering the stalk of Petra.  The last pony kept him in her sights, as if he was the only living thing left in existence.  He approached the last five struts of Petra, his body being engulfed in a plume of steam as he skimmed the edge of a golden platform.  Scootaloo gritted her teeth and soared straight into the smog, flying blindly into the madness.  She reached her hooves out and gave a silent prayer.  When she emerged from the other side of the smoke, she wasn't alone.

        “Nnngh—Pony!” Warden sputtered and clung to her chest, his eyes wide as saucers.  “Blessed Petra!  We're—”

        “Gghhhh—” Scootaloo was already squealing. She flexed the muscles on her left side and screamed as she flung her last frail wing against the thick air billowing all around them.  “Haaaaugh!”  She succeeded.  Her feathers shot out at a sharp angle, spinning them in an insane curve that flung the two towards the golden haze of the megastructure blurring past them.  Scootaloo barely squinted her tearing eyes open to find where they were plummeting.  She spotted a barren stretch of abandoned buildings straight ahead of her.  Cradling Warden tightly to herself, she spun her body up in a reverse-somersault, caught air in her aching wings, and slowed their descent just enough to touch down.

        When she hit the street, it didn't feel like she had made any difference.  She slammed so hard into the metal floor that it made a dent.  Her body rolled with Warden's—smashing through the front of a ruined blacksmith's.  Dust and cobwebs splattered all around them as she came to a scraping stop, rediscovering the pain of her shattered, left wing in one momentous rush of blood.

        “Nnngh-Gaaaaaaah!” Her eyes rolled back in her head as the last pony writhed, finally letting go of the shivering imp and curling her heaving body towards her wound like a little foal.  “Ahhh—Hauckkkt—Eponaaaaaaa!”

        Warden's hyperventilating voice shrunk into the spinning, blurring world as Scootaloo tore her goggles off and ran two quivering hooves over her face.  Her clenched eyelids danced with color, like a rainbow signal torn apart and vomiting the spectrum in a million directions at once across the blackness.  Scootaloo tried chasing them, but no matter how she tried, she could not keep up.  She kept trying to move Rainbow’s body, to get her to wake up, but the colors kept spreading and spreading.  She reached out through the ashes of everypony, and the only thing that kissed her in return was a tiny blue fiber against her ear.

        That was what brought her back, and not Warden's eight fingers desperately clasping her forelimb and shaking it.


        “Come on!” Warden sobbed, looking worriedly over his shoulder as the sounds of footsteps came closer and closer.  “Get up!  Get up, pony!”  He tried pulling and yanking at her as hard as he could, but it was no use.  She was only spreading apart too, leaking blood and mud-brown feathers all around him.  “We g-gotta move!  Someone's coming!  Geist Blood!  They’re—”

        “Leave... Leave me...”  Scootaloo muttered.  She was only half-surprised to hear how distant her own voice sounded.  She wondered if when Spike had first promised to give her healing, if this tranquility was what he had in mind.  “G-Get... out of here, Wart.”  She gulped and started to close her eyes.  “Save yourself... Leave...”

        “N-Not without you!” he squeaked, his eyes brimming with tears.  “Pl-Please!  You gotta get up...”

        “Mmmngh...”

        “P-Pony...?”

        “Nnngh-Not... N-Not my world...”  She said.  It took several painful muscles, but she smiled.  It was a last gift from the last pony.  It might as well have been received by an imp.

        Warden had very little time to savor it.  A pair of arms hoisted him away.  He struggled and kicked, but was soon swallowed by dust and shadow as more figures closed in on Scootaloo  For the briefest of moments she thought she saw Rainbow Dash’s eyes once more from beyond the arcane vault.  The last pony would never admit it, especially not to Spike, but she had always hoped that Rainbow’s face would be Scootaloo's final memory.  The last twenty-five years of absurdity could just as well have been a foalish blink.  She surrendered to the blackness, embracing the abyss with a calm breath... until she was assaulted with one last, haunting feeling.

        She had been here before.






        “I gave you a job to do, slave!”  Matthais' bitter voice shouted.  “Fly!”

        Scootaloo exhaled softly.  For once, it all made sense to her.  The reason the abyss was so black was because all the colors were absorbed there.  The little foal suddenly knew where she belonged.

        “I can't...”

        Matthais and his fellow cohorts stood in dead silence.  “What?”

        “I... I can't fly...”  Scootaloo brushed the edge of the ravine like she was caressing a pillow.  The mists of Cloudsdale's ruins briefly stopped billowing to give volume to her murmurs.  “I never could.  I'm too young...”  She didn't need to be lying there in a bloody heap.  Gravity was always her enemy.  Her only talent was falling.  After all, she couldn't feel her right flank anymore.  Matthais had given her a cutie mark.  “I can't get your tools for you.  I'm... I'm sorry...”

        “You hear that, Matthais?!” one of the goblin voices shouted from across the mounds of sky marble behind her.  “It's just like I told you!  She's useless!  The one friggin' pegasus we find alive in this damnable city, and she can't even use her wings!”  Several rounds of laughter lifted through the ashen air.

        “Nnnnngh!”  Matthais spun and growled.  “Enough, Braxx!  I get your point!”

        “Then how're we going to get out of here, huh?!  We've been wandering in circles ever since we got split off from—”

        “Not another word!  Dang it, I'll think of something!  Am I or am I not your prime-bleeder now that Devo's dead?!”

        The voices merely murmured anxiously.

        Matthais took several, fuming breaths.  Eventually, he knelt down beside the pony.  “So be it, pony.  I relieve you of being my slave.”  Scootaloo was barely registering him... at least until he yanked her up by her ear and hissed into her face.  “But I'm afraid the meat on your bones is something my brothers and I can no longer afford to waste.”

        As the last pony felt the cold taste of sharp steel against her skin, she couldn't help it.  She sniffled and began to whimper.  “Mmmm... D-Dashie...”

        “Shhh...”  Matthais breathed against her.  “Save your moans for the fires of Deep Ash.”  And Scootaloo felt the knife being raised to the nape of her neck.

        Then she closed her eyes, and felt nothing.


> Dive!  Dive!  Dive!  - With Original Dialogue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	I've had the idea to do a fic like this for a long time.  Take a stereotypical anime bullshiet scenario, give it trite and meandering dialogue, then go back over it and force-feed that same dialogue through an English-to-Chinese online translator and back.  The potential for hijinks was too big to pass up.  For months, I drooled over the idea of a oneshot where the off-center dialogue richly contrasted the intense seriousness of the actual narrative.

Did I end up executing this idea well?  Well... no.  I think not.  The story is far too dayum long.  If it was only 5k words of this, then *maybe* it'd be funny.  But did that stop me from posting?  Did HIV stop Magic Johnson from doing television sports commentary?

There are times when a train wreck has to exist just because.  This is an example of one of those.  Right now, I type this before the actual finished product goes up.  What I suspect will happen is that it's going to receive 50% downvotes.  A chunk of that will be from the usual gaggle of marsupials who downvote my stuff immediately upon seeing it.  Another chunk will be those frightened by the cover art and the description.  The rest, most likely, will be those who read barely one quarter of the way through the fic, stumbling over the dialogue that's put together like jigsaw intestinal pizza, and then decide to brand the story for the textual abomination that it is.

But what, then, of those who read all the way through, who begin the story and end it, who go so far as to even (gasp) comment on it?  And still they give it a downvote?  After the entire slog?  It makes one wonder if there are those out there who hate themselves even more than I hate myself.  I should feel proud of such masochists, for we bond together on a layer far deeper and inkier than even the lowest rung of the Deep Web ladder.  Inasmuch, I take the incoming downvotes as compliments, for you have given a fraction of your time to bathe in the agony, as I have given several hours to cook this atrocity up.

And I will say it before the fleeting desire leaves me:  "Never again."





        Sirens rang out while a second Sun burned brightly over the glorious fields of Equestria. In galloping droves, citizens filed into bunkers and safehouses, their frantic pace quickened by the voices booming over loudspeakers positioned on every street corner. Across multiple building fronts, red banners hung with the glaring visage of Luna and Celestia, their iron-wrought gazes instilling fear and courage in every equine whose eyes darted towards the shimmering sky. With each limping hour, the bright patch in the atmosphere grew brighter, spelling apocalyptic doom and misery.

        Far away, in Canterlot, six ponies were being escorted to the center of the Royal Palace. Twilight Sparkle trotted at the front of the group, flanked by well-muscled pegasi in metal-laced riot gear. She glanced left and right, catching glimpses out the palace windows at the vacant avenues of Canterlot. What few ponies were still left had collapsed in the middle of the street, clutching their loved ones and sobbing while enchanted crystals broadcasted animated directions to evacuation centers across the pale brick walls.

        A loud rumble reverberated through the sky like thunder, causing the Palace to quiver on its foundations. Rarity and Fluttershy shivered with suppressed yelps. Pinkie Pie's blue eyes blinked wide while Applejack and Rainbow Dash remained silent.

        At last, the guards had led the six equines to their destination. Two soldiers planted their hooves against a seemingly blank wall. The partition split down the middle, opening up to reveal a large service elevator with over forty buttons along the console. The Princess and her Elemental companions trotted directly in. They stood in the center, swiveled around in formation, and nodded their heads in a coordinated fashion.

        The guards nodded back. Some of their helmets fogged from stallionesque tears as they stood back and minded their post around the elevator doors, resolved to their fate. At last, the doors slid shut, and the car rattled down the long, long corridor, taking the six Elemental ponies several miles underground.

        With a deep breath, Twilight Sparkle turned around and spread her wings wide. She faced each of her friends with a strong and resolute expression. Then, once enough seconds had sunk into the depths of Equestria along with them, she finally spoke.

        "My six pony friends, the fate of Equestria hangs in the balance. Now is the final test that awaits the Elements of Harmony. This is the greatest crisis our land has faced since the War of Waves with the evil Empire of Oatlantis ten thousand years ago! We must not let fear consume us in this hour of destiny! Nor can we fail the happy ponies of Equestria! Do you have the courage to assist me in destroying the Burning Angel of Oatlantis?"

        "Yes, Twilight! Yes!" Pinkie Pie hopped in place. "You can count on us, silly filly!"

        "It is a dreadful task, but most certainly it must be done," said Rarity with a brief air of disgust.

        "I was born ready," uttered Applejack.

        "Me too!" Rainbow Dash slapped her hooves together, snarling from where she hovered near the roof of the elevator car. "Let's turn this Burning Angel of Oatlantis into Burning dust!"

        "Uhm..." Fluttershy meekly raised her hoof. "Is it too late to vote for a peaceful solution?"

        Twilight sighed, rolling her eyes. "Fluttershy, we've been over this! There is no other solution other than retrieving the Demon Lance of the Depths and throwing it into outer space to skewer the Burning Angel in half and prevent the infernal destruction of Equestria!"

        Fluttershy squeaked and shivered as she stammered, "I know that's what everypony says, but, couldn't we at least try talking to the Burning Angel or maybe even hugging it?" She smiled nervously. "Hugging is a good, peaceful thing, isn't it?"

        "Grrrr!" Rainbow Dash hovered over Fluttershy, sticking her face in the shivering pegasus' muzzle. "What's with you, Fluttershy?! Do you want Equestria to explode in burning chunks or what?!"

        "Well, no! Of course not! But... but..."

        "It is settled, then!" Twilight Sparkle spun towards the elevator doors and slashed the air with a saluting hoof. "The destined demise of the Burning Angel by the Demon Lance of the Depths shall commence shortly! Everypony knows their roles! Let us not fail Celestia, Luna, or any of the Equestrian citizens who trust in our honor and integrity!"

        "Honor and integrity!" The other four ponies shouted and mimicked Twilight's salute.

        Fluttershy sighed and gazed sadly towards the far end of the elevator.

        Fluttershy knew better than to doubt Twilight's wisdom and authority. After all, since becoming Princess, Twilight has been in charge of Equestria's security. And now, when the entire world was being threatened by the prophesied return of a Burning Angel, Fluttershy was to abandon her most beloved and honorable friend? Surely she was a foolish pony to think that there was any other solution to this scenario, much less a peaceful and kind one.

        The doors opened to a large underground chamber, full of ponies in jumpsuits running from computer station to computer station with clipboards and microphones attached to their muzzles. Through the subterranean echoes of chatter and the flicker of electric lights, the six Elemental ponies spotted Princess Luna.

        "Welcome, Blessed Saviors of Equestria," Princess Luna said, "To the NEIGHRV Headquarters."

        Twilight nodded as she trotted out of the elevator doors. "The Nether Equestrian Industry for Galvanizing Heroism and Resisting Villainy." She took a deep breath and struck a pose, her wings glinting brightly in the computer light. "It is our deepest honor and integrity to protect Equestria in this time of need!"

        "Honor and integrity!" The other five posed and saluted. Fluttershy joined late.

        Luna took a deep breath, her eyes hard and scrutinizing.

        The Princess of the Night could hardly contain her pride, and yet she had to put on professional airs around these lowly equines—Twilight included—lest she show a hint of fear or emotion and such were the things that led to her demonic alter ego, Nightmare Night, which Equestria could not afford to face at this present moment in apocalyptic time.

        "Very well," Luna said gravely, then pointed at a metal chamber across the way. "Put on your Suits of Righteous Tightness! Your hour of messianic glory awaits!"

        Obediently, the six ponies turned about face and marched heroically down the metallic corridor. Several uniformed equines paused to stare at them, most of the workers misty-eyed as they struggled to contain their applause.

        Several feet away, on a floating platform, Cheerilee saw the march of the six heroes and swiftly spun towards a choir consisting of Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle, Apple Bloom, and several more tiny foals—all standing in tight black uniforms with matching berets. After tapping a metal stick, the teacher waved her hooves before the children, conducting their righteously prepared ballad:

        We sing of our Six Heroic Elements
        In their time of destiny!
        As they eliminate the Burning Angel
        That ghost from the War of the Waves!
        We sing for the Six that bring us glory!
        For Kindness with a Heart that knows no frost!
        For Loyalty with a guile that knows no cowardice!
        For Honesty with integrity that knows no decay!
        For Generosity that knows no hesitation!
        For Laughter that knows no fear!
        For Magic that knows no death!
        We worship you, oh heroic ponies
        We worship you, skirts of the Princesses!
        We worship you and await the hour of destiny!

        Inside the lockeroom of heroes, where the choir's song was but a dull hum, the six ponies slid into their tight, tight suits, each color coordinated to match the hue of their coats. Rarity was the first to get suited up. She pressed the bulky spandex ribbon around her left fetlock, and the rest of her outfit pulled tighter with an undeniable "Schluckkkk" sound.

        "Brbrbrbrbrb!" Rarity shivered. "I'm not entirely fanatic over the way it rides up the plot, but I must admit that I do love the colors!" She hummed pleasantly as she looked back at her tail-less rear end in the suit.

        "I know, right?!" Pinkie Pie giggled. "I feel like my doctor's glove on my birthday, only I'm not hot and moist! Not yet, anyway!"

        "Enough talking about plots and moisture, pony girls!" Twilight barked over her shoulder, already suited up from wing to hoof. "We have a job to do! Let's meet up at the loading center in four hundred seconds!" She marched off with Rarity right behind her, followed by a giggling, bouncing Pinkie Pie.

        Fluttershy sighed, slipping into her suit and tightening it up with an embarrassed "Eep!" She limped out of the lockerroom, waddling awkwardly from the tightness of the suit.

        In the meantime, Rainbow Dash fumbled to slide her hooves into her tight-blue sleeves. "Damn it!" she cursed. "Damn this suit to hell and damn it for being so tight! Why does it have to have so many damned plugs anyways?"

        "Sugar cube!" Applejack drawled in Rainbow's blue ear.

        "Aaaaugh!" Rainbow Dash fell back, accidentally slapping the switch on her fetlock. Her breath left her as the suit constricted around her body like a rubber band. She blushed furiously, crossed her lower legs, and frowned up at the mare. "Applejack, what is it?! I'm busy getting ready for the epic fight with the monsters of the depths!"

        "I know that, darling," Applejack said with a sigh as she hung her hat along the wall, perhaps for the last time. "But I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. We haven't had a chance to talk in a long, long time."

        "Look, Applejack, I'm fine!"

        "Because you are the operator of the tail and you are most important to this submerged adventure in currents unknown."

        "Like I don't know that?! Pfft!" Rainbow Dash rolled her eyes as she stood up, fidgeting in her tight suit. "Everypony is counting on me to pilot the Vessel of Destiny into Oatlantis. It's hard enough trying to not be nervous without you breathing down my neck. Beside, you're the one everypony should be worried about. You were comatose in the hospital for how long?!"

        "I've gotten better, sugarcube. I missed you an awful lot while I was asleep, darling. Did you miss me?"

        "What are you talking about?" Rainbow stuck her head up with a proud scowl. "No different than the other Elemental friends of destiny missed you!"

        Applejack hung her head with a sigh.

        It is true, Applejack had been comatose for several days after the last time they allowed her inside the Vessel of Destiny. The phantom of the Burning Angel had entered her mind most maliciously, and she could have sworn in her most shivering dreams that she had become reacquainted with her long lost mother which was impossible because her mother was dead, wasn't she?

        "I just feel like we haven't spent enough time with each other, Rainbow," Applejack said. "Which is funny, because I could have sworn I heard your voice around me the whole time, even when I was asleep."

        Rainbow Dash suddenly went pale. "Guaaaaah?!" She spun about, fighting with a giant sweatdrop as it crept down her blue skull. "With you?! While you were asleep?! What could you possibly mean by that, Applejack, you silly pony who is totally just my friend?!"

        "I could have sworn I heard you, sugarcube," Applejack said. "You were crying awfully hard. In fact, it almost sounded like you were grunting."

        "Nonsense! Who would make such a disgusting perverted noise around you?!" Rainbow Dash spun around, bringing a hoof to her muzzle as she laughed and laughed to the ceiling. "Hah hah hah! Only a crazy perverted idiot would grunt while standing over you in a coma on a hospital bed!" Rainbow Dash gritted her teeth as hard black lines formed over her squinting eyes.

        In truth, Rainbow Dash had immeasurably deep feelings for Applejack, deeper than the depths that the Elemental Six were about to plunge to, but she couldn't bring herself to expose the warm squishy depths of her own heart to the country farm pony girl, because doing so might expose her to her emotions much like Princess Luna was vulnerable to her own feelings, and with Rainbow Dash being the operator of the tail of the Vessel of Destiny, this simply was not the time to confess how she felt to Applejack, even if all she wanted to do was slam the mare to the floor and make magical pony love to her on the tile and the tight suits and the sweating.

        "We must be off to join the others in the saving of the destiny of Equestria!" Rainbow Dash said, pointing forward with a slicing howl of wind from her swinging hoof. "Onwards to the retrieval of the Demon Lance of the Depths!" She galloped forward, limbs flailing. Applejack sighed and trotted slowly after her.

        Outside, in the heart of NEIGHRV, dozens upon hundreds of ponies gathered at their computer stations, brushing hooves across crystal diodes and chanting mathematical commands into their short-wave microphones.

        Towering above the operation center on a metallic platform was Princess Celestia. Broad billowing banners of royal crimson stretched from the subterranean ceiling on either side of her, bearing the monochromatic visages of Celestia and Luna. When the Princess of the Night trotted up to meet her, Celestia turned and nodded. At last, she spun about and shouted towards the crowd that was gathered, along with several pegasi floating with crystal-powered cameras aimed at her exquisite muzzle.

        "Ladies and gentlecolts, the Burning Angel is now upon us! After ten thousand years—the time of the Second Impact that created the Demon Depths to begin with, it has returned to rain fire and agony on the innocent ponies of Equestria! We must not stand for this!"

        As she spoke, a satellite image appeared, showing a cosmic figure descending from outerspace towards the blue-and-green sphere that was Equestria. Ponies gasped and murmured all across the land, for this animated image was broadcasted across buildings and bunker walls all across the land. Mothers held their children and fathers contained their shivers as they saw the flaming equine shape with aquatic fins stretched—alien and threatening—towards the stars blurring past it.

        The image was soon replaced globally by the live broadcast of Princess Celestia's face.

        "Do not give into despair, my little ponies!" she said, her voice magnified a hundred million times in every household with a crystalline projector. "For we have a righteous solution for this unfathomable evil of infernal hatred plummeting from the heavens! We will destroy destruction with the very tools of malevolence that it had previously imparted us during the Second Impact!"

        Celestia's broadcasted face was replaced by an ancient artist's rendering of a gigantic polearm shaped like a slender cross with jagged edges.

        "This is the Demon Lance of the Depths! Left here by the incubi of old who sought to take over our luscious landscape! The War of the Waves brought an end to their invasion, but it did not entirely vanquish their putrid presence from our sphere! They situated themselves within the Mareiana Trench where their Lance lays, and there they have festered for thousands of years in the sinful city of sodomy that we have come to know as Oatlantis!"

        Celestia's teeth glinted in the electric light as she spoke loudly towards the reverberating rafters of the place.

        "Well, the time has come for us to return to that submerged battleground beneath the forbidden ocean! The demons' second weapon, the Burning Angel, now approaches our world! If not stopped, it will cause Third Impact, and nothing that lives will live anymore, for all that lives will be dead, and dead is a great deal different than being alive! It is much colder, I assure you!"

        Ponies trembled and whimpered in their homes. Nevertheless, Celestia's booming voice crackled over the speaker systems, solacing the hearts of equines cowering in bunkers world-wide.

        "But we have a most righteous and honorable operation that will both retrieve the Demon Lance of the Depths and simultaneously stop the approach of the Burning Angel most vile! And it is through this, our secret weapon, the Vessel of Destiny, that the Six Elemental Ponies shall pilot to glory and justice!"

        Celestia turned towards what looked like a big black wall and spread her wings. A beam of light shot from her horn and into an array of crystal diodes situated within the chamber's subterranean framework. With a loud clanking sound, the ginormous scaled face of a sea serpent appeared, standing upright and rigged to a complex web of criss-crossing platforms, catwalks, and metal gantries. Spotlight swam around its vacant eyes, orange mane, and even oranger mustache.

        "The Stephen of the Magneting!" Princess Celestia proudly shouted. Her hoof knifed through the air in a dramatic pose. "Once a neutral bedfellow to the swimming demons of Oatlantis, his body now serves our righteous and holy cause! The husk of the Stephen of the Mageting was acquired at great expense, and his internal organs completely excavated so as to fit the mechanisms of glory, not to mention the breathing chambers for the Elemental Saviors of Destiny who shall operate as his heart, brain, and messiah musk!"

        As if on cue, the spotlights caught six bodies trotting across the metal walkways and towards the gaping mouth of the dormant sea serpent.

        "Even now!" Celestia exclaimed, pointing majestically towards the holy half-dozen. "Princess Twilight and her fellow crusaders of ecstasy approach the mouth of the great beast whom we have converted into a golem of affirmation! Where they go, we cannot follow, but our hopes and dreams certainly can! Let us sing praise and worship of their heroic plight, so that we may speed them on their journey to acquire the Lance from the depths and launch it with the mighty muscles of the Stephen of the Magneting into the heavens where it will surely skewer the Burning Angel down the middle and dissolve it to demon dust!"

        Fluttershy's figure could be seen shuddering upon hearing that. Nevertheless, she struck a pose beside Princess Twilight as the crystal cameras focused on her and the other suited ponies.

        "For honor and integrity!" Princess Twilight shouted.

        "Honor and integrity!" the other five chimed.

        Princess Twilight saluted the ceiling, her eyes glistening as shadows formed in dark angled beams behind her from the converging spotlights. "To the depths and beyond shall we carry the glory of Equestria, so that it will know Harmony Eternal!"

        "Harmony Eternal!" The ponies chanted, flexing their forelimbs.

        "And in the name of the Sun and the Moon, we will punish the Burning Demon!"

        "In the name of the Sun and the Moon!"

        "Goddess speed, you princesses of purity!" Celestia murmured, misty-eyed. "You deliverers of salvation! Equestria's only hope!" She saluted in a pose that matched her effigy in the rippling red banner besides her. "The fate of all ponies rests in your valiant beautiful hooves."

        Cheerilee signaled the foals, and they all cooed in a melodic tone, filling the subterranean headquarters with harmonics. Meanwhile, Princess Twilight and her five companions could be seen entering the gaping mouth of the purple sea serpent. All across NEIGHRV, ponies murmured into their mics and clopped away at their stations.

        Meanwhile, just as Celestia was starting to catch her breath, two figures trotted up in her peripheral vision.

        One of them was Princess Luna, who cleared her throat and bowed. "Dearest sister. We have a visitor."

        "Right now?" Celestia remarked. "In our heart-stopping moment of triumph?"

        "It is the pony known as Lyra Heartstrings, your Majesty. None other than the Seventh Pony, the Green Crusader, and the pilot of the Zero Unit Model."

        Celestia craned her neck to see.

        Lyra bowed low, her mint-green coat shining in the crystalline glow. "Princess Celestia, alicorn eternal, I beseech you."

        "Stand and talk firm, righteous horned horse lady."

        Lyra stood tall, clenching her jaw. "With all due respects, your Highness, the Stephen of Magneting is not enough! It is just one Unit Model! Please, send me as well! Let me summon the Zero Unit! I can assist the Six Elemental Saviors and assure the glorious future of Equestria!"

        "Your courage and dedication is not to be denied, Lyra Heartstrings, the Green Crusader," Princess Celestia said. "However, fate has already been met. The Stephen of the Magneting must accomplish this task alone. Besides, you and I both know that the Zero Unit Model has proven to be too unpredictable in the field, not to mention awkward and fat."

        "Yes, but with me swimming in proximity to summon it by remote—"

        "Enough, Lyra Heartstrings." Celestia rested a hoof gently on Lyra's shoulder. "You have proved your loyalty. However, even in the best case scenario, it would not do well to expose the nature of your essence to all of Equestria. You are an exception to the demonic taint, Green Crusader, but even still we would not wish to dirty your image after all the good service you have given to Equestrian ponies everywhere."

        Lyra sighed, her ears drooping heavily. "As you wish, your Highness." She looked melancholically to the side.

        Lyra knew that it was righteous to respect the wishes and commands of her Princess most high, but even still there was a part of her—heroic as well as rebellious—that sought to prove her worth despite the insistence of others, no matter how authoritarian and mighty. Maybe it went beyond that, Lyra thought, for above all she wanted recognition. At the end of the day, she just wanted some pony to hug her.

        As she walked away, Princess Celestia stared quietly, her face emotionally neutral.

        She felt terribly sad for the plight of Lyra, a lone pariah of both land and sea. Even still, there were far more dire things to occupy her rigid contemplation, such as the monitoring of the Vessel of Destiny as the Elemental Six piloted it into the depths most black. There would be time to give Lyra and other ponies their moment in the spotlight, but they had to deal with the Burning Angel and its fiery wrath first.

        "What weighs upon your mind, sister?" Princess Luna asked.

        "Nothing that bids saying something." Princess Celestia turned towards the operators of NEIGHRV headquarters. "Commence with the counting of the down!"

        Overhead projections splashed vibrant numbers on the wall as a mare in a tight black uniform spoke loudly into a microphone: "T Minus Ten... Nine... Eight... Seven... Six..."

        All across the world, ponies held their loved ones and murmured silent prayers to the air.

        "...Five... Four... Three..."

        Cheerilee dabbed her eyes and readied her baton before the chorus of colts and fillies.

        "...Two... One... Zero!"

        Luna and Celestia boomed at once: "Launch Unit Two: Stephen of the Magneting!"

        The entire cave shook as the launch chamber filled with flames. Burning exhaust out of every orifice, the long slender purple sea serpent rose up out of the depths of the earth. It burst through a thin translucent dome of soil, exploding chunks of rock and grassroots everywhere. Then, in a burning orange plume, Stephen of the Magneting rocketed its way in a sharp arc, hurdling towards the nearest ocean.

        Cheerilee waved her baton as the thunder faded from the NEIGHRV Center, and the foals before her sang their righteous chorus:

        We wish you glory in the depths of the sea
        Oh blessed six, our little ponies
        Even if the sky was to burn
        And the earth was to dissolve
        Our love for you remains strong and resolute

        In houses, public squares, and bunkers, a live broadcast of the flying sea serpent was being projected on various walls. At the bottom of the projection, the words of the song stretched in golden font, and the emblem of a solar crest bounced across every lyric from left to right. Ponies dried their tears, hugged each other, and sang to the hauntingly majestic melody, lifting their voices to the shimmering sky.

        Honor and integrity, honor and integrity
        For the valiant six we hold on
        Honor and integrity, honor and integrity
        For the valiant six we live or die
        Honor and integrity, honor and integrity
        For the valiant six we hold on
        Until time everlasting
        And vacuum ever freezing
        We hold on, we little ponies, we hold on

        The pilots of the Stephen of the Magneting would have heard the echoes of Equestria's collective singing, if only they weren't too busy being jostled by the impact of the vessel of destiny with the ocean waves. The slender reptilian husk quivered from head to tail, its bulkheads and support beams groaning from the sudden pressure building up around it.

        Nevertheless, the disguised craft plunged, knifing its way through the darkening currents as it set course for the Mareiana Trench far below.

        Flipping a switch, Princess Twilight bathed the cranial compartment of the vessel with a dull crimson light. Her valiant eyes peered ahead through the two gigantic glass plates that served as the forward portholes of the Stephen of the Magneting.

        "Every pony, report in quickly!" she exclaimed.

        Down below, a dull light bathed Pinkie Pie's giggling features. "Heehee! Auxiliary controls are squeaky clean!"

        Further below, Applejack was illuminated besides a series of thick metal levers and pulleys. "Left arm reporting in!"

        Opposite of Applejack, a red light shone over Rarity, positioned next to a set of mirrored instruments. "Verily, I am here," she sniffled. "Reporting for the right arm apparatus!"

        Further down, a large chamber flickered to life, in the center of which sat Fluttershy in a plush chair, surrounded by pumping pistons and metal turnstiles. "This is Fluttershy. I am in control of the heart!"

        Finally, down below, in an extremely cramped chamber, Rainbow Dash lay suspended from multiple wires, each connected to a separate plug of her tight, tight suit. "Awwwww yeah! Rainbow Dash here! The tail is fully functional!"

        "Very good, girls!" Twilight throated, twisting a few crystalline diodes by her side. "Then let us commence with the mission! Is every pony ready?"

        "I... I..." Rarity choked back on a sob. "I need a moment to compose my frail heart!"

        "What's the matter with you?" Applejack asked with a surly squint.

        Rarity fanned her suited self. "It's just that, the last time I crossed paths with this most fabulous sea serpent, it was on the outside, and I was bequeathing him a mustache instead of gutting him like a purple pumpkin!" She shed tears onto her console.

        "Awwwwww..." Fluttershy gazed up from her steamy chamber. "There there, Rarity, it wasn't your fault that the Royal Council decided to eviscerate the sea serpent's organs and convert its insides into metal cockpits! Just because the country we represent does unkind things does not mean that we have to be—"

        "Enough!" Twilight grunted. "We have a job to do! We must navigate our way into Oatlantis, recover the Demon Lance of the Depths, and use the power invested in the Stephen of the Magneting to launch the weapon of Second Impact into the impending Burning Angel of Third Impact! Do I make myself crystal clear?!"

        "Aye, Princess!" Rainbow Dash growled, flexing her wings. As a result, the wires connected to her body sparked, and the tail of the sea serpent started thrashing outside, propeling the Vessel of Destiny deeper and deeper into the depths. "Let's do this!"

        "For Honor and Integrity!" Twilight said with an air-chopping salute.

        "Honor and Integrity!" Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and a sniffling Rarity echoed.

        "Mmmmm..." Fluttershy nervously, limply saluted to the steam. "Honor and... mmmmm... integrity."

        "Left arm and right arm!" Twilight shouted down the quivering, serpentine corridor beneath her. Bubbles flew past the twin portholes, causing rippling light to dance across her serious lavender face. "I need you in motion! Help Rainbow Dash push us deeper!"

        "Aye, Princess!" A loud buzzing whoop filled the chamber as Applejack pulled and twisted at her levers. "Rowing us now!"

        "Keep all systems calibrated, Pinkie!" Twilight bellowed, pulling on several chains. "Dive! Dive! Dive!"

        Rarity gritted her teeth, muscles sweating beneath her plugsuit as she struggled to rotate the arm lever in regular motions. She ultimately resorted to channeling magic through her horn to further accelerate the instruments. With a sigh, she glanced away from her work, rubbing her muzzle in thought.

        It wasn't just the husk of her former serpent acquaintance rotting all around her that bothered the unicorn, but also the fact that this mission had to be accomplished with such speed and specificity that it necessitated the moralistic compromise of all that she once thought Equestria—and herself included—held dear. Even still, she couldn't help but think selfishly about Sweetie Belle and how safe she may or may not actually be in that bunker all on her lonesome. Even still, Cheerilee and the other foals were there, not to mention Celestia and Luna. Even if the world did go completely dark, there'd be something alive long enough to knit a sweater, or a scarf, maybe.

        "How you doing down there, Dashie?!" Pinkie Pie asked. "You still being best pony or what?! Heehee!"

        "I'm trying my damnedest to move the damned sea serpent but it will be a lot easier without ponies breathing down my neck!" Rainbow Dash grunted.

        "Oh, be easy on her, sugar cube," Applejack droned while pumping the left arm. "It's her job to check on all of the systems working with one another all fluid like!"

        "And it's my job to make sure we get to the Depths and back in one piece, thank you very much, you silly farm filly!" Rainbow Dash held her breath.

        Could Applejack have figured out Rainbow's feelings from that last spastic utterance? Rainbow Dash wasn't certain, nor did she know how Applejack could have known anything about the many times she came to visit her comatose country girl friend in the hospital. Rainbow Dash felt as if the walls were closing in, not that she was claustrophobic, but rather that she was feeling pressure of an emotional sort in addition to the multiple cubic tons of water trying to crush in the husk of the Stephen of the Magneting at all times.

        "Can I get a bit more juice down here?!" Rainbow Dash grumbled.

        "I am pumping out as much as the healing life fluids as I can!" Fluttershy stammered from where she sat in the heart of the sea serpent. "Oh, if only I could also restore love and joy to the vacuum that's become the chest of this once mighty beast!"

        "Fluttershy, please, now is not the time to be double-questioning the nature of our mission!" Twilight Sparkle grumbled. "Celestia and Luna have sent us on a quest, and we must not fail! The fate of Equestria—nigh, even the whole universe—rests on this moment of triumph and this moment alone!"

        Fluttershy sighed, gazing lonesomely into the steamy depths of her chamber.

        She felt sorry most of all for Twilight, because Twilight was slowly becoming a beast, much like the monsters that they were being sent to fight for the Demon Lance of the Depths. What was the reason for this? Had a piece of the hellish darkness tainted the soul of the heroes' most esteemed leader? At least Rainbow Dash had a reason to be easily angered, considering that most of the movements of the Stephen of the Magneting relied on her adorably cute body in a suit, but on Twilight? Twilight had become all brains and no heart, and it felt very black and lonely and scary. Fluttershy just wanted to cuddle with Angel again—Angel the bunny rabbit, not demonic Burning Angel from the Burning Cosmos.

        "Hey guys!" Pinkie Pie sing-songed. "Guess what I have to do!"

        Applejack groaned. "Really? Now?"

        Twilight spat, "You should have done that hours ago before we took off on the glorious mission of honor and integrity to save the whole of Equestria from the plummeting body of a Burning Angel!"

        "Awwwwww..." Pinkie Pie pouted, her ears folding.

        Pinkie Pie really loved blueberry cinnamon toast, the type that you could spread jam over and still not lose its sweet taste. When nibbled before an open fire on a cold winter's day just before Hearth's Warming, it made the tips of her hooves tingle, and she giggled inwardly like a little filly about to ride an electric hippopotamus for the first time. Hippopotamuses were stupidly fat, perhaps it was because they didn't have tiny toothless alligators to play with, Pinkie Pie thought. Then again, pigeons didn't deserve to be called "winged rats," seeing as they didn't like to eat cheese. If everypony in Equestria jumped all at once, would the world wobble? Her left eyebrow felt itchy. When was the last time she ate something?

        "I'm hungry. Do we have any strawberries?"

        "Shhhh!" Twilight Sparkle's hissing voice reverberated down the serpent's inner chambers. "Silence, every pony! We've reached the Mareiana trench!"

        "Well, that was certaintly expedient!" Rarity exclaimed.

        "Careful now, Rarity," Applejack murmured. "Slow strokes. We don't want to disturb the water too much and give away our heroic position early."

        "Applejack is right, every pony!" Twilight exclaimed. "Rainbow Dash, slow your swimming motions!"

        "Aye, Princess!"

        "Pinkie Pie, be prepared for emergency energy transferrence! Bring weapons at the ready!"

        "Okie dokie lokie!"

        "Fluttershy..."

        "I'm already on it, Princess," Fluttershy said in a wilted voice. She reached above herself and pulled at a lever or two. "Lowering our heartrate. Preparing the artificial crimson adrenaline."

        "Run silent. Run deep," Twilight cooed, her purple eyes squinting through the portholes as bubbles, bubbles, and more bubbles wafted across the scaled snout of the diving serpent.

        For minutes, the Six Elemental pilots of the Stephen of the Magneting clung to their posts, listening to the silence between the ghostly pings of the vigilant sonar. When nearly an hour had drawn by, it was Rainbow Dash who spoke up first.

        "Enough waiting around, already!" her voice cracked. "Let's make with the thrashing and the lance-grabbing!"

        "I'm not sure there's anything that we can rightly thrash or grab onto, darling," Applejack said.

        "Shhhh!" Twilight Sparkle leaned forward and flipped a switch. "Get ready, every pony, I am switching on the Leviathan Light!"

        With a metallic clanking sound, the eyes of the Stephen of the Magneting turned on, shining two bright beams in front of it. Through the murky depths, the spotlights illuminated coral reefs, craggy rock clusters, and—finally—an arrangement of marble columns.

        "Good heavens!" Rarity gasped, staring at a flickering monitor broadcasting the footage above her. "Is that...?"

        "Affirmative," Twilight said with a nod. "We have reached the outskirts of the Forsaken Demon City of Oatlantis. We must proceed now with caution if we are to righteously procure the Demon Lance of the Depths."

        "And then launch that baby up into the sky to intercept the Burning Angel, I reckon," said Applejack.

        "Indeed. Rainbow Dash, proceed with the swimming. Get us as deep into the Mareiana Trench as you can muster."

        "Hold on, guys!" Pinkie Pie chanted, gazing up at her blinking instruments. "I think I detected some movement on this spinning green light thing!"

        "The sonar?!" Twilight gasped from inside the serpent's skull. "What kind of a shape is it?"

        "I don't know!" Pinkie Pie squinted. "It looks a little bit like a giant grape fruit with an even tinier grape fruit floating in front of it! Hey, Twilight! Do grape fruits swim in schools? I'm afraid I was too busy hoof-painting during that lesson in kindergarten to remember!"

        "Uhm... girls?" Fluttershy panted harder and harder as the steam built up to a burning point in her chamber. "I can't control the adrenaline flow!"

        "Every pony, just calm down!" Twilight grabbed her controls and tilted the head of the Stephen of the Magneting down. "I am pivoting the cranial unit of the Vessel of Destiny and brightening the Leviathan Lights to get a better view!"

        Not long after she uttered that, a stupidly huge lantern fish appeared from the depths, its iron-thick jaws lunging towards the Elemental Six's vessel.

        "Aaaaaugh!" Twilight shrieked. "Evasive actions! Quickly!"

        "Whoah nelly!" Applejack shouted, swinging her arm to punch the gigantic fish.

        The monster took the brunt of the massive purple knuckles. Its lantern dangled back and forth, built up heat, and fired a burning stream of energy at the scaled husk of the Stephen of the Magneting.

        "Ouch!" Fluttershy yelped as bursts of steam erupted all around her. "Pain! That is most definitely pain!"

        "Oh blessed silk worms! Look at the thing!" Rarity stammered as she compensated with titanic dog paddles on her end of the vessel. "It is big and it is hideously ugly!"

        "It's hideously dead!" Rainbow Dash growled. "Bring it closer to the tail so I can whallop it!"

        "No! We do this by the book!" Twilight shouted. "Pinkie Pie! Weapons!"

        "Here come the flaming death skull missiles!" Pinkie giggle-snorted as she slapped her hoof over a glowing red button. "Yaay! Explosions!"

        With whirring noises, the nostrils of the sea serpent opened with twirling apertures, and a pair of torpedoes flew out, propelled forward with a burst of bubbles. They flew into the side of the gigantic lantern fish, exploding the beast from the inside out. Streams of blood and coiled intestines rocketed past the piloted serpent's Leviathan Lights.

        "Woo yeah!" Rainbow Dash shouted. "Eat that salad with some croutons, you Friday Afternoon dinner special! Yeah!"

        "Did... did we do it?" Rarity stammered, her mane a frayed mess.

        "I see no sign of it," Twilight said, gazing out the twin portholes. "At least, no part that's living!" She smiled down the twisting, churning chamber of the mechanized serpent. "Congratulations and righteous fury, pony girls! We've survived the first demon! For honor and integrity!"

        "Honor and integrity!" the others chanted.

        "Wait..." Pinkie Pie squinted at the sonar. "Hey, Twilight?"

        "Yes, Pinkie?"

        "Remember that school of grape fruit—both big and small—that I talked about earlier?"

        "What about them?"

        "Well, looks like the rest of them have shown up, unless the entire sonar screen is supposed to be green! I mean... snkkkt—heeheehee—imagine that!"

        Twilight's portholes filled with gaping jaws from the darkness. The Princess sunk back in her seat and shrieked. "All hooves, brace for impact!"

        The school of gigantic Lantern Fish converged on the Stephen of the Magneting, biting onto whatever piece of the purple scaled hull their teeth could find. They collectively weighed the mechanized beast down, no matter how hard Rainbow Dash shook and thrashed to loosen their grip with the Vessel of Destiny's tail. At last, a giant barricuda emerged from the murky depths, tore through a marble column or two, and hurled itself like a missile towards the upper chest of the Stephen of the Magneting.

        "Ooooh! Look at that one!" Pinkie Pie pointed at the sharp spike that was slicing its way across the sonar screen. "It's shaped like a quill feather! Heehee! I wonder if it's come to tickle us!"

        The thing's jaws bore straight through the hull, ripping its way into the auxiliary compartment where its teeth clamped over Pinkie Pie's bloody rag of a body. It then dragged itself back out, pulling the earth pony's twitching pink limbs with it, as frigid cold seawater gushed into the compartment. Swiftly, thick metal sheets slapped shut to contain the flood, silencing the chaos and giving way to the startled shrieks of the ponies above and below.

        "Pinkie Pie!" Rarity sobbed. "Electron chaaaaaaaarge!"

        Twilight Sparkle shuddered as the flood barricade slapped shut beneath her. Stifling back a sob, she spoke into the radio intercom to her right. "NEIGHRV headquarters, this is Princess Twilight Sparkle. The Element of Laughter is down. I repeat. The Element of Laughter is down, and I am separated from the rest of the compartments of the Stephen of the Magneting!"

        Inside the underground control center, Princess Celestia slumped to her haunches, her features pale as a cold shiver ran across her rippling mane. "Pinkie Pie is the first to die."

        Luna gulped. "But will she be the last?"

        "Elemental Six!" Celestia boldly shouted, her jaw tight. "Proceed with your mission most righteous and retrieve the Demon Lance of the Depths!"

        Back in the Stephen of the Magneting, Applejack and Rarity looked across the dripping wet space between them.

        "Did you hear that?" Applejack stammered.

        Rarity sniffled. "You mean Pinkie Pie's blood curdling cries of pain and drowning?"

        "No, I mean our mission is still a go!"

        "But how can we continue?!" Rarity shrieked. "We're cut off from Twilight!"

        "Pinkie Pieeeee..." Fluttershy sobbed into her hooves. "She was my most favorite idiot who was pink!"

        "Will you guys knock it off?!" Rainbow Dash frowned, struggling with her wires and sparks and wires. "In case you didn't notice, we still have those stupid demon guppies chomping us to bits! Let's power our way through to the Lance already!"

        "Damn straight!" Applejack nodded with a growl. "Come on, Rarity!" She yanked and pulled and shoved at her levers. "Nnnngh! Let's get these arms moving!"

        "I'm trying as hard as I can!" Rarity wailed, stuck between sobbing and vomiting.

        "Grrrrrgh!" Rainbow's eyes glowed as she summoned more of Fluttershy's adrenaline juice. "Yeah, Fluttershy! Just like that!"

        "It isn't too late to try and reason with these creatures—"

        "Fluttershy, I don't want to hear it! More adrenaline! Grrrrr-raaaaugh!" Veins popped in Rainbow's neck as she powered the tail with all her might and concentration. "Mmmmf! I feel like it's my birthday and wasps are hatching in my lungs! Yeah!"

        The courageous pegasus' work didn't go unnoticed. The tail of the Stephen of the Magneting thrashed harder, shaking the lantern fish off as it pushed the gigantic serpent deeper and deeper towards the depths. The Leviathan Light of the cranial unit's eyes flickered on and off, and yet the arms continued swaying, tossing off fish and eel as the Vessel of Destiny approached a wide oceanic plain full of marble columns and alabaster temple ruins.

        "My little ponies..." Twilight Sparkle murmured, hugging herself and shivering. The temperature of her compartment had dropped dramatically since being cut off from the steamy heart. Still, that didn't stop her from peering out the portholes in amazement. "We're doing it! I can see the Lance! You're powering us to the horizon of destiny and righteousness, oh Blessed Six!"

        "I think I see something!" Rarity exclaimed, her bright blue eyes locked on a gigantic silver cross embedded in the center of a swirling, cement courtyard laced with seaweed and reefs. "Ooooh! Notice how it shines, even in these depths!"

        "Rarity, pay attention to what you're doing, sugar cube!"

        "I... can't help it..." Rarity let go of her levers and cupped her plush, white face as she drooled with awe. "It's... so mesmerizingly beautiful..."

        "Rarity!" Applejack hollered from where she pumped at her levers and sweated into her orange suit. "Stop gawking! You're being infected with the Demon taint of Oatlantis!"

        "Wait!" Fluttershy cooed, her eyes wide as she flung a hoof over her instrument panel. "That's not Demon taint! It's something else!" A soft cry escaped her yellow lips. "It's... it's life energy! From another world!" She sniffled. "A world... that simply wanted to meet us from across the cosmos and give us all hugs..." She smiled painfully. "A world of angels."

        "Well, they had a fine way of showing it ten thousand years ago during that Second Impact hogwash!" Applejack turned once more towards Rarity. "Rarity, for Pete's sake, will you start rowing again?! Rainbow and I can't do this on our own!"

        "So... pretty..." Rarity shed a tear. "They should have sent a poet!" She blinked, sniffing. "Hey, uhm, do you all smell fish?"

        CLAMP! A ferocious set of shark jaws bit into the hull, tearing it off its hinges. The right half of the Vessel of Destiny imploded with a spray of bulkheads and purple scales. Rarity flew into the tempest, shrieking.

        "Aaaaaaaaiiiieee—blblbllblbllbbllbb!"

        "Rarity!" Fluttershy wailed.

        "What the hay happened?!" Rainbow Dash shouted.

        "A big old fish done took Rarity to the depths!" Applejack hollered.

        "Darn it! Is she still in one piece?!"

        "Fluttershy!" Applejack shouted down the body of the Stephen of the Magneting as another metal barricade blocked off the flood of water from the right compartment. "Open a channel to Rarity! Tell her to activate her suit's armor!"

        "Rarity! Rarity! Can you hear me?!" Fluttershy yelped into a dangling microphone. "Wherever you are, you have to turn on your life support systems!"

        Fluttershy's voice came in a muffled, warbling pulse to Rarity's freezing ears. Spitting out bubbles, Rarity nevertheless interpreted the utterance, and she flung both hooves to the collar of her tight suit. A bubble of magic formed around her head, expelling all the water and giving her breathable oxygen.

        "Guaaaaaaah!" She inhaled with eyes darting in opposite directions. After a sharp shiver, she gnashed her teeth and swam upright over an abandoned Oatlantean temple. "Ungh! How garrish!" Her voice echoed into her magic helmit. "Didn't they believe in banners and pressure washing ten thousand years ago?"

        "Rarity! This is NEIGHRV Central Command!" a speaker built into the unicorn's collar crackled. "We heard that you got dislodged from the Vessel of Destiny! Are you alright?"

        "I could certainly use a coat down here. Just what did you mathematically educated ruffians make this suit out of? Garbage bags?" Just then, the mare's ear twitched towards a shrieking sound from below. She turned around, only for a massive barb of exoskeleton to reflect off her magic air bubble. "Oh, now that's just plain absurd."

        THUD! The claw of a giant crab enclosed over her. Shrieking up a vomit of bubbles, the oversized demon crustacean slammed Rarity to the ocean floor and grounded her tiny body to a bloody pulp against the jagged reef.

        All of this, of course, Twilight saw from the frigid confines of the Stephen of the Magneting's cranial unit.

        "Rarity!" she stammered, shivering violently. "You are fabulous and you are dead and not even the minnows will sing of your bloodletting!" With a snarl, she turned her face from the frosted windows and pushed a numb hoof against a big red button. "I know now what I must be doing swiftly for the righteousness of our glorious mission of salvation!"

        The entire chamber shook. Alarm sirens went off, but Twilight ignored them. Pulling at a pair of levers, she activated multiple thrusters all at once. KaPOW!

        The grinning skull of the Stephen of the Magneting flew off the hinges attaching it to the sea serpent's shoulders. With a trailing swath of bubbles, it drifted away from the Vessel of Destiny and floated lifelessly before the incoming rush of demonically possessed ocean life.

        "We've lost a great deal of weight!" Fluttershy exclaimed. Her eyes searched the console in front of her, and she gasped at a tell-tale strobe of light. "Oh no! Twilight's detached herself from the rest of the Stephen of the Magneting!"

        "She did what?!" Applejack exclaimed.

        "I feel it too, girls!" Rainbow Dash grunted into her wires. "The tail's moving faster! The damned Stephen of the Magneting has greater mobility!"

        "And now..." Fluttershy sniffed, bringing a pair of hooves up to her quivering muzzle. "Twilight has activated the self destruct mode of the cranial unit!"

        "Scrkkk! That is right, girls!" Twilight's voice chanted over the intercom of the remaining sea serpent mech. "I will destroy the waves of demonic monsters blocking your path to the Demon Lance of the Depths! In my death, I hope to maintain the Honor and Integrity of our Most Righteous Mission!"

        "Oh Twilight..." Applejack sighed with a melancholic smile. "You brave, brave unicorn woman. You're a loyal servant of Equestria to the end. To think that you would give your life for glory and bubbles."

        "It's been an honor to serve with you, my soldiers, my crusaders, my friends." Twilight's voice sobbed for joy. "When you return to Princess Celestia, tell her that I love her more than I love anything else—"

        "Enough talk!" Rainbow Dash snarled, bucking at her web of wires. "Zoop!"

        Under her administrations, the Stephen of the Magneting spun around, twirled towards the cranial unit, and kicked the orange-maned head with a swift slam of the tail. The thing rolled along a curtain bubbles—carrying along Twilight's scream—until it landed dead-center in the heart of the marauding school of murderous sea creatures. Two seconds and a flash of light later, the skull of the Vessel of Destiny exploded in a brilliant pulse of nuclear energy. Water evaporated in a pure sphere, then immediately refilled the super-heated vacuum. The resulting thunder sent ripples of distorted liquid soaring in every direction. The headless Stephen of the Magneting thrashed and paddled until it floated upright, staring down an unimpeded path towards the bright Lance.

        "Sugar cube?!" Applejack snarled down the chambers of the hollow sea serpent. "Couldn't you have waited for just a few more moments of speech and adoration?"

        "Does anypony forget that we have a world to save?!" Rainbow Dash yanked at several wires so that the tip of the tail pointed at the Lance. "Our target is right there, you sexy horse chicks! Let's get to the grabbing and the tossing!"

        Fluttershy sniffled. "Yes. We might as well." Tears ran down her face. "For Twilight..."

        "Yeah yeah! Gimme more adrenaline! Come on!"

        Fluttershy did as ordered. As the life juice flew down the inner Stephen tubings, Rainbow thrashed the tail while Applejack pumped the remaining arm for counterbalance. It didn't take long for them to navigate the floating field of dismembered fish heads and amphibious entrails and reach their destination. As soon as they arrived, however, a bright golden glow emanated from the patch of rock where the Lance had been lodged for ten thousand years.

        "Land's sakes!" Applejack exclaimed, gasping at the sight being broadcasted to her on the monitor. "What is with the glowing and the sparkles?!"

        "Are you girls seeing this?!" Fluttershy exclaimed, breathless. "I... I feel something in the air when I so much as look at it!"

        "Yeah, so?!" Rainbow Dash grumbled. "Let's grab the lance and launch it into the heavens already!"

        "Grgggrrgggh!" Applejack snarled, fighting her controls as sparks jumped from her console. "I'm trying to grab it! But the sea serpent's darn hand won't get close enough!"

        "What do you mean it won't get close enough?!" Rainbow Dash's voice cracked. "Is the golden light stopping your or what?!"

        "Scrkkk! Vessel of Destiny, this is NEIGHRV Headquarters! What seems to be the problem?"

        "Are you getting these energy readings, Princess Celestia?!" Fluttershy exclaimed. "A source of energy is cocooning the Lance and preventing us from grabbing it! I know that it sounds crazy, but I feel as though I have felt it before!"

        Back at NEIGHRV Headquarters, Princess Celestia gasped.

        Luna looked at her. "What is it, dearest sister?"

        "That is no mere golden light," Princess Celestia said, bowing her head so that her serious eyes were obscured by serious shadows. "That is nothing less than the spirits of the anguished ponies slain by Second Impact ten thousand years ago!"

        "Scrkk—The Anguished souls of ponies?!" Fluttershy's voice stammered over the gasping voice of dozens of equines at their computer stations. "You mean..."

        "Yes..." Celestia raised her face with glinting tears in the electric light. "They have clung to the weapon of their terrible destruction and made it their new habitat. We cannot grab the lance so long as they are still bonded with it."

        On board the Vessel of Destiny, Fluttershy gasped with an epiphanous flicker of lucidity in her eye. "They... they need to feel love." She gulped. "Only with love with they loosen their spirit limbs!"

        "What are you trying to say, sugar cube?!" Applejack asked.

        The pegasus was already unbuckling from the plush seat from the center of the Stephen of the Magneting's heart. "I must go out there and give them a hug! A spirit hug!"

        "What?!" Rainbow Dash cackled. "Fluttershy, no! You are spirit ill!"

        "It is not craziness! It is destiny! My destiny!" Fluttershy grinned with a golden sheen as her tears reflected the aura outside. "The solution of kindness that all demons and angels need!"

        "But you'll be dead if you stay out there for too long!" Applejack's green eyes flashed to a monitor on her left. "Readings show that another school of demon creatures are swimming this way!" She gulped. "It's the last surviving army of Oatlantis!"

        "Then here's what we do!" Rainbow Dash shouted. "We let Fluttershy give the Lance a spirit pep talk, and if it works, Applejack and I will shove the thing up into space with what's left of the Stephen of the Magneting!"

        "Sounds like a plan!" Applejack grunted with a nod. "Fluttershy, sugar cube, you move away when it's time to do the tossing!"

        "I am making no promises!" And Fluttershy slammed the air hatch door shut behind her.

        Seconds later, she propelled herself from the chest of the Vessel of Destiny, spreading her suited wings out so that she glided effortlessly towards the temple floor of Oatlantis where the Lance lay in wait.

        As she made her submerged flight, the rest of the sea serpent twirled to face the incoming wave of monstrosities.

        "Okay, Applejack, it's just you and me, girl!" Rainbow Dash flexed her limbs in the center of the net of sparkling wires. "Let's do this!"

        Applejack took a deep breath. "For the future of Equestria and apples. But mostly apples."

        "Yaaaaaaaaaugh!" Rainbow Dash shouted.

        With a burst of water, the Stephen of the Magneting soared towards the aquatic legion of demons. The two ponies thrashed the Vessel's remaining limbs about. Purple claws and scales slashed the throats out from beneath giant pirahna. They kicked holes in the chests of killer whales and ripped the tentacles off of giant squids. At last, they ripped out the spine from a plesiosaur and used it as a whip, ripping apart enormous mollusks and spilling blood and ink everywhere.

        "It's no use!" Applejack shouted, sweating amidst the sparks and intermittent sprays of seawater. "There's too many of them! The hull is breaking!"

        "Nuts to the hull!" Rainbow Dash snarled. "They're totally going to reach Fluttershy and the Lance at this point!"

        "This is impossible!" Applejack hollered. "We need help! We can't do this on our own!"

        The earth pony's green eyes as she shivered in a brief moment of lucid fear.

        The first thing she thought of was her mother and the touch of her mother and the breath of her mother and pretty much anything that had to do with anything that wasn't her father. There were long walks down the orchards and popping popcorn and nuzzling by the fireplace and maybe a trip to the rodeo or two. Her mother was always with her and yet she was never with her, that's how she knew she was with her. Always. It was because of love. Also apples.

        Just then, Applejack's ears twitched, for a strangely familiar voice was crackling over the intercom.

        "Scrkkk! You're never alone, ponies! Nor are you forgotten! For the Green Crusader is here!"

        Applejack gasped, her emerald eyes flying open. "That voice! Is it..."

        Rainbow gawked at a monitor suspended above her wires. "...Lyra Heartstrings?!"

        "When did music begin? Was it with a missile launcher?"

        KABOOM! A patch of demon fish exploded into murky blood as the green unicorn swam her way from behind a mountain of coral. Only, she wasn't a unicorn...

        "Lyra!" Applejack exclaimed, squinting in shock at the monitor feed. "Yer legs are gone!"

        Rainbow gulped. "Then that means the Green Crusader's a—"

        "That is an affirmative!" Lyra flicked her translucent fins as the fully exposed seapony made its way towards the edge of the underwater battleground. "This is not even the form most final!" She loaded another missile into her bazooka and let it fly.

        P-POW! A blue whale took it straight to the chest, leaking blood and sinew. Lyra swam through the hole in its guts and posed dramatically in a pair of crossbeaming lights.

        "Lyra Heartstrings! Unsung Hero of Land and Waves no more!"

        Deep in NEIGHRV Headquarters, Luna and Celestia gasped at the staticky imagery that the Stephen of the Magneting was broadcasting.

        "Lyra Heartstrings!" The Princess of the Night smiled in both awe and shock. "It is just as the prophets foretold! The product of angels and demons has brought light to the cursed depths!"

        "Yes..." Celestia nodded, wiping a tear from her pale muzzle. "But will it be enough to accomplish the most righteous destiny?"

        "Your Highness!" A pony shouted. "Ten minutes until Third Impact!" The computer operator pointed at a satellite image of the burning projectile approaching the upper atmosphere. "Global turbulence is in effect!"

        As a low rumble filled the subterranean headquarters, startling Cheerilee's foals into yelping out of tune, the alicorn sisters saluted the screens above them.

        "For Honor and Integrity, Lyra Heartstrings!"

        Along the fringes of the battlefield, the transformed seapony took a deep breath, her gills rustling. "Yes! Honor! Integrity! And now..." She pulled out a golden harp. "...Melody!"

        "What in tarnation are ya doing, you crazy, crazy horse fish?!" Applejack shouted.

        "Lending you the hand! The ultimate hand!" Lyra's teeth showed as she yelled bubbles into the void. "With this music, I summon Unit Zero! Your partner in this time of adversity! The key to our salvation!"

        She played a few simple notes. The music penetrated the depths, causing the rampaging demon fish to pause in momentary terror. The coral reef shook as a mound bore through the upper layers of the earth's crust. Then, with a violent explosion of rock and crystalline sediment, a gigantic figure burst out from the ocean's floor, dislodging marble temples and other chunks of Oatslantean architecture.

        Once the golem was summoned, Lyra gestured towards the emerging, bipedal figure. "Ladies and gentlecolts, I, the Green Crusader, present to you the Neckbeardzord! Champion of the depths!"

        "EXALIBUR!" The giant naked golem thrashed his arms through the warzone and yelled, his red whiskers flailing beneath a pair of glowing green eyes. Bubbles strategically frothed around his crotch as he then stomped forward, running underwater at literally breathless speed. "PAIN AND RAGE AND CHEESE!" He flew fist first into the demonic school of fist, tearing several razor-finned groupers into chunks and then biting into the flesh of a flailing tiger shark.

        "That works for me!" Rainbow Dash shouted. "Applejack?!"

        "There's no getting off this train we're on!" Applejack blurted with a smirk.

        Schiiiiing! With a glint of holy light, both the golem and the Stephen of the Magneting posed back to back in the center of the twirling fish army.

        "Yes!" Lyra shouted, giving her harp a final strum as she gestured towards the scene. "It's as the goddesses intended! Bipeds and ponies and fish! Fighting side by side! Bring glory to the grave of ages!"

        "Go time!" Rainbow shouted, kicking at the wires.

        "FRIENDSHIP IS DRAMA!" The Neckbeardzord launched into the fray with a warlusting cry.

        The ocean floor had become a bloodbath. The Stephen of the Magneting smashed several jellyfish together while the Neckbeardzord piledrove a sperm whale into the reefs. The sea serpent uppercutted a giant sawfish, dislodged its barb, and tossed it to the golem who then used it to decapitate several saltwater crocodiles with a single swing. The Neckbeardzord kicked a narwhal in the groin and joined the Vessel of Destiny as both titans collectively suplexed the whimpering demon beast through a collapsing temple.

        Meanwhile, at the Demon Lande of the Depths, Fluttershy had finally pony-paddled her way to the base. She swam into the golden aura, her helmeted eyes following the incandescent trails of each pixie-like strobe of light.

        "Oh, you poor, poor spirits," she cooed. "Speak to me. Tell me of the pain you've felt..." She spread her arms with a gentle smile. "And I shall ease your suffering."

        The golden orbs collected around her far swifter than she had anticipated. But, instead of gasping, she felt a sense of calm. She cooed, closing her eyes with a gentle flutter as the aura transferred from the giant slender cross and into her equine body. After a few seconds, she gasped, and her eyes began glowing with alien luminosity.

        "Of course, it makes so much sense now," Fluttershy chanted in a voice that was her own and yet wasn't. "The angels and the demons are one in the same. They came to earth long ago, and they built it. That was First Impact. But then the spirits of the creators left, having given their descendants probationary leave on this sphere. But when they returned, the children had forgotten the parents of the stars, and the resulting confusion gave birth to the War of the Waves, and the Second Impact."

        She floated upwards, spreading her arms as her body swam the length of the giant silver Lance.

        "I am filled with luminosity and understanding! The spirits only wish to be free from this prison! They do not want to have the same thing that's happened to their forefathers happen to their sons and daughters. The only beginning is the end and the only end is the beginning. The demons and the angels must become one, or else risk a Fourth Impact, because the Third Impact will be the end, and the beginning, and the end and the beginning and the rebirth and the death of the end and beginning!"

        "Hey Applejack!" Rainbow Dash shouted, sweating into the forest of wires as she thrashed the purple tail through wave after wave of attacking demon spawn. "Do you hear anything that Fluttershy is babbling about?! The radio's gone all staticky!"

        "I don't know, sugar cube, but it's getting hard to concentrate with all these bubbles and blood bubbles—" She suddenly gasped and yelled at the monitor. "Neckbeardzord! On your six!"

        "NO MORE CEASE AND DESIST!" The golem spun, only to have a giant mouth-frothing sailfish skewer its neck down the center. "BLARRGHGLLGHGLLG—DOES NOT LOVE AND TOLERATE THIS!" It was too late. All it took was a single flick of the massive sailfish's neck, and the skull popped off at the beardline. KRAACKK!

        "Unit Zero!" Lyra gasped from where she swam just above a coral ridge. "You were so faithful and fat..."

        "Great! Now what do we do?!" Rainbow Dash snarled. "Fluttershy's spouting gibberish and our beat 'em up buddy's down for the count!"

        "Not entirely!" Lyra shouted with a teeth-gritting expression. "Stephen of the Magneting! You must perform fusion with the body of the Neckbeardzord!"

        "What?!" Applejack gasped.

        "It is the only solution!" Lyra exclaimed. "Only with the Vessel of Destiny and Unit Zero combined to form the Magnetzord will you have the energy to toss the Demon Lance of the Depths back into the galactic reaches!"

        "She may be an apple short of a barrel, sugar cube, but she's got a point!" Applejack said.

        "But how can we even do that?!" Rainbow Dash flung her forelimbs in disbelief. "Look at the damn thing! I don't think we have any part of the Stephen of the Magneting that can fit!"

        Applejack took a deep, deep, deep, deep breath. "We're about to..." She flipped a lever, slamming shut a metal slab between the arm compartment and the rest of the vessel. "So long, sugarcube..."

        "Huh?!" Rainbow Dash instantly whimpered, gazing up the hollow of the sea serpent with glistening eyes. "Applejack! No! Don't be a hero!"

        "I was born a hero..." She sniffled and put on a smug smirk. "I'm fixing to die a saint!" Slam! Her hoof flew over a red button.

        KAPOW! The left arm of the Stephen of the Magneting flew off its purple host body. It sailed towards the quivering torso of the Neckbeardzord, punching several drooling dolphins along the way. When at last it approached Unit Zero's body, it spun around so that its wrist-socket approached the gaping hole at the golem's neck.

        "Lyra, darling, you're going to have to talk me through the next part!"

        "Understood!" Lyra turned to look at the thrashing torso and tail of the Stephen of the Magneting. "Rainbow Dash! You still have the heart and tail of the Vessel of Destiny! Go to the Lance where Fluttershy is!"

        "But... wh-what is that even going to do?!" Rainbow Dash shouted.

        "Reckon it's gonna have to be the Magnetzord that tosses that damn thing into the heavens to stop the Burning Angel, sugar cube!" Applejack returned over the radiowaves as she used the purple fingers of the robot hand to swim into position. "I need you and the tail wrapped around the lance to give the golem something to grip onto!"

        "But Applejack...

        "You and I both knew what we signed up for, darling!" Applejack sniffed. "As did Twilight."

        Rainbow Dash gritted her teeth as her eyes turned misty. "It's not that, you stupid, silly pony..."

        "What was that?!"

        Rainbow Dash growled, replacing her tears with a pulsing temple. "Just make sure you've practiced your pitching arm!"

        Applejack closed her eyes.

        This was the last thing she was going to say to Rainbow Dash and in so many ways she wanted to make it sweet and fragrant like apple orchards in the summer breeze only they were deep under water and the only wind to be had was the exhalations their sobs produced as they whimpered in the inevitable absence of one another.

        "Darn tootin'!"

        Rainbow Dash sighed.

        Her whole life, the pegasus didn't know how to put into words the feelings that she had for Applejack. If only she could talk with her feathers instead of her tongue, then maybe she would have produced a thousand poems, and all of them gold-star winning exaltations of the freckles and the sweat and the red hair ribbons that she had fallen head over hooves for after one too many sweaty nights of tossing and turning and guilty sobs in the corner of the shower stall.

        "Stupid farmer hick!" Rainbow Dash growled as she spun the tail and heart around. "I'll be thinking of you as I die in Fluttershy's arms!"

        "I wouldn't have it any other way!" Applejack grunted. "Lyra?"

        "Think happy thoughts!" The seapony gestured with her fins from afar. "Now lower! Activate gravitational couplings!"

        "Like this?" Applejack pulled a lever. Several metal clamps merged with the gaping throathole of the Neckbeardzord. "Graaaaaaaulghulguhghglghl!" the earth pony's freckles lit up with sparkling energy.

        "I said happy thoughts!" Lyra shouted above the bubbly expanse. "You are fusing with Unit Zero's central spirit spine! The pneumatic motors of neurosis will bash your brains to bits if you don't perform fusion precisely!"

        "No..." Applejack heaved, her gaping mouth strobing with bolts of electricity as they bounced between her molars. "...no, this is precisely what I need. I see with the clarity of a million falcons. I feel with the hairs of a billion mole crickets! I see between the walls and the ghostly beams beyond!"

        Her eyes flickered wide.

        Those frolicking walks through the orchard. Butterfly kisses. Dumplings fresh out of the oven. A bedsheet flouncing over a mattress in spring sunlight. Bubble baths after a day at the fair. Blue eyes laced with perspiration and singing songs of the windy mountains.

        "Mother..." Applejack's eyes lit up.

        Outside, the hand of the Stephen of the Magneting closed into a fist.

        "Mother... I feel you! You are with me!"

        The golem's body lifted up and up, standing with locked limbs before the looming cloud of angry fish incubi, succubi, and minnows.

        "You were always with me!" Applejack giggled like a filly, her eyes lighting up. "You never left my side! Grnnnnghhh! Ponyyyyy overwhelllmiiiiiiiinnng!"

        Lyra slumped on her fins at the edge of the coral reef. She watched as the cranial fist of the serpent hand glowed brighter than the sun. Her eyes teared a saline solution into the rippling currents around her. "It's so beautiful..." She cooed. "Do you see it, NEIGHRV? The Magnetzord has been born."

        "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" Applejack piloted the golem with a berserk yell into the cloud of fish. Every punch produced blood and every kick produced organic effluence as she tore the amphibious army limb from limb. "APPLE SAUCE!" She grabbed fists full of sea creatures and grinded them to a pulp against the ocean floor. "RAAAAAAAUGH! EVEN WITHOUT THE APPLE STEM I HAVE ENOUGH POWER TO KILL ALL OF YOU VARMINTS!"

        She dive-kicked through a school of devil fish, backhanded a hammerhead shark, and did a spinning lariat on an oversized sea cucumber.

        "HRAAAAAUGH! TWENTY SECONDS PER FLOUNDER! YOU AND ME, MOTHER! LET'S MOSEY!"

        She headbutted an elephant seal, tore its skin off, and used it to drape several demon penguins into a net, pounding them against temples, marble columns, and jets of thermal mud.

        In the meantime, Rainbow Dash was swiftly tail-thrashing her way from the fray, controling what best resembled a giant squirming sliver of purple scales.

        "Stupid damn underwater fart mission, I swear to goddess," she griped.

        At last, she stopped bucking against the wires, gasping at a sight before her.

        "Fluttershy!" Rainbow Dash's yelped with quivering eyes. "What have you become?!"

        "I am kinetic!" Fluttershy hollered, her body reaching the criss-cross of intersecting silver at the tip of the lance. "One with the dead and the living and the soul fluid in between!" Her body drifted back, forelimbs spread in the golden glow like a Neighvana album cover. "The Third Impact is me! Blistering kindness activate!" The pulsing orbs flew into her as she became one with the spirits. Her suit exploded, exposing her to the frigid depths.

        "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" Rainbow Dash screamed in abject terror, causing the monitors around her station to crack.

        In the meantime, Fluttershy smiled her last smile... before her muzzle melted. Her skin peeled away as her muscles spread out, ballooning into a giant white mass of angelic ectoplasm that was immediately crucified to the giant Lance. Seven eyes peered out from her skull, rolling back as they danced between thoughts and burps of bloody agony.

        It was her destiny, she thought with seven minds, descended from the heavens and spit out from the earth, a seraphim in heart but a nephilim in body, fused to both the weapon of ages and the sacrificial slab of destiny. She would be the final hoofprint of equines everywhere and the final bloodstreak of burning angelic hosts carried aloft the atmospheric rim of Eden.

        "Fluttershy! Do not become that which should not be becoming!" Rainbow Dash thrashed at the controls, but as soon as she made contact with the lance, the purple scales of the Vessel of Destiny wrapped several times around its silver stalk, turning into a handle. The pegasus gasped, danglingly awkwardly in a black void as her compartment expanded and expanded. "Stop it, Fluttershy! There is still a piece of you in there! Do not mistake kindness for the tempting kiss of oblivion! You do not need to be the Third Impact! You can be our friend! You can be our friend forevermore!"

        A heavenly song entered the bulkheads of the Stephen of the Magneting. Ghostly naked pegasi in the yellow form of Fluttershy drifted down from every black pocket of the metal womb. They swam towards Rainbow Dash, bunching around the sticky-webbe'd pony as their grins lit up the electrical miasma enveloping her. With birdlike shrieks, they cooed repeatedly, their eyes like loose marbles over pale white muzzles.

        "Yay!" "Yaaay!" "Yaaaay!" "Yay!" "Yaaaay!" "Yayyyy!"

        "Guhhh! Fluttershy! Get back! Get backkkk!" Rainbow Dash flinched as the feathers and the limbs and the smiles and vaporous breaths crowded all around her. She clenched her eyes as she fought with the control wires now binding her to the blackness. "Mustn'tflyaway!" she chanted. "Mustn'tflyaway! Mustn'tflyaway! Mustn'tflyaway! I am no coward! I do not fear death!" Her eyes flew open.

        Past the crowd of smiling Fluttershy clones, she saw the faint image of a monitor broadcasting the Magnetzord in its last bloody battle.

        "Applejack!" Rainbow Dash shouted. "Applejackkkk! Toss it! Toss it now!"

        Meanwhile, the Magnetzord had an orca in its grip and was slamming it repeatedly against a temple ceiling. "APPLES!" Thud! "TO APPLES!" Thuddd! "TO APPLES!" Thuddddd!

        "Applejaaaaack!"

        The Magnetzord spun around. Chiiing! Its polished skull-knuckles reflected the Demon Lance of the Depths—now transformed by the golden aura into the Angel Lance of the Depths.

        "HUTT!"

        The massive golem leapt over the remaining legion of demon fish, gripped the purple-shaped handle, spun, and threw the razor-sharp cross skyward, carrying it, Rainbow Dash, and the nebulously crucified blob of Fluttershy up into the depths. Immediately afterwards, every surviving leviathan of the battlefield pounced on the bipedal mech, ripping it to shreds pulling out its synthetic intestines.

        Lyra gasped, covering her face as she shuddered all over.

        "Nooooooo!" Rainbow Dash shouted. "Applejaaaaaaack—" Soon, all she could see was bubbles and yellow feathers.

        As the Lance sailed beyond sight, the demon fish spread apart, dragging the entrails of Unit Zero along with it. Alone in her cockpit, and wincing all over with electrical energy, Applejack covered one side of her wincing face as she reached a single hoof towards the fading monitor looming above her, flanked with invading seawater.

        "Buck... you all," she hissed, spitting up blood and foam. "Buck you all... b-buck... you all... b-buck you all... b-buck—"

        Her forelimb suddenly split down the middle. Milliseconds later, Unit Zero exploded, sending chunks of metal and synthetic life juice spilling all over the floor of Oatlantis.

        Lyra shuddered, gazing towards the swirling bubbles that marked the trail of the Lance's throw. "All hope now rests with the final toss of destiny..."

        With a mighty splash of water, the projectile in question exited the ocean surface. Several gasping ponies on the decks of an Equestrian naval armada turned to watch its mighty ascent. The sky had become a burning red canvas at this point, and the Lance sailed towards the highest, hottest point. Soon, from the perspective of everypony watching along the shorelines of the continent below, the thrown object had become one with the flicker of the incoming astronomical body.

        "Princess Celestia!" a pony shouted in the heart of NEIGHRV as one by one the computers went static. "The navy has sighted the Lance sailing skyward! They report a large organic mass clinging to it!"

        "What is this you speak of?!" Princess Celestia shouted.

        "We can no longer keep track of it, Your Highness!" the pony whimpered as the entire headquarters went black. "The energy resonating from the thing is off the charts! All technology is ceasing to function!"

        "It's just as it was ten thousand years ago, at Second Impact," Luna said. "All we can do now is wait."

        Princess Celestia took a deep breath and bowed her head. Everypony was silent, save for the whimpering of foals and the subsequent lulling shush of Cheerilee's voice.

        All the while, Rainbow Dash saw nothing but golden light. She felt the wires dissolving around her. Her consciousness drifted back and forth, as did her body. The black womb around her took form, and soon the remaining hull of the sundered Stephen of the Magneting had become a cocoon. With glowing yellow light, the Vessel of Destiny merged with the crucified mass of the Lance. By the time it exited the earth's atmosphere, the silver cross had become the spinal column to a gigantic bright gold pegasus.

        An eternity drifted by in an instance.

        When Rainbow Dash's eyes opened, she saw a sheen of fog from her very own breath. She sucked her lungs in, and the fog cleared, revealing stars from beyond the translucent curve of her suit's magnetic helmet. She figured that it must have erected itself while she was unconscious. But that had to mean that there was a hull breach of some sort.

        Operating her suit's thrusters, she found that she was floating weightlessly between two masses. Rotating about, she stared at burning equine statue heading straight towards her.

        "The Burning Angel," she muttered.

        But then she twirled around...

        A giant, three-hundred story naked Fluttershy with golden flesh and platinum feathers grinned straight into her face.

        "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaugh!" Rainbow Dash hollered in pure terror.

        Titan Angel Fluttershy's teeth grinned beyond the limit of her jaws. Her wings spread, blotting out the blue and green swirls of the terran sphere beneath her. She flew in to embrace the Burning Angel, and Rainbow Dash was caught in the middle.

        "HAAAAAAA-AAAAUGHHH!" Rainbow Dash's eyes pointed in opposite directions as she clambered and clawed at the magical barrier preventing her from killing herself before this moment could complete itself.

        At last, the golden spirit of the living and dying Fluttershy hugged the Burning Angel, and both Agents of Impacts came together at a celestial point of finite being, with Rainbow Dash in the center.

        FLASH!

        Rainbow Dash winced, curling tighter under the sleeping bag in her apartment. Her ears twitched against the classical music wafting out of the speakers of her Pony Walkmare. She reached the end of an orchestral symphony, and silence reigned between her lingering tinnitus and the perpetual hum of the night.

        Just then, a toilet flushed, and a door creaked open. Hoofsteps sounded across the bed, followed by the artificial wind of a body heavily thwomping onto the sleeping bag next to her.

        Rainbow Dash opened her eyes. She gasped, her jerking body movement prematurely shoving the Walkmare's casette into rewind.

        Applejack lay across from her, half-asleep, her eyes fluttering shut as her fuzzy orange lips made pursing motions.

        Rainbow Dash stared at her—wide-eyed—as blood vessels pumped hotly in her ears. She gulped. As the casette finished rewinding, she leaned forward, daring to brush her lips against Applejack's.

        No more than five seconds later, the earth pony's jaw flapped open, and a million Lyras swam out, grinning crescent moons.

        "Honor and integrity!" "Honor and integrity!" "Honor and integrity!"

        "AAAAAAAUGH!" Rainbow Dash clutched bloodily at her skull as rigid red lines danced from her head and pierced the black walls of her obsidian sphere. She punched in a bathroom mirror, jumped into an oncoming train, and strangled a half-naked penguin, all the while screaming and yelling into the swirling black void. "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"

        With her undying breaths, as in the breaths beyond dying, Rainbow Dash wondered if it was all worth the pain and the heartache just to feel the love of a mother again, as Applejack must have felt the love of a mother, though it was ripped from her bowels in the center of a quivering bipedal neckbearded beast of destiny.

        Rainbow Dash played the bass fiddle with a deadpan expression. As the trolley rolled and rattled its way towards NEIGHRV headquarters, she gazed dully across the car at goldfish and seaweed drifting past the watertight windows.

        Maybe Princess Luna was wrong, and it was okay to feel one's emotions, if even for the sport of it, since life is a giant sport, even if it ended with a really bloody field goal that nobody was expecting except for the prophets and the angels and the demons of the Second Impact ten thousand eons ago.

        "Wait, they expected this to happen?!" Rainbow Dash gasped, tripping over her pleated skirt. She landed on the street corner, spitting out the slice of toasted bread from her mouth. "What was it,then?" She folded her skirt back in place, blushing, and scrambled for her book bag. "The religions or the sciences or the cultural societies in between?"

        It is none of them, and yet it is all of them. This day of blood and gold was foretold to have happened since the beginning of the seeing sight of sight seers. You are but a pawn, but you will not be just a memory. We have come to clean and destroy and dirty and pirge. It was inevitable since the first day of night. You knew this before you were born, for you are part of the goldening death life, my little pony.

        "So wait..." Rainbow Dash crawled out of the tent and stood in the shadow of two tall stallions in government black suits. "It all revolves around me? Only not in the awesome way?"

        What is a pony? Nothing but a miserable pile of oats. But misery is worth experiencing if you can experience joy and friendship all the same.

        "Yes, but that is the magical part of it." Rainbow Dash hugged herself as she sat on a folded chair in the middle of a dark, dark room. "But what if I'm afraid of magic? I'm a coward, and I fly away from the stuff that truly scares me."

        That is impossible. There is nothing to fear if you have destroyed all life. And there is nothing to live if you have manifested all destruction.

        "That's it!" Rainbow Dash gasped, standing up from the folding chair with wings spread. "I have to destroy the death through life in order to live the life through death so that destruction and construction is all golden and alive and dead as prophesied by the living dead to be dead and living!"

        Misery and joy will become one, and you can keep the happy with the sad as the sorrowful is to the joyful, for you cannot have a seed without the earth and the earth is naked without the water and the water is dry without space. We shine in the void, like things that shine in the void, but only if we choose to shine in the void.

        "Then I will choose to do both, and yet to do neither. To shine and be the void and to be awesome."

        When did the mission of righteous destiny begin? Was it when we reached into the heavens and took a slice of Faust?

        "The Second Impact and the Third Impact will become the Awesome Impact in twenty seconds flat."

        And so long as one pony lives it will be a testament that Equestria has ever existed in the universe. Spread the friendship, my little pony.

        "I am the magic," Rainbow Dash cooed. "I am the awesome." And with that, the glass broke all around her.

        A blue sky with swirling clouds flanked several ponies as they clapped and stomped on their hooves.

        "Congratulations!" Pinkie Pie chirped.

        "Congratulations!" Cheerilee smiled.

        "Congratulations!" Princess Celestia and Luna chanted at once.

        "Congratulations!" Rarity elegantly cooed.

        "Congratulations!" Lyra grinned like an idiot.

        "Congratulations!" Twilight Sparkle said.

        "Congratulations!" Applejack and Fluttershy sing-songed.

        "Thanks." Rainbow Dash smiled with her eyes shut. "Thank you, everypony." A beat. She blinked her eyes open, and her ears folded. "Buck. I'm forgetting something, aren't I?"

        FLASH!

        "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" Rainbow Dash howled in torment as she, Titan Angel Fluttershy, and the Burning Angel become one. The trio burned alive in a horrifying inferno... then continued their plummet towards earth.

        As soon as they impacted the mesophere, the essence of Fluttershy exploded completely. Her golden form spread like a molten metal, covering every inch of the planet. It sank into oceans, valleys, mountains, and countrysides. It poured into villages, cities, maretropolises, and even subways.

        As the golden essence came into contact with living things, they swiftly screamed—then exploded into matching platinum goo. Trees turned to organic lemonade in an instant. Grass added to the sloshing volume, sending tidal waves to every inch of the geological sphere.

        When the solution reached Lyra, she swam backwards, blushing, surrounded by a phantom herd of hands that crawled all over her ambibious body, finally giving her a much-needed ear scratch.

        "Oh...!" She yelped, and exploded into golden mist that drifted with the deep ocean current.

        Finally, in NEIGHRV headquarters, the essence of Fluttershy reached the bodies of ponies and computer operators everywhere. The cavern filled with screams of mixed horror and delight as the equines exploded one after another.

        "Gaaaaaaugh!" Luna shrieked, clutching her skull as she was crowded tightly by a phalanx of stupidly grinning Fluttershy's.

        "Yaay! Yay! Yaaaay! Yayyyy! Yay!"

        Luna burst into goo, her splashing essence joining with Fluttershy's as it wafted around Cheerilee.

        "No! Not now!" Cheerilee sobbed hysterically, flinching away from an army of Big Macintoshes with loving smiles on their freckled faces. She backed up into a wall and let loose a high-pitched screech. "I'm not ready! I'm not—Aaaugh!" She burst into goo, along with Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle.

        Scootaloo had retreated to the top of a table, jumping and panickedly flapping her tiny feathers as the ocean of gold kindness pooled up all around her.

        "No! Please! Work, you stupid feathers!" the filly shrieked, sobbed. "Work!"

        Just then, a pair of strong blue arms held her from behind.

        Scootaloo gasped. She looked up. "Rainbow Dash!"

        The pegasus smirked at her with a devilish grin, then winked.

        "Oh Rainbow!" Scootaloo sang with a bright warm smile. She reached back and nuzzled the pegasus as she was carried high above the spectral essence. "Rainbow! Rainbow Dash!" Both exploded in a patch of splashing gold liquid that rained down on the submerged depths of the NEIGHRV Center.

        The gold ocean surface rose higher and higher, finally reaching Princess Celestia as she calmly awaited her fate upon a looming platform, cupping two hooves beneath her chin.

        "And so the world ends, not with a bang, but with a neighing whimper..."

        "But at least it ends..." Princess Twilight Sparkle flew down and nuzzled Celestia from behind. "That is a kind thing for you, yes?"

        Celestia shed a single tear. "Would you forgive me, my student?" She turned towards her with a quivering jaw. "My love...?"

        Twilight smiled, then answered her with a kiss. Both melted, becoming one with the golden depths as it filled every last square inch of the subterranean control center, dousing the red banners of the alicorn rulers and saturating their effigies with organic life fluid.

        All across the globe, the golden spirit of life sloshed and settled, forming new oceans and new continents. Soon, every remaining scrap of land was bathed in a waterworld of liquid kindness. The Angel Lance of the Depths had embedded somewhere on the surface, its cosmic weight shifting the globe's entire axis as it spun a new course across the twinkling stars.

        Several hundreds of miles off shore, the giant grinning decapitated head of Fluttershy sank into the depths, one half sliding after the other.

        Rainbow Dash saw this with twitching eyes from where she lay on the sandy shore. For a brief moment, she thought she saw Fluttershy standing like a messiah on the waters in her Galloping Gala gown. One blink, and she was gone, replaced by endlessly crashing waves of gold life magic.

        The good bye of most finalization.

        Rainbow Dash sat up, breathing slowly. She brushed her manes back, blinked, then glanced aside.

        Applejack lay a few spaces away, her orange body bandaged from head to hoof.

        A minute later, Rainbow Dash was standing over the mare, her hooves at Applejack's throat, strangling her. She clenched her teeth, her lungs quivering with the vicious effort.

        At some point, Applejack's eyes blinked wide as she came out of her coma. Unable to breathe, she simply gazed up at Rainbow Dash as the pegasus continued to strangle her, scarring her throat with heavy blue hooves.

        Seconds limped by, and Applejack raised one of her own hooves up—trembling—and lovingly brushed the edge of Rainbow Dash's face.

        Rainbow Dash froze. Her muzzle scrunched up. One by one, tears fell from her face, littering Applejack's freckled cheek. Sobbing quietly, Rainbow Dash rolled off her, curled up into a fetal position, and shivered into the night.

        Tiredly, Applejack turned her head aside, gazing at the golden ocean beyond the crying pegasus. Her lips finally moved, her voice raspy and monotone.

        "Adjacent the feeling it disgusts..."

> In the Darkness Where I Seek You - Original 2013 Draft - Incomplete
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

    My Dearest Vinyl,

The evening of the meteor shower, five years ago, when we trotted uphill alongside the happily chatting citizens of Ponyville, with our voices dancing like honeymooners in the soft purple air of descending night, and you had your shades off because I had convinced you that a true experience was to be had in watching the shooting stars with one's natural born vision, so that I could secretly watch as the silver pinstreaks highlighted the magenta sheen of your gorgeous eyes, and yet you never looked at the heavens because you spent the whole magical moment staring at me—and at no other pony—trying ever so smoothly to tell a joke that you could barely remember, as if the only special equine atop that shimmering hill was myself, and it was cosmically important that you find some way to make her laugh, when I was already smiling upon every breath that you had to give, so that each pitch of your chirping voice made me lose all grasp of my fears, doubts, and sighs...

That was the moment when I finally realized that I had fallen in love with you.

Forever yours,
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I woke up screaming this morning. It was dawn, and I sat up—hyperventilating—beneath the shade of a spreading oak tree beside the country road heading west. I couldn't tell if I was moist from the dew or from my own sweat. I watched the world heave and shake around me, feeling the residual mists of a watery dream unraveling from my cloudy mind, leaving nothing but a ghostly ringing in my ears, the one and only ringing.

I could no longer sleep.

So I rolled up my sleeping mat and packed my things, as meager as they've become by now. I've had to sell quite a few items for bits ever since I was mugged while passing through Mexicolt City. Regardless, I've managed to keep myself relatively together since I left the northwest borders of Central Equestria. I still have my cello case and a brown canvas saddlebag full of the barest necessities. They suffice for the time being, but I know that I will have to give them up eventually. How soon remains to be seen; I suspect I will understand more once I have reached the gray walls of Masada.

The highway is very lonely here, but peaceful. It's not like the earth pony provinces that I wrote to you about in my last few letters, Vinyl. I am far from the urban sprawls of Seaddle and the lofty mountain hovels of New Ramsterdam beyond them. Here, northwest of mainland Equestria, the landscape has smoothed out, dipping every now and then to form lakes and ponds buzzing with insects and beautiful water fowl. I find the trek cool and invigorating, a welcome reprieve from the scorching jog that was my experience several weeks ago in Las Alamares. From horizon to horizon, I see nothing but windswept grassy fields, interrupted randomly by a thin patch of trees or the rough, brown signature of a farmstead.

It is so quiet. I've sneezed once or twice, and there was no echo. I suspect if I was to scream, it would sound like a whisper against the winds of this land.

I've filled the time with singing. Yes, I know it sounds rather daft to be serenading the sky when one is but a lonely gray speck upon the spacious bosom of the world, but there is a queer sense of freedom to it. To attempt being a maestro among a phantom audience is simply asking to be a prodigy by sheer habit. I've giggled like a schoolfilly at such whimsical spontaneity. Even now, my throat is dry, and my lungs are still vibrating. My only regret is that it's left me feeling intensely hungry. It's almost like having spent an entire afternoon chatting with you. Oh, how I do miss the days when I could drag you to improvised tea parties. Your snowy cheeks always did burn with the most delicious shade of red.

Truth be told, it hasn't entirely been a lonely sojourn. I've crossed paths with a few ponies on their way southeast from Masada. They were pilgrims, mostly, ceremoniously clad in brown robes that shaded their faces as they smiled and bowed pleasantly to me. They must have been returning home from some divine exodus. I marveled at how bright their expressions were. They were so full of light and enthusiasm.

Blessed Celestia, how I've missed that same sensation, of returning home with the bliss of fulfillment exciting every iota of my being. I suspect it's what a mother feels when she reunites with her foals. I think I'm starting to understand the smile you've bestowed upon me after finishing each of your many arduous tours.

I miss you dearly, Vinyl. I think about you constantly. Even now, as the sun falls after a long day of walking this endless highway, I gaze upon the precipice of darkness, and I think about your smile, your eyes, your mane and your cutie mark—and how it all seems to glow in the unlikeliest of ways, bringing lumiscence to the unlikeliest of places.

You've showed me that darkness could be a thing of beauty and joy, for you have shone the light in the deepest hovels and revealed to me what is left to glisten. Even under the shroud of night, I envision your eyes, your even brighter smile, and I find my path into slumber illuminated like a river of diamonds under moonlight. There is very little that I fear now.

Know this when you receive these letters, dear Vinyl: that what I have seen and what I have done, I have done so with the utmost of confidence and euphoria, and it's all because of you.

It is time to sleep. I have many miles ahead of me tomorrow. I suspect that you'll be in my dreams. Maybe I won't wake up screaming this time. It's a tiny comfort, but I cherish it deeply, just as I cherish you.

Yours truly,
-Octavia













My Dearest Vinyl,

I came upon a crossroads around noontime today. There was a village there, an outpost; of course there was one. How silly of me to think that everything is barren and unpopulated along the entire road to Masada. No, that comes after: west beyond the gray walls.

I visited a tavern. I had just enough bits to buy myself a decent meal that hadn't become stale from days of travel. The prices there were cheap. Many layponies traveled through there along their pilgrimage to the holy city, and I suspect the owners were decent enough equines to not charge ridiculous prices for meals and beds.

Indeed, there were rooms available upstairs. I was sorely tempted to stay the night, but I refused, deciding to press on before sunset. I can't pretend to say what the hurry was. I suppose the fact that I was so close to Masada and its glorious spires was what spurred me forward.

Still, I did stay long enough at the tavern to soak in the atmosphere, to hear ponies tell stories by lanternlight of lands that I had never visited. To my shock, such a list of places has grown smaller for me over these past five years.

I look at my hooves, at my tail hairs, at my reflection, and I do not see grayness, nor do I feel old. I am every bit the same filly who once roamed the streets of Canterlot, struggling to make music that could fill the ears of listeners, so that they might pay me bits to fill the mouths of my dear mother and myself with food.

I feel tired, and yet I feel wholesome, as if my entire life has been a banquet and I am just now clearing my plate for dessert. There is energy to my being, a spring to my step. I think that I am actually fit enough to outrace you in a contest for once, dearest Vinyl.

Anyways, I did force myself to stop listening to the tavern's tales of places, ponies, and principalities. An elder merchant was starting to tell gruesome stories of orcish tribes and troll torture gangs that patrolled the borders of Northern Equestria. I politely made my exit. I know where I am going; gruesome things can wait.

I traveled for a few more hours in blissful silence, but I wouldn't remain alone for the trip. A cluster of farms stretched along the highway, and the road was filled with regular traffic from the local agriculturalists. Many of the ponies marveled at me, for they could tell that I was not quite the usual traveler. Nothing about my appearance suggested that I was the same as the many monks and layponies who traveled that same path for centuries on end.

At another junction of roads, I came upon a small bazaar where they were selling fruit and traveling gear. There, I met the friendliest family imaginable. They gave me a free sampling of grape juice and asked me about my travels. The mother of the family and I fell into a conversation about local folk music. She asked me if I was a traveling minstrel. I lied, telling her that I was heading for Masada to take part in an auction of ancient musical instruments. I kept any conversation about myself to a minimum; I just wanted to hear her voice. The mother's speech had a tone that could put church bells to shame. All the while, she was nursing a young foal with a sandy blonde mane. I was allowed to cradle the infant at one point, and when I touched her nose, she giggled. Her voice sounded almost like yours does when you're squealing with joy over the silliest of things. I wanted to hold the little filly forever.

The sun melted into the flat horizon ahead of me as I parted ways with the locals. In the amber sheen of the dying day, I saw the grasslands dissolving into arid stone. The humidity dipped, and I could taste a rusted taint to the air.

An hour or two before nightfall, I saw the soil growing sparse around me. Exposed bits of iron and copper lay on either side of the highway. I had entered the crest of the Skeletal Plains.

I suspect that the holy city will not be much further.

As for now, I must sleep. Writing by firelight is a luxury. I suspect, for the evenings to come, I will not find much kidling for an easy campfire. I may have to write these letters in the daytime, as much as I detest doing so, for it is in the darkness that I can envision you all the clearer.

I shall carry this smile of mine into slumber.

Sincerely,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

"Skeletal Plains" is such a theatrical name for what amounts to nothing more than a flat plateau of dying grass. As my previous hundred or so letters to you would prove, I've seen many a landscape that would far more deservedly earn such a monicker.

There was that arid valley outside of Stalliongrad, where I explored the labyrithine tombs of the world-renown Feathermane family. Then there was the vast mountain range north of Bovetan, where the minotaur monks of the Daedalutian order assisted me in several long months of intense meditation. I have seen crumbled, sunken temples beyond the Lost Salt Shores of the Marediterranean, where humble Coltsican fisherponies allowed me to pay respects to the long dead civilization of Oatlantis.

It's taken me five long years of research and exploration to understand this, Vinyl, but the world is a flower garden layed upon the fringes of a bottomless grave. I know this, and I no longer shudder or quiver at grim things. These "Skeletal Plains" that surround me—they make me want to dance and sing. It is so bright here, as if a spotlight is always on me, demanding an encore to a symphony I've been playing all my life.

I simply adjust the weight of my many things on my flank and continue trotting forward. The holy city of Masada lays ahead, somewhere beyond the dust and the dirt and the debris of life. You should know this just as well as I do, Vinyl: one's performance is best saved for a spectacular venue.

I intend to get there, and I intend to shine. I look forward to writing you about it; I look forward to simply writing to you. So long as you are in my thoughts, the spotlight never goes away, and I have the energy to sing forever.

With love,
Your Octavia





My Beloved Vinyl,

I found another village along the highway. It's a great deal larger than the one I traveled through the other day. The bazaars here are plentiful, and they have much more food to offer. The prices are steep, though, and I'm a great deal more penniless than I was two entries ago.

I write this because I haven't exited the village—not yet. Something clings me to this place, Vinyl. I suppose there are parts of me still sentimental for civilization, in all of its multiplicitous forms, both joyful and sad.

The day started with an aching hunger. So, to earn bits, I attempted something that I hadn't done since my stay in Seaddle eight months ago. I found a busy street corner, opened my cello case, and performed several of the classic suites from Johay Sebastian Buck. At first, I was mildly successful. Passing ponies deposited bits into my case, making complimentary comments about my mane.

Seriously, they always compliment my mane.

But, as the day wore on, the bits grew more and more thin. I wondered if I had made a poor decision—if I had broken some local statute by giving this impromptu performance. Hardly any ponies smiled at me. A gray cloud appeared to have covered the town.

Feeling dismayed, I gathered my things and resumed my journey along the highway cutting through the village. It was then that the sound of a melancholic violin struck my ears. Did I have competitors here? Was I treading on contested territory?

Alas, the music was absolutely beautiful, but it was also strikingly mournful. The mystery of the tune dissolved as I passed through the town's central park. There was a funeral taking place; most if not all of the villagers were attending. Even a few passing monks had paused on their way to the holy city to pay respects.

I couldn't help but participate as well, if even residually. I had found a spot beside the fence along the edge of what turned out to be a tiny cemetery. Beyond the granite gravestones, I saw a young family gathered around a bearded stallion lying dead-still upon a silken stretcher. Garlands and wreathes adorned his fragile, platinum-coated figure, and a treasured quartet of gold-studded horseshoes lay coiled in his forelimbs. The deceased stallion's loved ones knelt around the body, further bequeathing his wrinkled features with their tears.

An elder spoke to the crowd. He was a minister of the Harmonious Assembly; even far out here, Equestria's largest body of worship is as alive as ever. From the runescribed fabric of the minister's collar, I could tell that he had been stationed in Masada before. Evidently, he had chosen a humble life in this small town, for he was going on in his years and I highly doubted that he'd be making any long journeys beyond the arid lengths of the village's surroundings. I listened from afar as he addressed those who had gathered at the burial, providing words of encouragement, followed with ancient psalms written by the sorcerors of old. He spoke of the eternal cycle of harmony and it's virtuous power—how like a guiding light it is in times of impenetrable darkness.

They were words of comfort, to say the least, sparking hope and encouragement. I barely registered a single sentence, instead choosing to focus on the tonality of the minister's voice, imagining it was some secret chorus to the violinist's melancholic strings along the sandy winds of that place.

You fill me with mirth, my dearest Vinyl. You are my harmony, the rhythm that keeps my heart afloat. Though I would be dishonest to call you a perfectly virtuous pony, I like to think that such is the charm about you that has ensnared me, that has made me fall so deeply, inescapably in love with you. You've shown me that existence need not be completely prim and proper, that nature is inherently unpredictable and—dare I say—necessarily chaotic.

I suppose it's sinful to embrace that idea. I felt like an awkward thorn today, sitting upon the vestiges of a holy funeral. And yet, as the ceremony ended and the mournful villagers filed away under a lonesome trot, I remained there, resting as still as the wind-washed stones that surrounded me, watching as the body was laid to rest. I only exited the premises because an hour or two had passed and even the gravediggers were starting to give me an evil eye.

When my time comes, I can't expect a stone to mark my last place in this world. I can't even say that I rightly deserve it. Living with you has made a sinner out of me. But if that is the case, then I am glad to never become a saint. I suspect a life of utmost righteousness would not make me feel nearly as peaceful as my days with you, chaotic or not.

After all, the dissonant chords of our lives have formed a harmony of their own. I utterly refuse to bury such a notion, and I would shudder to think of you burying these letters after I have dug up so much dirt to confess such a thing to you.

With truest devotion,
-Your Octavia






My dear Vinyl,

It's cold here as night falls over the village, colder than the middle of the desert. I had not expected that. I've spent five years wandering Equestria, and still I am beset by the unexpected. I did not expect to hear violin music when I entered this township. I did not expect to attend a stranger's funeral.

I did not expect to be lying here in this alleyway, with the offensive smell of a tavern's garbage wafting around the nearby corner, with my sleeping mat rolled across this water-stained cobblestone like a homeless cretin's dirtless grave. I've slept in worse places before, Vinyl, and in worst conditions. And yet, I suppose the fact that I am close to Masada—that I am close to reaching my journey's end—is what makes this moment feel so bitterly ironic to me right now. There are so many bountiful discoveries within my grasp; I had hoped to be in better sorts.

Alas, I can't complain. I was born unto streets grimier and lonelier than this. I told you stories about it before, dear Vinyl, but I still feel as though I haven't told you enough. I suppose it's that I never wanted to share it, to be perfectly honest. There was no reason for you to know the smell that I smelled, the bitter stench of poverty, the foul atmosphere through which a filly is baptized into a world of despair and desperation

My mother may have nourished my talents. The Canterlot School for Musical Artists may have given me a home. The opera house may have given me a platform above the filth and wastes of yesteryear.

It was you and only you who saved me. I am here now, I am alive now, and I am smiling now—reunited as I am with the grit and grime of all that is nightmarishly familiar—and still it does not shatter me; it does not dissolve the felicitous winds that hold me aloft.

I did not start living until I met you. I know I have said it before; I have written to you about it on several occasions. Celestia help me, but I cannot stop. It is something that I need more than breathing. It is a happy thought, a rapturous thought, more constant and righteous than my own heartbeat, and even that is dedicated to you.

I hear crickets beyond the falling veil of night. Even in the middle of the Skeletal Plains, even in the crook of a relatively destitute alleyway, they have found as much an excuse to sing as I have, though I carry that wholesome tune silently—and jubilantly—onto the shadowed stage of slumber.

I know that you will be out there somewhere, listening.

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia







Dear Vinyl,

Yet again, I awoke fitfully, although I did not scream this morning. I went to sleep after writing to you last night, and I was in a blissfully peaceful mood. I wish I could say that such was the case now.

For hours, I've been overwhelmed with a biting sense of dread. Even now, as I write this, on the northwest outskirts of this village, I feel as though I've forgotten a matter of utmost importance. The worst feeling in the world is the idea that one is lacking something, something vital, something that could make or break one's destiny. I used to suffer from this anxiety all the time, but that was before I met you.

However, as I am on the apex of this journey, you are not here with me. I have to take care of myself; I must smoothe out the rough edges on my own. Where would I be without the enthusiasm you have bestowed upon me? How lost would I be if I did not have your courage and your tenacity as the foundation of my being?

The biggest fear that's been stabbing me is the possibility of my having lost something from my saddlebag. I've found myself ritualistically checking the contents of both it and my cello case on a regular basis. And—today, just like every other day—I've counted everything in order. I'm missing nothing. My medicine bag is there. My container of oats and bread, my flint and tinder, my map of the northwest territories, my sleeping mat, my bit bag, a blindfold, my toiletries—they're all right where I left them. Most importantly, my scroll—the scroll, the most important item that I've hauled from Ponyville to where I am now—is still with me.

Why do I fret so much? I blame the time that I have spent alone, the days that I've been travelling in solitude, the months without you. You really did land yourself a basketcase, darling Vinyl. I've wondered sometimes what it is about me that won you. Surely it was not my talent nor my elegant manner of dress: all of those things are hopelessly lost to you. You're a mare of simplicity, Vinyl, easy to please yet impossible to change. Perhaps that's why I've leaned on you for so long. You've eradicated my rough edges and helped me discover equilibrium. Being around you, I've felt as though nothing's been missing. So, what then have you seen in me?

I really should get going, instead of simply sitting here on the side of the road, producing this letter. It's only that I can't stop thinking about you, and it's oh-so-terribly easy to lose track of the one true reason for why I began this trip in the first place. I find every tiny destraction a comfort and a curse all at once.

Take this flower, for instance. It's such a delicate thing, and yet it's sprouting out of utter desolation. From a tiny sliver of dirt, sandwiched between the edge of a wooden fence post and inert rock, it has bloomed, as bright and red as the common rose. When it first shimmered to my sight from around the highway's bend, it made me think of your eyes when you take your glasses off in the evening. I know such poetry sickens you, Vinyl, but in consideration of where I am and where I am going, I do sincerely hope you can forgive a modicum of—as you would say—"sap."

It is so dry out here in the Skeletal Plains, so desolate. I bought a canteen of water at the town's edge, and it turns out that such was the wisest thing I've done in days. The desert stretches vastly, mesmerizing my own comprehension. Celestia help me when the sun rises tomorrow, for I do believe I'm ill-prepared.

So much stone; it's a deathly barren plateau on the last vestiges of paradise. I feel as though this darling red thing is the last flower I shall ever see.

With love,
-your Octavia


















Dear Vinyl,

I am a very lucky pony.

I was lucky to have met you. I was lucky to have found us an apartment in Ponyville, complete with a garden and a second floor balcony. I was lucky to have found countless artifacts and tomes across Equestria, pointing me to Masada. I also was lucky to have found the one special scroll back in Princess Twilight Sparkle's former library that I now carry with me.

What's more, I've been lucky to have fallen into the company of such kind, altruistic ponies who are now assisting me in my sojourn. Just hours ago, when the noonday sun rose high in the sky, I began to truly, truly understand the harsh realities of this road to Masada.

One does not suffer under the desert sun here, Vinyl. One bakes. What I first thought would have been a brash exercise soon turned into a torturous lurch. The heat and dryness of the highway suddenly became scorching. Before I realized it, I had emptied my entire canteen of water. There was still two thirds of a ruthlessly hot day to go. For the first time since my ordeal in Mexicolt City, I began to worry over my well-being.

It was then that a group of ponies caught up with me. They were seven in number, and they had a quartet of oxen pulling a large wooden stagecoach. Rather than pass me by like a cluster of apathetic Manehattan equines, they immediately stopped and outright demanded that I climb aboard their vehicle. In my heat-induced nausea, I presumed that they were preparing to rob me. To my joy, they were simply attempting to save my skin. I was practically hauled aboard the stagecoach, upon which they treated me to cool water and a hoof-crank operated fan system.

As I discovered, they were a group of travel agents, riding from afar on a regularly scheduled journey. Oftentimes, entire clusters of ponies travel from mainland Equestria to Masada and back, and these new friends of mine were the experts who were responsible for writing up paperwork and establishing the parameters for such organized pilgrimages. Obviously, they were more than prepared for scaling this arid part of the landscape, and they gave me some warm-hearted chastisement for my rather novice failures in attempting the same thing.

As you can imagine, I was immeasurably thankful for their assistance. I paid them back with the best thing I could offer: music. As it turned out, this was something they greatly enjoyed. Apparently, a living made from traveling with ascetic monks is not exactly conducive to musicality. I gave them the best symphony I could muster, considering that I was in a rickety, traveling vehicle and most of my senses were sapped from the near-dehydration I had endured during the first half of the day.

However, these hosts were not without sensibility. I must have collapsed in fitful slumber at the tail-end of my last performance. I know this because I just woke up minutes ago, discovering my saddlebag and my cello lying neatly in a little corner of the gently swaying coach beside me. These ponies had every opportunity to steal my posessions, and yet they did not.

It's a terrifyingly large and intimidating world out there, Vinyl. And yet, the sheer immensity of it all demands that small circumstances of supreme kindness like this must happen. I wish I could pay these ponies back with more than just cello strings. I suppose my utmost respect—for the time being—will have to do.

It's an odd thing to cover ground while not having to look after one's hooves. I peer out the rear of this stagecoach into open country, watching as the dry desert flows away from me under purple starlight. Everything is so soft and serene here—from the gentle sway of the lanternlight to the whisper-soft snores of my benevolent comrades. It's hard to drink all of this in, knowing where I am headed... where we all are headed.

A holy city gets its title from guarding against unholy things. I pray that nothing happens to my scroll along the rest of the way there. I pray that I will find even more luck when I am inside the gray walls.

I pray that I will find music there—even if I'm the one pony who has to make it—for the symphony that follows me beyond will be the only thing keeping me alive... the only thing besides you, that is.

With devotion
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

I've been thinking about your symphony, the one that you started but never finished. Oh, how surprised I was when you told me that you were actually going to be starting something that did not involve electronic synthesizers or that indescribably garrish "table-of-turning" that you've always been so enthralled with.

Don't get me wrong, darling, I've always acknowledged and been intensely proud of your talent. But a gift that is respected is not necessarily understood. More often than not, when you've exposed me to your latest "masterpiece of the underground house scene," I've been quick to dismiss the majority of it as migraine-inducing bedlam.

To say that I was shocked when you decided to cross over into my medium is an understatement. Months after moving into Ponyville, you told me that you wanted to take up classical composition, and I about collapsed through the lower apartment floor with joyous shock. I recall besieging you with copious amounts of texts: music sheets belonging to the world-renown Marezart, analytical commentaries written on the symphonic feats of Mareice Ravel and the avant-garde works of Ponyderecki.

With immense tact, you politely declined all of those materials, insisting that your first foray into orchestral music be something of "original quality" and "untainted by the masters."

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't hold several reservations. I do not mean anything personal by that, my love, but I would be the first to admit that any attempts I'd make—especially without educational aid—to enter the electronic music scene would end up in absolute failure. And yet, you had the charisma and the guile to jump into the cold waters of symphonic music writing without a floatation device, if you would kindly accept such a gross metaphor.

I pledged to be with you every step of the way. You accepted such generosity at a forelimb's length, eager to make a potential masterpiece on your own. All I could dream up within the sound stage of my head was an inevitable cascade of cacophonous noise. Knowing you, you would summon every comprehensible instrument of bass quality and employ it in the opening salvo of the first ten bars. I would expect nothing less from you than something utterly bombastic and grandiose.

Imagine my surprise when your first feat turned out to be something of tonal excellence and competent subtlety. It began with a quiet prelude, like melodic whispers from the utter depths of silence, then built into something hopeful, inspiring, and heartfelt.  If I had written this as my first symphonic piece, I would have been no less proud than you were, dearest Vinyl.  If I recall, you only had the orchestration’s first two pages written down when you felt the irresistible urge to share it with me. Perhaps you wanted my judgment, and yet all I had to give you was my awe.

I was moved by the somber introduction, by how emotionally provocative your symphony was as it transitioned from the first movement into the skeletal framework of a second. You were building a song of hope, which is why you ultimately caved in, coming to me on hooves and knees to ask for my assistance. I merely chuckled at your awkwardness. It was a quality I had not expected to see in you, and I felt both blessed and humbled to witness it in Ponyville, in our new home, in our precious little sound studio. We were making a new life together; it only stood to reason that we made new music as well.

Needless to say, I still feel intensely flattered every time I think about this project that you had undertaken. Yes, it may have been a novice exercise. Indeed, it may have shown your impulsive qualities and artistic disregard for consequences. Nevertheless, it still fills me with great joy today, for I realize now that it was all simply a matter of you attempting to piece together the parts of me that you had yet to understand.

That's what has made this relationship so joyful. It is always ever a game, an adventure of discovery, a means of redefining oneself through the aid of another virtuoso's eyes.

And your eyes are the most dazzling of all, dearest Vinyl. I wonder if you worship my ears as much as I worship your gaze. I've also wondered if I should take up painting.

With mirth,
-Your Octavia







My Beloved Vinyl,

I have arrived at Masada.

It is a far more epic city than I had ever imagined. The driver of the ox-driven stagecoach gave a shout this morning, and those of us who weren't asleep poked our heads out from the rear of the vehicle to see. At first, I thought I was staring at a gray sandstorm that was sweeping majestically over the desert. As my eyes adjusted to the alabaster shine of the ramparts, I realized that I was indeed gazing at none other than the holy city's walls.

They stretch thirty meters from the arid stone of the earth, easily. And they make noise, such delicious percussion: the echoing sounds of hundreds upon thousands of pony voices bouncing off the granite partitions of the ancient maretropolis. Even for a mare born in the mountainous hold of Canterlot, I daresay I've never witnessed anything quite so impressive.

I became aware of the noise of life all around me. Gazing from the stagecoach, I saw that not only had my humble little highway expanded to a wide gravel estuary, but dozens if not hundreds of wandering ponies had joined the massive flow of traffic channeling into the city. I heard the chatter of families, the murmurs of merchants, and the chants of monks. Everypony has a reason for coming to Masada.

It is not just a place for spiritual enlightenment; it is a social hub, the veritable heart of the whole world's lifestream. Masada is home to all trots of Equestrian life: equine, bovine, minotaur, griffon, canine, and even draconian. Creatures of every coat, feather, and scale flock here. Never have I perceived this more than when I rode upon the crest of it, marveling at the heterogenous fountain of culture flowing about me.

With a heavy heart, and yet a headstrong spirit, I bid adieu to the kind strangers who had carried me from the Skeletal Plains to my penultimate destination. I don't know which they were sadder to see go—myself or my cello. Jumping out of the stagecoach, I landed on surprisingly strong hooves. I had an extra spring in my step, courtesy of a full day and a half's rest in that cool, comforting vehicle.

I can only hope such luck finds me here. So far, it has been exciting, yet trepidatious. The customs at the iron-wrought gates of Masada were far more strict than I had anticipated. The inspection of my belongings was a tad bit too methodical for my tastes. After thirty hoof-biting minutes, I was allowed to pass on through to the main city. I imagine that the local guard are unaccustomed to a mare traveling on hoof with so much baggage. It humors me to think what horrible weapons of diabolical intent they perceive me capable of hiding in my cello case.

At least they did not touch the scroll. If they had confiscated that—or all of these letters to you for that matter—I could very well have lost my mind.

I have gone through an insurmountable number of tribulatoins in order to arrive here, my dearest Vinyl. As you well know from my previous entries, I have spent far too many months, lost too much weight, and endured too many hardships to turn back. I know that there are even worse ordeals to come: trials that will make a strict screening at the gates to a city look like foal's play. I sit here on a throne of empty crates, resting my hooves, basking in the shadow of the high walls as I watch the pony-filled streets shift and shudder past me.

And yet, there is so much darkness ahead. So much great, terrible darkness.

I cannot stress too much. I cannot weigh things so heavily until it is the true time to carry such loads. There is much to prepare for, much to search for, much to find. Right now, I must rest. I shall finish this letter and simply rest.

I feel like leaning back, closing my eyes, and listening to the oceanic echoes all around me. If I meditate and drift in the noise, I'm sure it'll feel as though I'm back in the concert hall.

I'll even pretend that you're in the audience, listening along with me, as you do in my dreams.

Sincerely,
-Octavia





Dear Vinyl,

I do not even know where to begin.

Masada is large. It is unbelievably huge, complex, and elaborate. This city has layers—multi-faceted and brimming with life. There isn't a street, a wooden platform, a staircase, a patio, or a rooftop that isn't occupied in some way with residents, peddlers, visitors, and guards. Every second of every minute of every hour is filled with noise. I don't think my ears have had a single moment of rest since I frist trotted into this spectacular domain.

It is a continuous chorus, brash and cacophonous at first. With further listening—as one's heart adjusts to the bedlam—one starts to register a pattern. The upper levels are lulled by the chanting of monks as they seek to summon the spirits within themselves. The lower streets contain the bickering and bartering of merchants who never sleep. In between it all is the mirth, the laughter, the enchanted romp of day to day life. My ears have made out families singing songs of daily praise, and children giggling as they peer down at foreign visitors from their lofty apartment windows.

It is difficult to find sunshine here. Every street rests at the bottom of a granite chasm, formed by steep, steep walls that climb towards the distant sky with patchwork layers of several generations' worth of varying architecture. Any sliver of daylight is obscured by canvas and leather awnings erected to shade the filing, bustling, stumbling citizens below. I feel as though I've trotted across the entire Equestrian continent to reach this city of light, only for a grand curtain to snuff out all illumination upon my arrival.

I know that there are more fascinating layers to be had. I've only managed to explore the city's southern districts. The streets here are deeper, forged over the last few centuries by ponies with greater expectations for how rapidly this maretropolis would eventually grow.

Once I reach the central and northwest districts—the truly ancient chambers of Masada—it is then that I will see the color that this place is vastly renown for. I most exceedingly hope that whatever I find there will eclipse the smell. Celestia help me, Vinyl, I never wanted my nose to fall off any more than I do now. But I suppose such is the cost of swimming in dense civilization; civilization swims in you.

I've been having a hard time blending in. Though countless weeks of trekking across country has made me look less than affluent—to say the least—the shiny glow of aristocracy still clings to me. I've had over three dozen guards gawking in my direction. Countless mares have thrown envious glances my way. It's not as though I flaunt myself, Vinyl. You've said it yourself: "It's all in the mane, Tavi." You would also tell me how lucky you felt, as if I was such a wonderous "catch." I simply giggled and rolled my eyes, for I found your exuberant flattery to be foalish and cute. Now, the whole situation merely bothers me.

I shudder to think that I need to reach deep within myself, reach back to the trembling, frightened little filly that this pony was before you were fortunate enough to find her. How did I survive for so many miserable months and years in such grimy streets? It couldn't have all been my mother's doing. I must have had an inner strength, some hidden tenacity that kept me from going mad. I trot through these ravines of Masada, and I think I can recognize half of the smells. I am petrified, Octavia. It's taken a great deal of self-control just to calm my hoof long enough to write this to you.

My stroll through the city hasn't been absolutely perilous, though. To my luck, I was able to find a merchant selling robes not that far from where I currently sit. I used my last few bits to acquire this dark brown cloak. You'd like it, Vinyl. You'd say it matches my mane. Right now, it's doing everything to hide it, to hide me, to obscure my form as I drift through the crevices of this place, becoming one with the shadows.

I am not an ascetic monk having arrived here to seek enlightenment, nor am I a tourist or a merchant or a casual laypony of the Harmonious Assembly. I'm more than the common visitor whose desperation has forced her to throw herself upon the streets of Equestria's holiest of holies for bits or beautitudes. My journey has just begun. A hidden horizon waits for me, layered in darkness beyond the stone and grit and smell of this place.

It's been fifteen hours since I first arrived. I'm losing strength, and I need to find a place to stay. Already, I see the white spires of my next destination peeking above the steep walls above me. Nopony will accept me into that place if I look and smell like a common street rat, albeit a graceful one. I have to find a way to recover, to wash up, to rejuvenate myself.

You're an artist, Vinyl. If you were in my position, you would be thinking the same thing: "If a performance has begun to collapse, it's best to start from scratch."

To my most beloved Scratch,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

A word to the wise: when playing cello in the streets of Masada, be sure to think up an epic close to one's act.

It started with the safest song one could imagine. I mounted a pile of crates on a street corner, produced my cello, and performed a slow tempo rendition of Voltrot's "Ode to Spring." I heard a rise of shouts, at first I thought the locals were scoffing at the audacity of a mare such as myself to play music in their midst. I soon realized that they simply wanted a song-switch. My mistake was assuming that the residents of Masada were simple and peacefully minded. I should have known better; they live in the most densely populated city of Equestria. They desire nothing less than something upbeat, swift, even frenetic. Ponies who don't sleep need music that doesn't stop for anything.

So I switched gears, as t'were, and bore right into "Flight of the Parasprites." I earned cheers almost immediately. I earned bits with even greater speed, to such a point that it felt criminal. I then remembered the price of the cloak that I had bought hours before, and I realized that a rapidly burning economy probably meant that local boarding rates were high. So, I played on, and it's not like I had anything at the moment to regret. It was a nice crowd, and I was wearing a good cloak.

Seriously, Vinyl, it's a very nice cloak.

Ten songs later, my forelimbs felt like falling off. It didn't help that I had formed a veritable crown in that part of the bazaar. I had long imagined that a single musician such as myself would be hardly noticeable in a grand, noisy city like Masada. Then again, in the last few months that I have traveled the highways of Equestria like a vagabond, I have easily forgotten that my whole career peaked as the highest rated cellist out of Canterlot. It would seem as though my skill hasn't abandoned me; I wish I could say the same about my memory.

Have I truly become so naive? So humble? I blame you.

Nevertheless, I needed an excuse to bow out. I realized I had overdone myself by starting with "Flight of the Parasprites." I needed a good, final instrumental so that I could earn the necessary ovation against which I could make my exit. In my panic, I felt as though I had used up all of my musical knowledge. I could see guards overlooking the thick currents of ponies, and I figured that it was just seconds before they trudged over to drag me out of the city and cast me into the desert for having devoured too much attention. I had to come up with a solution, all the while fumbling to keep the meter of my penultimate instrumental.

I'm not good at improvising, Vinyl, at least not musically. You of all ponies should know that. If you were there with me at the time, you would have thought of something comically brilliant to have thrown off the crowd, and then surely you would have dragged me off in a flurry of mane hair and giggles, and I would have hidden my embarassed face in the nape your neck, thankful that my mare in shining shades had once again whisked me away from certain public destruction.

It astounds me, then: the ease at which I chose to do what I did. I played your song, Vinyl. I played the opening segment of your symphony, scouring the pages in my head—as I have long memorized them after all these years.

And what did your first audience think? They were mesmerized. Of course they were mesmerized! They were stolen away from their lives, their worries, and their troubles. And as they clapped their hooves, I stole myself from the scene. I didn't have to finish the song; I didn't even have to bow.

It's quite fortunate, I suppose. After all, you never did finish the symphony. Funny how you came to my rescue regardless.

Whatever the case, I finally had enough bits to improve my situation. Night had fallen (although I can hardly tell the difference between daytime and nighttime in these streets). Gazing up past the torches and awnings of the granite chasms, I saw the faint sliver of stars in the desert sky. A piece of Equestria was hovering above, watching over me. In the middle of so much civilization, I felt alone, and yet I couldn't. I was in a separate world, energized with the fragrance of you, something only I could magically smell beneath the muck and mire of reality.

This euphoric glide took me towards an amazingly sparse courtyard. Once there, I managed to breathe and relax myself. To my stupid joy, I found myself gazing straight at the entrance to a humble, well-to-do inn. I stepped through the doors, ecstatic to find that not only was the establishment open, but there were vacant rooms available.

I paid half of my earnings for the day, and a polite young mare showed me to a room on the fourth floor. It's a very tiny flat—with one bed and a single sink to maintain hygiene. But there is a balcony to this room. Blessed Celestia, Vinyl, it has such a view! I can barely concentrate on my writing, for the shine of the moon is upon me, blistering through the curtains and round archway of this most ancient of ancient cities.

I can see the skyline of Masada from here in all its granite glory. The ivory spires of the White Star Library linger to the northeast. In the center of town, the steeples of the Harmonious Assembly Cathedral slice their way across the desert starlight.

Then, beyond the western walls—far past the petrified wood of the ramshackle old district—I see the horizon of pale stone dipping into the gray valley beneath perpetual storm clouds. Lightning shimmers upon the front face of the bulging mists, always advancing and constantly receding simultaneously. It is just as mesmerizing as I had read about it in countless texts both ancient and modern. Absolute horror never looked so beautiful, and I feel my life draining just by glancing upon it with quivering eyes.

So, I choose to look at these sheets instead, at the words that I'm writing to you, and I imagine my gaze bouncing through space and time so that it finds itself reaching your magenta eyes in turn. In a flash, the life within me is rejuvenated. I hear the symphony going on in my head, and I believe—no, I know—that someday it will be finished, for you will be humming it to completion, just as I am starting it right now, deep in my throat, as I close my eyes and lie against this succulent mattress, imagining that it's your soft white forelimbs engulfing me instead.

Sleepier than you think,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

I smell so very good right now. After weeks of trudging through dirt and dust to get here, I am not in the least bit ashamed to say that.

You used to always poke fun at me for my cleanliness, but I knew for a fact that you adored me all the same for it. I'd fall asleep on the couch, exhausted from a long evening of writing song sheets, and I'd awake to you snuggling me, having abandoned the roomy and comfortable bed for the opportunity to nuzzle my mane, inhaling me with each breath. Half of the time, I would just pretend to be asleep, just to see how long the moment would last, and to my rapture it would consume half the night.

Oh dear, I'm getting off track again. Just what should I make this particular letter about?

Ah yes—I awoke in my hotel room hours ago, and I decided that it was high time that I visit the alabaster spires of the White Star Library. While most of the streets of Masada experience their fair share of filth and destitution, the same cannot be said for many of the long-established monuments to culture that persist in this ancient urbanscape. I knew that if I was to enter the very atrium of that vast archive, then I needed to make myself presentable—to the nose as much as to the eye.

This was not something I regretted in the least. As it so happens, I had several spare bits in my purse from the previous day's music performance, and I knew just where to use them.

The Eastern Baths of Masada are world-renown for their fragrances and luxury. Though I could not afford the most extravagant treatment, I was able to settle for a very thorough rinse, followed by a lavender bath. There were three servants upon my arrival to assist me on hoof and knee. After an hour of blissful soaking, that number had nearly tripled. I take it that not many mares in this part of the world have seen a pony with a mane as long nor as full as mine. I suppose I've always taken it for granted. After all, you've never been a fan of growing your mane long. You've always kept it short, spiked, and simple—which is just how I love it on you.

Would you believe me if I told you that they thought I was some royal dignitary? Celestia help these young mares if they ever stumble upon a fashionable celebrity such as Sapphire Shores or Duchess Rarity of Trottingham; they're likely to think she's a goddess incarnate, considering how awestruck they were over my well-to-do mane.

Oh, I do hope I haven't been drawing too much attention to myself. That is the last thing that I need right now. I guess I shouldn't hold too much weight in the matter. After all, considering the road ahead, my mane is the least of my worries.

I stand now outside the granite steps leading up to the White Star Library. My stars, Vinyl. The building is far larger than those measely postcards make it out to be. I feel as if a giant mountain of granite is leaning over to devour me whole. The place is so grand, that several balconies shadowed by the epic marble columns serve as pockets for local wooden bazaars selling discount books and pamphlets. I see many young souls here: students and teachers trotting back and forth, chattering over science, philosophy, and religion. The very air hums with the spirit of learning and the richness of knowledge. Princess Twilight Sparkle would do well to visit this haven of literature; she's liable to make Masada the capital of Northwest Equestria, like it once was back in the days before the Lunar Turning.

Now I can observe several finely-dressed stallions and mares scaling the steep, marble steps to the library entrance. The silken robes they're wearing must cost more than our apartment: ten times over, as a matter of fact. I suddenly wonder if I'm appropriately fitted to enter this lofty domain. Surely, the ponies inside will take an awful lot more to impress than a bunch of young, easily enthused maidservants at a bath.

I feel the shape of the scroll in my saddlebag. I've come too far just to fall for some woesome spirit of reluctance.

Wish me good fortune,
-Octavia














Dearest Vinyl,

It is oh so heavenly in here. The White Star Library is a labyrinthe that I would happily get lost in. The music section alone is twenty rows in length, and three floors in height. I have just now seen tomes written on orchestral styles that I had never even heard of before. There is music stored away here that is way older than most of civlization, and infinitely times as precious.

I fear that I am getting lost, too lost. It's an easy thing to do in this place.

I know you've never been one for libraries, Vinyl, but there is simply no way to properly explain the absolute immensity of White Star. The archives are like sepulchers: long and winding catacombs of petrified information. I seriously doubt there are enough souls in Equestria to peruse every single shelf of books within this place at once. There is more text between the bindings of these tomes for ten alicorn lifespans of reading, much less ten million mortals' time. This is the best place to hide something, I have no doubt of it at this point.

It must be obvious by now that I was easily allowed to roam the vast, lantern-lit interior of this place. Though White Star Library is frequented by several ponies of lofty aristocracy, the librarians weren't nearly as staunchy as I had first envisioned him. Perhaps, I could very well have entered this place as soon as I arrived in Masada—with my body so covered in the soot and dust of the outside world.

Alright, perhaps I am exagerrating a bit on that last part. It's just that I am simply overwhelmed with excitement for being here. I suppose it does cloud my judgment to some degree.

I used to attend a rather imposing library at Canterlot University. Such an archive is utterly dwarfed by the likes of White Star, of course, but it is still an immensely impressive facility, nonetheless. There's something remarkably fascinating—though oftentimes eerie—about being lost in a place of information so vast, with the sight of everypony else obscured by the forested wall of shelves, shelves, and more shelves. The smell of books permeates every pocket of air, and each room is so quiet that you can hear your eyelashes creating a tiny breeze every time that you blink.

If the library of Canterlot University felt like being at the bottom of a well, then White Star is a literal abyss. Gazing upon rows and rows of dusty brown books, I can't help but feel as though this is where knowledge comes to die. It is up to ponies like us—charismatic pilgrims in search of answers—to resurrect that which has been abandoned by time, neglect, and fear.

I have the scroll from Princess Twilight Sparkle's former study hall in my possession. Fear is the last thing that is stopping me.

Before I make my first move—before I attempt uncovering that which has been hidden for eons—I must meditate. That's why I am sitting here, Vinyl. That's why I am writing to you. You have been and shall continue to be my center, my focus, the beat upon which I throw my strings, turning sound into poetry.

I will need my muse now, more desperately than ever, because the music that has been left for me to uncover is not asking to be found. And I'm not quite sure if I'm gifted enough to fill in the gaps left after it.

At least I'm in the absolute best place in all of Equestria to study.

With great enthusiasm,
-Your beloved Octavia











Dearest Vinyl,

Five years. For five years, I have been studying rigorously, scouring the lengths and breadths of Equestria, searching with religious zeal for the answer to one of this kingdom's most indelible mysteries: "What ever happened to Starswirl the Bearded?"

I shudder to write it, blessed Vinyl, but I do believe that I am on the crest of finding the answer. I may very well be the first—if not the only—soul in over three thousand years to have discovered the truth.

The key to it all is this scroll, this one roll of parchment that I have carried with me all the way from Ponyville. It's rather queer and ironic, really, that after months and years of searching the landscape, from Canterlot to Whinniepeg to Trottingham and back, that the information gathered would direct me back to our patron township. Once there, I spent hours and days holed up in the former home of our beloved Princess Twilight Sparkle. There, deep in the basement of the Ponyville public library, nestled in between crumbling, petrified tomes almost lost to time and neglect, I found the scroll, hoofwritten in priceless moondust, the last manifested document of Jules Feathermane, the one and only apprentice to Starswirl the Bearded.

Feathermane's place in history is a tiny one, forever overshadowed by his mentor, and that is what has made the acquisition of this scroll so damnably difficult. Many ponies don't even know that he wrote anything beyond the biography of the most famous sorceror who has ever lived. The fact of the matter is, Starswirl's written biography had a final chapter—an appendix, as t'were—and it was lost to public knowledge because it was lost to the entire world, until now.

Upon first glance, it makes absolute sense why Feathermane would have chosen to exclude this written material from the biography he had so delicately put together. The words contained on this sheet are a rambling mess, woeful and melancholic, metaphorically indicative of the ill-fated Starswirl in his last few days of madness left on this earth.

It's long been rumored that Starswirl went insane just months before he vanished. Nopony knows this truth better than Feathermane. The worried apprentice was here to speak with Starswirl—right here in Masada—three thousand long years ago. He recounts having seen Starswirl trot into the city, from the desolate wastes west of the gray ramparts, carrying with him a leather-bound book that glowed at night. Astonishingly, Starswirl had gone blind, his eyes having turned as milky-white as the petrified stone over which he trotted. His beard was full of dust and ash, and there were white moths living in the whiskery fibers. When he spoke, it was of nightmarish things, of nameless horrors that writhed in the darkness that had clouded his mind. Starswirl hugged the book that was with him constantly to his chest. He called it the "Tome of Ending," and the ponies who saw it would later claim that the book's spine was made of a single, pale shard that filled all of them with nausea upon making eye contact.

Everypony wanted to lock Starswirl away, as if sequestering him in some lonesome bedchamber might exorcize him of the frenetic visions surging through his skull and leaping out of his tongue in the form of frenetic poetry. It was Feathermane who broke through the crowd and embraced his master, taking him to his very home in the aristocratic district of upper Masada, attempting in vain to nurse the aged unicorn back to health.

There was no "curing" Starswirl. His fate had been sealed by something he had seen from beyond the northwestern wasteland. And yet, Feathermane had the intuition—and the faith—to see through the madness that was encumbering his mentor. He realized that there was truth in Starswirl's ramblings, a truth that nopony else upon this living plane had the decency to comprehend. For days, Feathermane sat at Starswirl's side, writing down the chaotic words that the aged unicorn had to bestow the living, preserving the rambling speech in enchanted moondust so that it could better stand the test of time.

But try as he might to maintain the integrity of Starswirl's knowledge, he could not make the worried and confused populace of Masada understand it. One day, Feathermane guided Starswirl—old, decrepit, and limping—onto the hilltop that would later become the site for the Harmonious Cathedral today. From there, Starswirl tightly gripped the enigmatic "Tome of Ending" and proceeded to speak to the crowd, conveying in earnest all of the concerns and fears that had followed him upon his return from the wasteland.

He spoke of the "desecration of the abyss," of the "corruption of the eternal prison," of an endless spiral of pain and suffering, consuming the very "marrow of life" from the inside out, eternally selfish and ravenous, hungering for the unused vestiges of harmonic spirits. He claimed that the only thing that brought him back was the binding of the tome—the shimmering book in his grasp—an infernal construction that had taken the sight from his eyes and the joy from his heart.

And yet, everypony scoffed at him. They angrily confronted Feathermane, accusing him of humoring an old stallion's wretched dementia. Feathermane defended Starswirl's speech with vigor, attempting to convince the townsfolk of Masada that the "greatest discovery of all time" had been given to them, that immortal insight was to be found in the Tome of Ending, and yet nopony had the wisdom and werewithawal to digest it.

The resulting argument almost turned into a riot. The holiest city in Equestria boiled over with rage and confusion. And there, in the midst of it all, Starswirl the Bearded, the blind and infirmed prophet of ancient Equestria, slipped away from everypony's sight. He virtually disappeared, along with his mysterious book, as if dissolving in a wave of magic.

In my worldly sojourn, visiting numerous civilizations stretched across the furthest corners of the Equestrian continent, I have stumbled upon multiple legends circulating around Starswirl's fateful departure. Some cultures say that he flew off into the clouds and became one with the sky. Others say that he shaved off his bushy facial hair and—in a fit of insanity—threw himself over the western ramparts. There's even an entire religion based on the idea that Starswirl exploded into a million spritely pieces and absorbed himself into the souls of ponies surrounding him, so that later generations would be bequeathed his undying intellect.

But the most common consensus, the predominating belief that persists in every province to this very day, stems from a young colt's account. A little foal was sitting outside the western wall of Masada, drawing symbols in the dirt, when—supposedly—an elder stallion with white eyes and a full gray beard trotted up to him. He asked the colt which way was west, and the young one aimed him in the appropriate direction and told the stallion to trot forward. Starswirl thanked the foal and departed, but not without first depositing a peculiar leather book into the colt's possession. He also took the foal's wooden stick and drew something in the sand just before he left.

Just what illustration could a blind sorceror have left behind? When Feathermane came upon the scene along with his fellow disciples, he allegedly saw what would be described as a geometrical series of five rotating chambers, arranged like the cross-section of a nautilus shell, growing and shrinking at the same time in paradoxical fashion, as if drilling into a dimension far beyond this plane.

It was in a hot, desert wind that the unearthly illustration left this world, and Jules Feathermane—distraught at his mentor's absence—had no other choice but to procure the Tome of Ending and store it somewhere safe from the fragile minds of ancient Equestria, for the realm of the living was not yet ready to grasp the knowledge that Starswirl had to impart.

For the rest of his life, Feathermane lived as a hermit. Many ponies questioned him about the last days of Starswirl's existence. Furthermore, they asked him what he did with the Tome of Ending, the mysteriously glowing book that Starswirl—the mad sorceror—was holding as he gave his final, erratically structured speech to the unwitting souls of Masada.

To his dying day, Feathermane never once shared the contents of the Tome of Ending. It has long been believed that he read the leathery artifact, and—as irony would have it—he too died while afflicted with blindness. His last days were lived out in solitude; he rarely spoke to anypony. When it was Feathermane's time to pass on, he melancholically confessed that he had hidden the Tome somewhere, and the secrets that Starswirl had imparted along with it. Supposedly, there was a note somewhere, a piece of parchment where Starswirl's last known words were preserved in moondust, and it was upon this same legend that Feathermane relayed the location of the Tome of Ending—where he had hidden it.

Dearest Vinyl, I now have that legend. The three thousand year old words of Starswirl are in my grasp, glittering in silver lunar glory, resonating with ancient purpose. Somewhere in this place, within the walls of the White Star Library, is the hidden chamber where the Tome of Ending lies, waiting to be read by a pony who searches, a pony who is willing to know and understand what exists beyond the veil of darkness, a pony with nothing to lose and everything to gain, a pony such as myself.

I have read the words on the scroll—the paragraphs of winding and meandering speech—over and over again since my studies brought me to finding it in Ponyville. I am not yet capable of understanding the text's meaning, but I suppose that I am not meant to. It is the Tome that I need more than anything, especially if I am to finish this journey I've been on for over five years. It is a journey that once consumed the last vestiges of Starswirl's sanity. There is no telling what it will do to my spirit, but what's at stake is far too much for me to surrender to fear.

There is one bit of text that I do understand. It is repeated constantly at the top of the sheet, like a header that was forever meant to be translated ever since it was first etched there in silver font three thousand years ago.

It states: "Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me." If I didn't know better, I'd say that Feathermane's scroll is instructing me to find a particular spot in this very library.

Wish me courage, Vinyl. I think I know exactly where I need to go.
-Octavia






















Dearest Vinyl,

Yes, I do believe this is it.

I cannot write for long, but I needed to put something down. I needed to mark this occasion, just in case—perhaps—this indeed is a monumentous occasion in history.

I stand now in the western wing of the White Star Library. Here, on the fifth floor and between two stained glass windows brimming with dust—is a peculiar wall where no bookshelf rests. On either side of the windows are cases lined with volumes containing four-thousand year old collections of folk songs, and—like most things that stand the test of time—a great deal of them are of mournful quality, solemn musical motifs that have provided material for countless funerals over the last four millennia of Equestrian culture.

"Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me."

I think I have found the doorway. All it needs is the key.

There is a spot of discoloration here, marking the wall at the height that a full-grown stallion would have been, considering the estimated height of adult ponies around three thousand years ago. When I hold up Feathermane's scroll, I find that the dimensions of it fit the rectangular patch of discoloration perfectly.

I think I know what happens next; I can only hope that what waits for me has been worth the trip. I am leaving my saddlebag, cello case, and letters beneath a table two rows away from the windows, hidden from view. There are no other ponies with me in this wing of the library, and that is a good thing. If what my studies have taught me is true, then what I'm going to need now is courage... and a blindfold.

If I write another letter, then it shall mean that I was successful.

Ever faithful,
-Octavia















My beloved Vinyl,

Three thousand and five hundred years ago, it was Sir Redhoof Moontrot of Whinniepeg who devised "shadow sheets," the means by which blind ponies both ancient and modern have been able to read. Through a series of raised lines in various, alternating patterns, equines devoid of sight can enjoy the same literature as those still blessed with the ability to see the words on paper. As I studied for years in order to track down the steps of both Starswirl and Feathermane—ponies who were renown for their wisdom as well as their blindness—I took it upon myself to learn the mechanics of shadow sheet writing inside and out.

Little did I know that it was the best decision I could ever have possibly made.

There is a reason for these letters that I have dutifully written to you, dear Vinyl. When the time comes, I want you to know what I have done with my life, why I have sacrificed so many years and months with this lonesome journey. At the same time, I've felt that a pony such as myself—a soul who's embarking upon the unthinkable—would benefit from keeping a journal of sorts, and as I terribly dislike the idea of rambling to myself like a mindless foal, it fills me with far greater joy and fulfillment to instead relate my experiences to you. After all, you of all ponies deserve to know the truth. My search is your gain; I express this with utmost confidence and adoration.

That said, I need you to take the following account in stride. No, I am not making up the following events, and I will greatly require your confidence and faith if I am to adequately explain the nature of my discovery.

It goes without saying that the nature of my trek weighs heavily upon my spirit, and with each progressive step I take, my excitement is becoming more and more eclipsed by an unbearable amount of dread. I need to know that you are with me on this, dearest Vinyl. I need to know that—even if I were to succumb to the same madness and blind sorrow that consumed Starswirl and Feathermane—I'll at least have you to carry on the truth, my love. And furthermore, if my toils prove as fruitful as I hope, the knowledge bequeathed you will no longer be a curse, but a blessing.

With faith,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

Yesterday, when I approached the western wall of the funeral hymns section within the White Star Library of Masada, I knew that I was about to make a firm hoofstep in the sands of history. Little did I know that such a hoofstep would become a fitful plunge.

I had in my possession the scroll of Feathermane, and atop the sheet's header, the same words spoke to me in glittering moondust: "Against the setting sun and between the wailing hymns will the blind find me."

As you well know, Vinyl, I am not blind. However, Feathermane and Starswirl most certainly were when they died, so it stands to reason that they would communicate with ponies well-acquainted with darkness. In that vein, I had with me a thick blindfold that I had carried along the highway to Masada. For months, I had doubted whether or not I would have a need for it. Yesterday, that lack of faith would be put to the test.

I realized that I was onto something as soon as I put the "key" in place. Do you recall the discoloration that I mentioned two letters ago? The rectangular splotch against the western wall between the two windows? Well, I unrolled Feathermane's scroll and placed it against the wall so that it lined up perfectly with the discolored area.

When the parchment adhesed in place, I was only residually surprised. Equestrian artifacts are known to retain an element of magical enchantment over the course of several millennia, and this scroll belonged to none other than Feathermane, the apprentice to the most powerful sorceror in history.

What I did not expect was a sight that made me dizzy just for looking at it. No sooner had I placed Feathermane's scroll up against the wall when a seam formed down along the middle of it. Squinting, I leaned up towards the sheet, fearful that the ancient parchment had somehow ripped in half following my application. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the seam was not a tear. As a matter of fact, the sheet seemed twice as thick than when I first applied it to the wall.

Immeasurably curious, I reached a hoof up and pulled at the seam. To my astonishment, the parchment unfolded, stretching out from the center with a pair of flaps so that it was now doubled in width. I was overwhelmed with nauseating dizziness, but that didn't stop me from gazing at the magically appearing pages-within-pages.

What was once a simple parchment, enscribed with the recorded words of Starswirl in moondust, had now become a complex missive covered in various lines, etched in rhythmic patterns. I instantly recognized the writing as that of "shadow sheets," literature written for the blind, as I had explained to you in the previous entry.

As elated as I was confused, I scoured the fresh archives of my memory and closed my eyes, reaching a hoof to the top left of the freshly exposed paper. Utilizing information that I had gathered over the past five years of study, I interpreted the words that had appeared in such rapid hash marks before me. My sensitive hoof translated each letter until an eerie phrase appeared, a bizarre mutation of something innately familiar: "Through the rising darkness and between the wailing hymns must you blindly enter."

I felt the hair on the back of my neck standing on end, for this very same line was repeated constantly all across the left side of the sheet. I stumbled when I tried "reading" the right edge of the parchment with my bare hoof, for the text that came to my mind appeared garbled and innocuous. It was then that I realized that the hash marks had been imparted in a mirror reflection to the "shadow sheets" syntax on the left. The phrases on the left side were quite literally being repeated in direct reversal on the right, and just as repetitiously.

Curious, I opened my eyes to gaze upon this phenomenon. In a dizzying lurch, I recovered in time to see that yet another seam had formed, this time in the shape of a cross, splitting the parchment exactly where the hash marks originally mirrored each other. I reached forth and unfolded the sheets again. The scroll quadrupled in size this time, occupying a good chunk of the western wall between the windows. I saw more and more hashmarks—again repeating.

When I closed my eyes and ran my hoof across the patterns, the "shadow sheets" darkly imparted: "Into the rising darkness and under the cadence of the wailing hymns of the forever ending must you blindly enter with good faith." Once more, these words were mirrored on the right side. I discovered that even with my eyes closed, the same dizziness that overwhelmed me upon gazing at the sheets was plaguing me as I "read" the dialogue with one hoof. On a whim, I stretched both of my forelimbs out and felt along the raised marks on either side of the parchment simultaneously. To my surprise, there was suddenly no dizziness to be had, as if there was some sort of purposed mechanism to the gesture.

I never thought my ambidexterous gifts would assist me in anything other than cello playing or music writing. Alas, I found myself in the absolute best time and place to apply such talents. I also knew that there was no point in relying on my eyesight for what would come next. Suddenly, the purpose of my blindfold was perfectly clear.

I looked around that wing of the Star Library one last time, making sure nopony was watching me. Then, with a brave breath, I donned the mask over my eyes. Blind as a bat, I approached the sheet, feeling along the center. Sure enough, another seam had form—and another and another and yet another. I pulled at the edges, unfolding the parchment a third, fourth, and even a fifth time. I had to shuffle sideways now in the act of spreading the ridiculously large manuscript across the stone wall. It was obvious to me by now that the once-tiny scroll was currently occupying the entire surface in between the windows. With a firm breath, I stood upon the epicenter, and I stretched both of my forelimbs as far to my sides as I could, as if I was embracing the setting sun from beyond the edge of the Library.

How like a mad, blind pony, I thought.

Then, with equal madness, I ran my hooves across the sheets—from the left to the right and from the right to the left—so that my forelimbs were gradually gliding towards each other, slowly, bestowing my aching brain with flowing bits of information, and all of it immensely unsettling. The phrase that was once as simple as a singular lyric had mutated into a bizarre stanza:

"Hopelessly into the encompassing inner darkness of chaos and under the discordant cadence of the wailing hymns of the disharmonious who are forever ending without peace or contentment within the blight of time's coldest enemies must you of mortal anchorage blindly pierce the veil of oblivion with courage and good faith for the glittering spark beyond..."

I was barely registering the words, for not only were they meandering ceaselessly into eternity, but my body was being carried along with them, as if my weight was shifting. I almost lost all concentration, for I realized that I was leaning forward. The wall before me was no longer solid, but rather it was bent, angling progressively towards some distant horizon. My hooves were moving diagonally now, from thirty to forty-five to sixy degrees in variance. As a matter of fact, it was no longer a wall. If anything, I was now exploring a niche, and it was sucking me in deeper, like a flower swallowing a honeybee. All the while, the words kept on gliding past me, so that I imagined that I was being encompassed by the very scroll itself.

Feathermane's shadow sheets were devouring me, dragging me deeper and deeper into some frightening abyss. I did not dare stop "reading," for fear that the very moment I removed my hooves from the raised hash marks, the dizziness would stab me and leave me here to rot—a corpse lost forever in the moondust parchment, strung pathetically between the windows of the White Star Library's western wall.

"Hopelessly and eternally into the encompassing inner darkness of heartless chaos and under the timeless discordant cadence of the wailing hymns of the tragically disharmonious who are forever mindlessly ending without peace or contentment or camraderie within the impenetrable blight of time's coldest enemies must you of flimsy mortal anchorage blindly and fatefully shatter your way through the veil of oblivion with boundless courage and good faith for the elusive glittering array of sparks that dwell beyond..."

In that blindest of blind sojourns, I felt a throbbing in my ear. I didn't realize it at first, but I was hearing something. It sounded horrifically like the ringing noise that greets me in the mornings when I wake screaming from a fitful dream. It sounded like the lonesome hiss of a desert wind as I trot along the highway, thinking and daydreaming about you.

There, in my fitful stumble through words and parchment, it sounded like a hundred billion screams, and all of them mournful—mourning me, for in making the greatest discovery of our time, I was about to make the most horrible discovery of all time, and they knew it, for they were watching me.

It was around that moment that the hash marks ended:

"...and good faith for the elusive glittering array of sparks that dwell beyond the melody of existence."

There were no words left. The walls of parchment vanished, and I found my hooves lunging forward, and my own body as well, shrieking. As I did so, something flew into my chest—something weighted and leathery. Without thinking, I clutched it to myself, hugging it like a newborn infant. Seconds later, I landed on solid ground, feeling flakes of paper fluttering all around me.

Hyperventilating, I flung the blindfold off my skull. I was on the floor of the White Star Libary's west wing, facing east, even though I had been moving forward the entire time. Sitting up, I turned around and glanced at the wall. The stained glass windows were bathed red from the setting sun over the desolate stone plains beyond Masada. I thought only a few minutes had passed, and yet suddenly it was as though I had been gone for hours. And the parchment: it had dissolved, shattered like a broken sheet of glass. Shreds of the ancient scroll littered the floor all around me; even the moondust words had scattered as if blown away by an invisible wind.

And the weight that was in my grasp? I looked at it, and my breath left me, for I had in my hooves a book bound in leather with a pale-white shard for a spine. And, as the sunlight dimmed beyond the windows, the object appeared to glow in my grasp.

I have it, Vinyl. I actually have it in my grasp. For the first time in thousands of years, the Tome of Ending has returned to Equestria.

Breathless,
-Your Octavia











Beloved Vinyl,

The book lies in front of me, cold and silent like a gravestone, and yet I can't bring myself to read it. I sit here on the cot of my lonely room within the Masada inn, staring at where it's perched before the open balcony. A breath of desert wind blows against the curtains. I see bands of pale light scattering through the dust from the leather tome's cadaverous spine.

Ponies watched me as I lurched out of the White Star Library, hurried and hunched over with the book hidden in my cloaked grasp. If they thought that I was stealing something out of the archives, they did not bother to search me. A part of me thinks that something drew them away, an aura both cold and chilling, something like the nausea that currently coats my stomach upon so much as staring in the Tome's direction.

Night has fallen. I've been sitting here for hours. I can't remember the last time I ate or slept. What's the use in anything like that anyways? Flesh is flesh, but flesh isn't forever. At some point or another, what's anchored to the world dissolves, like Starswirl's and Feathermane's sanity. After that, what is left? Is it something that can transcend the cold clutches of time's decay? Is it something that is capable of sobbing?

I felt the pages, Vinyl. For a brief moment—as I trotted the avenue that took me from one district to another—a gust of wind blew the Tome of Ending open, and my hoof brushed against the cold sheets of paper in my desperate attempt to close the leather bindings back shut. I didn't look upon it at the time, but what I touched felt a great deal like dried leaves of flesh.

And I think so because that's exactly what they are: petrified grafts of pony skin. The bindings, on the other hoof, are the substance of scales: possibly dragon flesh. And the white shard that forms the book's spine—do I even wish to know what it is? Do I truly desire to ascertain the reason for its magical luminescence after all these thousands of years?

Shivers overwhelm me. It is difficult for me to write, and yet if I don't, I know I will just plunge forward—with deep breaths and bright eyes—submerging myself in the pages of this thing that I have just grabbed from the detestable ether. Just thinking about it distresses me, mostly because I know that I will give into the temptation soon. So I pass the time here, nestled in this cot, clutching the brown folds of the cloak around me.

It really is a good cloak.

When I began my journey from Ponyville—a long and arduous pilgrimage that would eventually bring me here five years later to this point of uncertainty—it was a trek that I had begun with great peril, anxiety, and desperation. There were times in my loneliness and aggravation where I felt as though I would do anything, say anything, or even give anything to take what I most desired, what I most ardently sought after.

Could this be what consumed Starswirl, that carved the substance from his mind and the courage from his heart, so that all that remained was a porous substitute for a tenacious equine spirit? How did he ever get his hooves on something as grim as this Tome, something made out of butchery and madness? After all, Starswirl was a pony of peace, prosperity, and the tranquil quest for knowledge. Was something that he discovered beyond the desolation to the west the reason for his downfall? Was something between the fleshy sheets of that tome the explanation for why he abandoned Equestrian civilization so willingly?

When does knowledge become a bane unto itself? At what point does information will itself into unknowing, so that life relies on unspeakable horrors such as this book to impart concrete messages through the pliable meat of ages?

I've come so far, Vinyl. I've given into fear so easily. I don't think it's cowardice, but rather, I feel as though fear is the only thing I have left, the final shred of sanity I possess. It is the last pertinent part of Starswirl that the stallion gave up, that made him lift this relic of death before the ancient citizens of Masada, boldly proclaiming it to be the key to something unseen.

But what is unseen, exactly? What lies within the darkness beyond the wastes? Was it something that Equestria has forgotten? Was it something that we are all destined to wake up to?

Know this, Vinyl: that whatever happens to me, the pony that you have always loved will still be left dwelling inside her, for that is the part of the mare that has spurred her so far towards the edge of this abyss, hoping to make music where there is nothing but thunder. The crest of darkness lingers beyond the spires of Masada to the west. Purple starlight casts a spotlight on the tome. I feel my heart pulsing. If nothing else, I am an artist who knows when it's her time to perform.

Maybe if I pretend as though I am reading what I find to you, I will have the strength to survive until morning.

Yours forever,
-Octavia











My Dear Vinyl,

When we first moved in together at Ponyville, I was not at peace. You knew this, but you were patient with me. Slowly—like the rising tide at the fall of evening—your joy and contentment washed up all around me, so that I had no choice but to bask in you, to share my breaths with you, to allow you full access to my laughter and tears.

I took me an interminable amount of time to open up. And when I did, it was like floodgates bursting from my heart, and you were there to collect every drop, to make a game out of the complex tributaries of my life, so that the two of us felt like foals playing and laughing by the riverbank together.

Everything in my life has been joyous; everything has been rapturous and liberating. It is all because of you.

You had surprised me, Vinyl. You had amazed me with the degree of stoicism with which you calmly digested the recollections I had to bestow you: the tale of my life. You did not gasp in shock when I told you that I wasn't always rich, that—like some amazing faerie tale story—I had been born into poverty and destitution in the lower streets of Canterlot. Only, there was very little whimsy to be had in my "faerie tail life," and it pained me to tell you, for fear that you would melt into a blobbering mess of sympathetic pretense, attempting to alleviate the symptoms of my anguish and not the cause.

No, you were patient—ever so angelically quiet and contemplative—as I told you about my mother, about the illness in her lungs that had consumed her over the years, about the relentless zeal with which she had fought to make my musical talents known to the world, in spite of our impoverished living conditions in the absence of my neglectful father. You did not cry—like I cried—eventually relating the agonizing details of how my mother rotted away in bed while I, thanks to her, landed an opportunity to perform before dukes and duchesses in the upper districts of Canterlot.

Soon, the story had become a poem, something that I was reciting to myself, as if it was some shadowy serenade. There was no music to be had; the only instrument was my heart. I was simply being honest, being lucid, being true—and you reflected it with the same deadpan that I had been forced to adopt all my life.

And it was then that I realized that my whole existence had been the opposite of the special thing you were granting me, the moment that we were having. My entire life had been a performance, a farce, a play put on for an invisible audience that I had always projected around me, for to allow the true light of the world to dissolve those phantom faces would only bring me back to one fateful evening in my youth, when my ears rang from a haunting rush of blood to the skull, as I sobbed and clutched my mother's face in bed towards mine, begging for the color to return to her jaundice-covered eyes, begging for fate to stop stealing her away from me, as if she may impossibly slip back uphill into the world of the living, and I might finally have somepony to thank for hurling me above the social pit that had consumed her.

They pulled me away—this child prodigy with the gift for cello playing—and these foster musicians flaunted me upon opera stages and in the first chairs of orchestras and at a hundred Galas that propelled me into adulthood... and eventually musical superstardom. All the while, I played with great zeal, employing the lessons taught to me by a ghost, and I never smiled—for she never smiled. My mother merely slipped away, gliding off on pale bedsheets like a stone sliding down a hill of ice, and all of the weight and reality of my anguish had cascaded with her.

And when the truth of all of this came out of me, with you as my witness, and my mouth closed before the pitiable breath could return to my lungs, what came next was a sob, for I realized that I had always been a slave to the performance, that there was no real pony beneath it all, that in her desperation to save me my mother had erected a facade, something that had always kept her strong in the lasting days that tore her lungs to bits but was only turning my life into a grand stageplay without the courage to end.

And there was a reward, Vinyl. There was a reward for your patience and mine. You reached across the grand oceanic space my drowning sobs had made and you embraced me. You held me. You gave me a new weight, a new anchor, so that I could find the ground, and it was there with you, warmed by you, in love with you. You told me there—with your kisses and your nuzzles of adoration—that it was not too late for my life to begin. You told me that—just as my mother's life had so quietly ended—so softly could Octavia be born, and she would not be alone.

"We will build you together," you had said.

I was so scared, and yet so excited. I never knew such promise. All I had known until I met you was schedules, music tours, and symphonies to learn. It hadn't occurred to me that the very song of my life was about to begin, and that such a song wouldn't be written by me alone. You would be my co-writer, Vinyl.

We had a song to write together, and it would be our song. It would be us.

That night, to relax me, you mentioned a planned get-together at the park, an afterdark soiree of sorts. You talked of something akin to a meteor-shower, and I thought you were daft. Nevertheless, you dried my tears and plopped me back onto my hooves. I think a part of me secretly wished that you would have carried me, but I knew better than to demand too much. After all, my beloved fillyfriend had turned into an angel before my very eyes. Could I have demanded for two miracles—much less one—in a single night?

And yet, as we trotted onto the hilltop, surrounded by neighbors and smiles, and the heavens burned alive with the cosmic streaks of a magical world beyond, I found nothing more dazzling than the shine in your eyes, nothing more illuminating than your smile. I was the luckiest pony in the world, for I was actually a pony for once, and not some equine shell clinging to a cello, trying to make sense of the sacrifice her mother had made, a sacrifice that had consumed her and left me an echo of her sobs.

But you, Vinyl? What had you sacrificed? As a matter of fact, there was no loss; there was no destruction of precious things. Everything was so blissfully simple, so prosperous and good. You had me, and I had you—because you had given yourself, and it was all gain. You had smiled at me on a night full of shooting stars, an evening when you had decided not to wear your infamous shades, so that I could see every bit of the angel that had freed this phantom from her pantomime.

I had fallen in love with you, because you had made me. I've clung to you ever since, the center of my world, the anchor of my heart.

Dearest Vinyl, I have read the dead pages of the Tome of Ending. All that exists beneath us is darkness and despair. Agony encompasses eternity, and the only promise for peace is the inability to perceive it. Now, more than ever, I so do wish I could hold you, and that you could hold me.

The ringing in my ears is back. If I lie very still, I can hear an echo to it, a scraping noise, as if my mother is sliding back towards me on burlap funeral shrouds. Perhaps she wonders why I'm not onstage, why I'm not playing her endless dirge. I'm trying not to think of it—of what I feel, of what I've learned. I'm trying to think of a song instead, but it was never finished. We were never finished.

I think I will lie here some more, at least until the sobs go away.

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia


















Dear Vinyl,

I have never been much of a church-going pony. A young life of being shipped like parcel from one concert hall to another never afforded me much time for worship, not that I would have made much of such a venture. I never really lived—never really felt anything, neither divine nor concrete—until I met you. And we both know how you've always felt about organized religion.

Still, it doesn't change the fact that I'm sitting here, numb and devoid of energy, in the front row pew of Masada's Harmonious Assembly Cathedral.

None of the clergy have attempted to bother me. Right now, the monks and layponies of this place wander about their daily business, leaving me to my solitude. That is a blessing, I suppose: to not be disturbed. I may not be of a mind to pray to ancient alicorn spirits, but I am meditating here in some fashion or another nonetheless.

There's something about the structure of a church like this, the architectural grandeur and plethora of burning candles, that makes even a secular mare like me feel secure, as if hundreds of millions of souls who have been born and died before me have likewise run these circles of fragmented faith, their most beloved ideas challenged and threatened by empirical forces hitherto incomprehensible.

So many ponies have believed in the same thing for so many years, in spite of a static world that refuses to change, that fails to grant them miracles after entire lifetimes of patient waiting. And still, in spite of it all, the majority of them have kept the faith. They have held true to their creed with utmost zeal and perseverence.

What am I holding true to, Vinyl? My journey is my creed, and I have undergone the greatest test of all.

I do not sit in this church, having brought with me a copy of the holy alicorn texts. No, there is something ancient and glowing beneath the folds of this wonderous cloak. Even here, in this most sacred of places, deep within the heart of the holy city of Masada, I have dared to read the dark pages of the Tome of Ending, my eyes tracing the very words written by Starswirl—the words that made his eyes go blind. Only now, I know why he lost his sight. I know why he went mad. And I know why he went away.

The truth is, he didn't vanish, he simply accelerated—heading swiftly towards the only place he had to go... the one place we ponies all have to go.

There is an end to everything, my beloved Vinyl. The secret truth—the nugget of reality that the entire world has yet to realize—is that the end itself never ends.

The end of all things is perpetual. The energy of life divides itself, going faster among smaller distances, never stopping yet never reaching its destination, never resting, never escaping the anguish of existence. To that extent, somepony—some valiant martyr—had to write a book to document the ceaseless nature of that "end." That somepony was Starswirl, and his life's journey had a final chapter, a chapter titled the Tome of Ending.

Thousands of years ago, the ponies of Masada scoffed and grumbled at Starswirl. Now, he finally has a reader, an audience. And just like his book, just like his words, I too can never end.

And while there is so much despair in that thought, there is so much hope as well. I realize this. I came to this church not to find hope, but because there is hope inside me, and I needed a place for it to flourish, for it to dance among the candlelight as I quietly, meditatively, and patiently fought the blindness away, just like you gently coaxed the template of a pony out of my sobbing shell years ago, so that we both might construct a glorious soul in its place.

It is time to build something else now, Vinyl. I very much suspect that it will be a path, a route through the darkness. I have the steps of Starswirl the Bearded to guide me, but only my dance around the holes he's outlined will bring me to the crest of ending.

And every dance deserves music. Care to sing with me, Vinyl?

In good faith,
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I ran out of bits four nights ago. I didn't realize it until the owners of this inn banged on my door, threatening to kick me out. I didn't even realize how much time had passed by. I had spent days and nights pouring through the Tome of Ending, memorizing the words and warnings of Starswirl. What had once been the poetry of a mad sorceror was starting to make sense to me. What had once filled me with dread was starting to become a meter for me to bend my cello strings to.

I feel as though things are falling into place. I know that there is so much darkness ahead, but that's what the Tome is here for. It's meant to light the path for me, much like the book's spine glows in the shadowed recesses of my room. It's the actual act of treading that shadowy path that stands to threaten my heart and soul—which, quite frankly, have become mere words to me now.

After all, just what is the spirit of a pony, Vinyl? Is it what we call it? Is it something that we feel? Does it exist because our beliefs give it substance? Are we what we choose to be, or is there some essential pattern to it all, something that gives us animation, something that gave the ancient alicorns their pride and purpose when the cosmos were first spun into motion?

At least they were real: the alicorns, I mean. I don't just mean the celestial sisters that monitor us today: Celestia, Luna, Cadance, and Twilight Sparkle. I mean the ones who came before everything, the true ones, the primordial alicorns that breathed life into the desolate valleys of the world, that painted the canvas of this earth with green vibrance and blue fluidity. There are so many colors to this sphere, that it seems too good of a picture to be true.

I now know this to be a fact, just as Starswirl once did. Unlike him, though, I'm still too enthralled with curiosity to go mad with the knowledge.

The spine of this book—the bright, white shard—is not any ordinary chunk of alabaster. It is, as a matter of fact, the last surviving physical piece of Wh'lynsehaym, a most holy name which in the ancient alicorn tongue stands for "Star Father."

Yes, my dear Vinyl, I have in my possession the very horn of the first alicorn ever recorded to exist. Wh'lynsehaym was present at the time of Creation; he provided the spark that spun the cosmos into orbit of one another. How the timeless alicorn's source of mana became a part of a book that could be carried in mortal hooves is beyond me, though I suspect it was beyond Starswirl as well. Perhaps the sorceror of old had flung himself into a fugue state, becoming a mindless golem for the moment when he was bequeathed the book. Maybe it was this same possession that allowed him to trot back to civilization, blind as a bat.

Whatever the case, the horn of Wh'lynsehaym is as much a piece of the Tome as the other parts, and they all serve purposes of their own.

The horn protects and enchants the spells contained within, and there are many of them, Vinyl. I am no unicorn, but it doesn't take an apprentice in the arts of sorcery to know that the air is positively brimming with magic each time I flip this book open.

The leather binding is not dragonscale, as I had once speculated, but something else that's quite similar. On several occasions, Starswirl makes written references to the Chaos Realm, and that the beings indicative of that nebulous junction between the planes of reality had "donated" their flesh to the binding of the Tome to end all tomes. Chaos has a masking effect on positive and negative energy, acting as a cloaking field in a way. I suspect that such a thing will be of priceless aid to me.

And the pages—I am reluctant to say—are indeed petrified strips of equine flesh. But what ponies do they belong to? I cannot even begin to guess: but I do know this. Every alternating page is branded with a different symbol, totalling in five separate insignias total, and each of them alternating. After paying close attention to the five different symbols, I combined all of them in my mind's eye, and I realized that the resulting image perfectly resembled the emblem that marks the front and back covers of the book. What does this stand for? Six symbols in total?

I recall the tale of Starswirl's departure from the western gates of Masada three thousand years ago. He had drawn something in the sand, a diagram, a paradoxical corkscrew of chambers—five in total—forever spiraling into the earth, until a gust of wind blew it all away before Feathermane's gaze. Was the entire illustration itself the sixth symbol, a grand portrait crafted by the five images spiraling within?

As I read more and more of Starswirl's writings, a pattern emerges, and I am starting to understand the purpose of the truth he had temporarily bestowed this mortal world, only for it to come across as a paradox to an apprentice who would later turn blind. Perhaps Feathermane's one sin was not endeavoring to follow physically after Starswirl's steps.

I know where I am going, Vinyl. I am about to make the trek that Starswirl could—twice—but Feathermane never would. Maybe this is what will keep me from going blind.

After all, unlike Starswirl, the road map has already been written for me, be it ever a dark, dark descent.

I've spent too much time writing, thinking, pondering. I am broke, and they are banging on the door to kick me out of this inn. I know the path that lies before me. I know the things I must do to get there, to do it safely—as well as bravely. The first step is to earn some bits, for I am not in the right condition to make this journey. There are things I must lose... things I must give up.

And then, like gravity, I will give in.
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

I can't remember the last time I ever cared about an audience. I know that sounds like an awfully complacent thing to say. You, on the other hoof, have always adored the ponies who attended your venues. You became one with your audience, treating them as equals, greeting them all like friends and peers.

I suppose, as a young child prodigy who had fame thrusted upon her, I erected a wall between myself and the ponies whom I performed for. After all, my transition was such a jarring thing. I was whisked from the impoverished streets of my youth and into the luscious lifestyle of road tours and aristocratic etiquette with the force of a hurricane wind. The death of my mother, albeit tragic, was like a flash fire burning through my soul, charring to bits any scant traces of me that could still feel, empathize, or simply enjoy life.

When I stood on stage, and the bright lights illuminated me and my cello, the faces of those standing in the front rows vanished, so that I could just as well have been playing for a grand, empty abyss. I felt immeasurable piece with the sensation of being alone in those concert halls. I dwelled a little too much on the feeling, perhaps.

I imagine that's why meeting you was so refreshing, dearest Vinyl. You made me realize something that my mother had always endeavored to teach me, but was far too overcome with the elements of her passing to convey. You showed me that music was the bridge by which living things could communicate with one other. When we shared music, we experienced union, meaning, and joy in the passing moment. For the first time in years, the stage had become a stage for me once again, and it's been indescribably rapturous to share such a spotlight with you.

Just minutes ago, I finished a three-hour session on a street corner, playing various bits from the Lunar Princess Suites. I've earned several bits, enough for me to buy the things that I need for the journey ahead, but I failed to see where the money came from. There was no spotlight, no illuminated stage blinding me, and yet I still couldn't see any of the ponies' faces.

The citizens of Masada have fallen into shadow all around me. They do not live—they never have, and they never will. A gigantic abyss devours them, encompasses all of them, and by playing my cello—by clinging to music—I am hanging aloft by a thread, my hooves dangling perilously over the shadowy conflagration of infinitesimally tragic life.

My heart weights a ton. At any second, I feel as though it will rip straight through me, falling into the shadows beyond to join them. The harrowing thing is, after reading the Tome of Ending, I know exactly where it will go.

I am hungry, and yet I am too nauseous to eat. This city is too loud. I can't go back to the inn; they don't lease rooms to corpses. I must stay awake. I don't like what I see now when I close my eyes.

I miss you,
-Octavia















Dear Vinyl,

I began my "shopping spree" with a trip to the spas, although I didn't go there for a rinse this time. There is nothing to bathe for anymore; I've smelled my last lavenders.

The mares were happy to see me, as if my last fortuitous visit was something of epic scale. That enthusiasm immediately died, however, upon receiving my latest request. The maidservants gave me long faces full of quivering eyes, and yet I did not falter in my determination. I slid the bits across the front table, removed my good cloak, and sat before a mirror, waiting for them to follow through with the service.

I do not blame them for being hesistant. I shudder now just to confess this entire account in writing to you. However, these letters are meant to do more than express my love—but to show proof of it.

I know what needs to be done for me to get to my destination. Thanks to Starswirls' Tome, I know the trials that I have to endure, as well as the means by which I have to surpass them.

The mares gathered around me. One bravely took the shears and approached me from behind. I don't exagerrate when I say that I heard one or two of them sobbing. Nevertheless, they made swiftly with the task, if not delicately. In less twenty minutes, my ears flicked freely, unobstructed. I can't remember the last time my head has felt so cool. I am thankful for my cloak.

Several of them gazed melancholically at me, their eyes searching for meaning. A lot of them must have thought that I was endeavoring to sell the hair. Imagine their astonishment when I requested that the mane be packaged, along with my tail hair. Undoubtedly, they thought I was mad. Perhaps I am mad. That matters little. I'll be leaving Masada soon: leaving its sounds, its smells, and its hum of life. I asked for the hair to be bundled in silk, and the mares reluctantly complied.

I left the spas in a brisk trot, for I was a pony on a mission. The rubbing of my cloak's hood against my skull only heightened the itching sensation that was starting to overwhelm me. Nevertheless, I made straight way for a market bazaar in the lower streets. After an hour of searching, I found a place that was selling foal-sized musical instruments. Once there, I pointed out a remarkably sturdy violin and asked the merchant about it.

I'm not quite sure what perplexed him more: my freshly sheared mane or the fact that I was asking for a violin while I carried a perfectly good cello in its case. I showed that I had the bits to buy the instrument, and yet he showed hesitance, emphasizing the fact that the violin was merely a practice tool, and it was far too tiny for an adult pony of my size.

I told him that I knew perfectly well how small it was, and that I needed it regardless. Not one to argue with an easy sale, or perhaps desperate to rid himself of an insane mare, he hoofed me the violin. It is an adorable thing, Vinyl, something you would undoubtedly giggle upon seeing. I had an instrument like it when I first started practicing in the slums of lower Canterlot. Those were desperate, dissonant days, accompanied by the sounds of wailing cats and my mother's wheezing coughs.

I do so terribly dislike cats.

I didn't stop with that purchase. I trotted about the bazaar, ultimately landing myself a pocketknife, a series of bandages, a length of rope, a tiny satchel, and enough flint and tinder to set a small forest on fire. All the while, ponies stared at me like I was possessed. I would have resembled one of the many monks who flock to that place, only I was clinging to a violin case on one side and a cello case on another. Indeed, my belongings are becoming very cumbersome. It's difficult carrying both instruments in addition to my saddlebag of things. The only consolation I have is knowledge—dark and sacred knowledge—which assures me that, in due time, I will gladly be departing with half of the clutter.

So long as I have the Tome, some music strings, and the fragments of your symphony, dearest Vinyl, then I am perfectly prepared for the journey ahead.

The queer thing is that I still have some bits on me. Night is beginning to fall. I think I will make the best of things and embark for the west in the morning. My stomach hungers, so perhaps I will attend to that first.

How curious a sensation: to be having one's last meal.
-Octavia















My Dear Vinyl,

T'was a lovely dinner that I just had. Here in Masada, they call it Sunlight's Blessing: toasted bread with sheets of cheese and butter slid in between. A pony like you would have called it "grilled cheese sandwiches." A pony like you would be right.

I can't think of a better last meal than one you would have approved of.

Sleep isn't coming to me; when it does, I doubt I'll be at peace with it. Morning seems like a millennium away. How fitting to think of time in hyperbolic stretches within a city like this, a city that has seen ages come and go, a city that has devoured and blessed so many lives with its culture, religion, and overall permanence.

Only... nothing is ever, ever permanent, Vinyl.

I dwell on this, sitting here on the slopes of Masada's Hill of Passing. I am not alone: two dozen monks sit in droves just meters away, all humming hymns in a singular drone of bass beauty. There's a reason for their presence: this very spot was where Starswirl the Bearded stood with the Tome of Ending, attempting to issue a final warning to the ambivalent mortals of Equestria. Feathermane stood close to him, around about where the olive tree sits to my right, overshadowing me in the starlight. The branches of the thing are withered and jagged, like a plant that expresses its anguish at being alive for so many thousands of years. How awkward and blind a thing nature is, to challenge eternity with such vigor that it tortures itself in ascetic diligence, like the emaciated pilgrims who have come from all across the world to sing and die just a breath's sob from me.

I face west, and a looming blackness mirrors my countenance. They say that the storms above the wasteland beyond Masada's walls only clear up once in a century, transpiring on a day when—miraculously—no single pony dies in Equestria, no foal is miscarried, and no monster or band of orcs is banished to the depths.

I stare ceaselessly into the black clouds, the raging storm of ages. I see strobes of lightning, small flashes of madness in the midst of so much conflagration, but nothing ever clears up. The light is gone, having shrank away and hidden itself in my mind, like a tiny flame flickering into the cold thick of night.

It occurs to me that all my life, I've known just how small that flame is: what a tiny and inconsequential candle all my hopes and dreams have ever been. It was only when you came and blessed me, touched me, held me in those forelimbs of yours that refused all cold that I felt like the darkness didn't matter, that there was nothing to run from, because after years of stumbling my way through road tours and concerts, trying to outrun the blackness that had spread through my mother's eyes like an ashen shroud when she last breathed upon me, I had found a place that was safe—I had found my home, a loving niche in your embrace, so that my tears finally had a place to go. You didn't have to illuminate my life, Vinyl, you merely had to give me sweet music to dance in the darkness with.

And oh, how we've danced, a waltz beyond compare, a seasonable shuffle that made a ballroom out of life, and a melody out of every sigh.

I long to dance with you again, somewhere beyond the darkness, somewhere beyond the hymns of the dead and the dying, where there is no ringing in my ears and no cold to send my limbs into shivering.

I wrap the cloak tighter around my figure. Everything is colder with my mane gone. I stare at the purple starlight above the edge of the world, and still it doesn't solace me. I miss your forelimbs, beloved Vinyl. I miss your awful jokes that could turn even the most abominable of situations over on its head. I ponder over the quips you would have to say about me, my mane, and these monks, serenading me like angels, blessing me for the journey ahead.

I finally entreat the dark storm clouds, asking for something, launching a prayer from this holy city into the great abyss beyond.

I ask for your blessing,
-Octavia












My Most Beloved Vinyl,

The day we first met was a lovely accident, an awkward catastrophe that only fate itself could arrange.

I had just arrived in upper Manehattan for a long-scheduled rehearsal. In two weeks, I was to perform in a concert for the benefit of the city's mayor and his wife. My spirits were anything but ecstatic at the time. My birthday was coming up, and if there is anything that growing older reminds me of, it's that my mother has not been around to do so with me.

So, it was in a clouded mind that I regarded my present situation. The chauffer who was charged with carrying me and my stagecoach across town to the rehearsal studio had fallen ill. Apologizing fitfully, he parked the wagon, excused himself, and dashed into a nearby alley, whereupon my ears were assaulted by a nauseating chorus of wretching noises.

Perhaps that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever the case, it was a very despondent and sullen Octavia sitting in the backseat of the stagecoach that day. Something possessed her—possessed me—and before she had given a second thought about it, she was peeling herself from the seat, picking up her cello case, and trotting lonesomely through the lone streets of lower Manehattan, abandoning the stagecoach and chauffeur completely.

Perhaps it was the smell of the place that carried me forward, that strung me through those decrepit avenues like a kite. They did, in fact, resemble the lower slums of Canterlot in so many ways. I don't feel awfully nostalgic for my youth, Vinyl; you know this. The very sight of trash-filled gutters and the sounds of fighting cats send me into fitful panic attacks.

Nevertheless, I was drawn into those streets that day. Maybe I was looking for something: a miniature version of myself, perhaps? I have long dreamt of adopting a foal, a young filly whom I can rescue from the same pits that had once engulfed me, a child whom I can sit with, brush her mane, and give her the adoration that my mother always wanted to, but sadly lacked the years to do so with.

What I saw instead were collapsing buildings, burning bonfires, and scores of leering eyes and faces of the local populace. It's a miracle that I wasn't robbed then and there for my sins. I was a fool, a rich pony out of her league, entempered with the grossly inaccurate assumption that she could somehow blend back into the molting skin of that that which had incidentally spawned her twenty years prior.

Perhaps I wanted something terrible to happen to me. A very masochistic chunk of my soul pondered over what it would mean to embrace the night without the ritualistic demand for an encore. It wasn't until the daylight fell and the shadows of that place quadrupled that I started to experience true fear. I realized just how out of my element I was: for the past twelve years, I had been shaped into an elegant, fragile creature of aristocracy. I was a stranger to my own wounds, and I was nearly throwing away all of my fortunes—and for what? How would it benefit me? How would it have made my mother proud?

My trot turned into a canter, and soon that bled into a gallop. I was starting to panic. I had thought that I knew true despair; I was only a foal wearing an adult's bowtie. Every shadow was shifting and turning about me. I saw bodies chasing me out of the corners of my eye. The ringing noise began in my ears, and the sounds of wailing, starving cats echoed out of every alley. My voice was too dry to call out for my mother, and still I knew that I would merely be squeaking into the dry abyss of her eyes.

It was then that I saw light: a bright, strobing, manic affair. Like a panicked moth to flame, I flew towards it, and I was greeted with immense noise. I had stumbled into a warehouse of sorts on the edge of the commercial district, only it had become a dance hall. Yet, it wasn't like any ballroom I had ever attended. The ponies there did not waltz and they did not sashay. They jumped and writhed and sweated like a herd of frantic animals. They were too sweaty to bother with the heat of the moment; every single nerve in their body had one command and one command alone to obey: "jump." And they did indeed jump; they leapt and bounded and cavorted, spinning and thrashing in place as though they were making sweet love to the air.

All the while, a grotesque beat of epic proportion was repetitiously and demoniacally possessing them, like some dark mantra from the ether beyond had been made manifest in this once-holy world. I gazed upon this crowd, this devilish cult that had landed upon the immaculate bosom of Equestria, and I had no choice but to move with it, for I was swimming with it. I quite simply had no room to stand in place. I recall being jostled around rather violently, like a gray ball tethered to the end of an elastic string, flung by the whims of some invisible child. It was a monumental feat in and of itself to keep my cello case in one piece. I didn't know whether to sob or scream, so I settled for shivering instead, ultimately finding a place in the corner to cling my case to my chest and hope and pray for the flickering storm of chaos to consume itself.

It was then that a mare stumbled into me, her pale horn almost stabbing my blasted eye out. She spoke to me, yelling as she did so. Yet, compared to the noise of that echoing hovel, her screams sounded like an angelic whisper. I tried responding just as loudly, but I found that I couldn't summon a single shout. I had been living in whispers ever since a little foal wailed at the bedside of her dying mother. Maybe if I had told the mare that, my sobs would have been loud enough for her to hear me.

But it turns out that she didn't need to hear me. She took one look at my disheveled mane, my lopsided bow-tie, and my rattling cello case. What came next was a grin, then a tug of her hoof against mind. Squeaking, I found myself tugged into the centermost nucleus of the writhing warehouse. There, we both ascended a stage where she presented a throne of electronic equipment, all of it flashing with magical vibrance that matched the cacophony of the place.

She asked me to sit down, and I did so with great nervousness. Then, before my very eyes, her hooves blurred over the panels and turntables and equipment all around us, and the music changed like thunder obeying the whim of an alicorn goddess. Suddenly, the beat slowed, and the music melted into something that was lulling, melodious, and even soothing. The crowd's gyrations turned placid, like a rolling sea beneath the eye of a hurricane.

It was then that I realized that she—that you were in charge of the entire theatrics. You smiled at me, asking if things were more tolerable now. Like a self-righteous imbecile, I simply scoffed at you, asking what kind a musician you truly were to have a complex apparatus do all the work with pre-recorded samples.

You didn't seem to care; you only cared to live. You shared with me the secrets of your joy, the intricacies of your talent, and you made it all seem so beautifully simple. I marveled at what a dance it was, to operate each dial and switch of the instruments like you were navigating a mine field with your forelimbs. I no longer felt the urge to ridicule you, but it wasn't like I had a choice. You didn't give me much chance to breathe. You kept talking and rambling, and soon what you carried on about had nothing to do with live music sampling, but rather with local hoofball teams and celebrity gossip and the bad bagel that you had for breakfast and how your left elbow always cracks whenever you spin a record really vigorously.

And before I knew it, you had sped the tempo up once more. The crowd raved and thrashed around us, refilling the sweaty warehouse with noise and insanity, but I had hardly noticed. I was enthralled with you, with how your voice found a special octave at which to yell, with a gift that somehow made it disparate from the deaffening bass and the staccatto blasts. All the while, you brandished those glinting shades and a grin that could consume manure and produce roses. There was nothing in life too sacred to joke about, and nothing too dirty that you couldn't make sparkly clean with a bath of crystalline laughter.

I was so absorbed in your persona, that I hadn't noticed the hour coming when the dance hall finally cleared out. I felt guilty all of the sudden, as if I had consumed your entire evening. You assured me that your night had "just started," and that you had many hours before morning to burn away on songwriting. We went out to eat together in the dead thick of night. I soon found us sitting in a lone diner, a delightfully dirty niche in the crook of Manehattan's deepets of pits. The waitress there smiled at us as if we were princesses, and the two of you chatted about famous musicians like you were sisters joined at the flank.

I barely talked. How could I? I sat there the entire morning, sipping coffee, gazing at your shades and wondering what lay beneath, curious if your eyes sparkled with as much intensity as your voice did. Even when you spoke quietly, your words were bombastic feats of percussion against the walls around us. I suspect that if you had whispered, it would have shattered diamonds, and that was fine by me. I needed my soul to be shaken that morning, and you did just that, by doing that which I could never do: by reaching into the audience and grabbing a single soul that needed to be rescued and embracing her with your sound, the most deliciously awkward lullaby I've ever had the grace to experience, and still relish the very thought of.

We walked through Manehattan's Central Park two hours later. I was nervous about muggers stalking about. You said that if anypony tried to jump us, you'd smash their skulls against the sidewalk with your bare hooves. I completely and utterly believed you. You made a joke about the ridiculousness of my bow-tie, and I laughed—realizing that it was the first time I had giggled at anything in my adult life. Just then, a curtain of sadness must have drawn over my eyes, for I knew that the sun would be rising soon.

I murmured something, low and frightened at first, like a baby bird too shy to ask for a meal. I felt like I had to tell you something—anything—about myself, as if it might make up for all of the joy and politeness that you had bestowed upon me.

To my relief, you interrupted me, your face grinning as you patted my shoulder in a brusque fashion. You said that the very moment you saw me, you knew that I was a mare who was sick and tired of performing for others, and that I could stand to be somepony else's audience for once.

I almost cried, for something came to me just then, a beautiful idea as pristine and immaculate as your ivory coat. Perhaps my mother hadn't encouraged my talent because she wanted me to be rich and famous; maybe she just wanted me to be happy.

Life, after all, is a song, something that is hardly original, and yet can be milked to produce so many drops of succulence, something that can only be enjoyed when it is shared.

And for once, I felt as though I finally met a pony I could share it with.

It stung all the more when we had to part ways. I realized that this had to have been nothing more than a fortuitous exchange of thoughts and feelings; I would likely never see you again. As if you could read my thoughts through my expression, you gazed straight at my face with that devil-may-care grin and told me that Manehattan was too small to handle your "awesome beats" without shaking, so that when the time came that you performed again, I would inevitably hear you and that's where you would be waiting for me to talk with once more.

I smiled, not knowing whether to call that a sweet thing or a foolish thing for a pony to say. I settled for both at once, and then I fumbled, for I wanted ever so desperately to see what lie beneath those shades, to know that a true, equinist soul was the reason for making me laugh, for making me feel alive, for making me remember what music was truly meant to do: bring ponies together and make delicate melody out of misery.

Instead, I blurted my name out, like a shy little foal. You laughed, saying that "Octavia" sounded goofy. It was then that I realized that you had no idea who I was, that my fame had not reached your bass-riddled ears. Everything you had ever done over the past eight hours had been out of genuine friendliness and adoration. I was almost too dazed to register your name when you shared it with me in turn.

"Vinyl Scratch." How lovely and obtuse all at once. I never once knew a name that I actually wanted to physically cuddle up against, not until that dawn.

You yawned and waved and that was it. I was alone with my sighs once again, only they had a toasty texture to them now, like warm bedsheets I could roll myself in. They carried me into the rich district of Mane Street, where I found my hotel—along with my entire company of agents and fellow musicians pacing worrisomely in the lobby.

Yes, they gave me an earful of chastisement for my sudden disappearance overnight. Yes, they berated me for almost jeopardizing the entire rehearsal that had been planned. Indeed, I was once more ferried about from studio to studio, utilized for my cello talents, recorded and re-recorded like I was a plastic distributor of felicitous noise.

But none of it bothered me this time. I had a constant, bass thump in the back of my mind, and each time my eyes shook upon the contemplation of it, I saw the glint of your shades, and I smiled. My agents even looked at me strange, as if it was a sin to smile while I did what I did. That was how I realized what a bizarre masquerade my existence had become. When two weeks passed and I performed before the mayor and his entourage, I erected the same wall between myself and the audience, only this time I was decorating that barricade with memories of you, of colorful snapshots of those precious few hours we had together, bathed in the octaves of your pompous voice, glittering in the rising sunlight like your blue bangs did as we strolled through the park with the morning dew kissing us all over like newborns.

The concert ended; there was a standing ovation. Elite ponies and famous newspapers would herald the venue as one of the best in decades.

I didn't care. I sat in my hotel room for twelve hours straight following the performance, unable to sleep. This insomnia persisted through the next day, and when the sun began setting again, and the warmth of Manehattan glowed brilliantly into the falling darkness, I realized that I could no longer sit straight. Every building face glittered like the eyes of a mare that I wasn't yet blessed to see.

I sneaked out again, throwing myself into the streets. I had left my cello behind; the only music was the pulse in my ears, like the bass beat that had hypnotized me to your words, and it left me feeling vulnerable, anxious, naked—save for a bowtie and a quivering muzzle.

I was galloping by the time I reached the dance hall. The smile on my face nearly broke my skin, for you were right: I could hear the noise against the buildings all around us. You didn't perform for the city—you were the city. You were its heart and its blood and its glowing notion to defy the darkness. I had to dive through the writhing bodies to get anywhere near the lights strobing around you, only to realize that I didn't have to wander far. Your flickering shades found me, and you pointed a white hoof as if directing cannonfire to my coordinates.

You shouted my name with a smile, only you didn't. You had condensed my title to two syllables, as if the entire thing was too big to fit in your mouth along with your grin, but life was silly enough for you to afford both. I was not about to complain. I wanted to be somepony's audience again.

And since that night, I never stopped attending your performances.

Your most dedicated fan,
-Octavia











Dear Vinyl,

I awoke screaming again. The ringing was in my ears. I swear, it was stronger than ever.

It felt as though my dreams had dragged something up from the darkness: a preview, perhaps. I couldn't understand it. That didn't stop me from stumbling into an alleyway and vomiting like a sick little foal.

So much for my last meal.

It's daylight, but I can hardly tell. The rising sun is so weak against the walls of Masada, so sickly and pale as it scrapes across the eggshell lengths of the sky. The dark clouds hanging over the west resemble a nasty boil, and already I can smell jaundice with each inhalation I take.

I don't know how I'm going to do this; I suppose the key is not to think. I only wish I could stop myself from feeling all the same.

It's bitterly cold in the morning as I prepare to pass through the gates of the western wall. There're hardly any ponies around me, only a starving monk or two. As I scale the paths, I see lone carcasses lining the ancient granite steps. The skeletons of dead birds and starving dogs linger on either side of me, too petrified for the worms to bother with. Very few souls dwell in this district along the western edge. There's a reason for that.

I'm pausing for a moment to gather my bearings. It was a rough night's sleep atop the Hill of Passing. After trotting for a hundred yards, I'm overcome with a great sense of dizziness. I wish my cello case didn't weigh so much more than the tiny violin. I feel as though the most perilous trek will be the first leg of the descent. Hopefully, Starswirl's Tome of Ending will make the rest of the path more bearable, but I know better.

It's so very cold. I wrap the cloak tighter and think of warm nights, warm breaths, and warm laughter before the fireplace. We counted the dancing sparks together and pretended that they were shooting stars. Your mane smelled like Hearth's Warming and peppermint.

It's a very nice cloak.
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

There's a township out here. It turns out that Masada isn't the very last city on the edge of Equestria after all. Past the west wall, the landscape slopes down, dipping through loose rocks and lengths of thorny shrubbery. Then, past a line of dying olive trees acting as meager gates of their own, this one little shantytown stands.

"Stands" is a loose term. The whole village leans precariously towards the east, as if perpetually encumbered by some invisible blast wave that's been pelting it for millennia. The dust here is mesmerizing, and the ground swirls with miniature cyclones of debris. Aside from a tumbleweed or two, I thought the entire village was inert. It was then that I heard a muttering sound to the left of me, and I jumped so hard that I nearly dropped my music cases.

There are ponies here: old, decrepit, lonely souls. Their coats are like wrinkled raisins, devoid of color. I can barely make out their cutie marks from where some obscure blight has constantly bleached them. They sit on the front patios of their splintery lean-tos, their eyes full of pale clouds as if they've all taken turns devouring the Tome of Ending in my grasp.

What are they doing here? Are they all blind? What do they do for a living besides sit and decay? Do they eat anything? Do they have a language? Do any of the ponies in Masada care about them—or is this where the elders go to meditate on misery before they die?

I do not understand. I suspect that my confusion is something that will only increase the deeper I go. As I pass through the last dwelling of "living" ponies, I take a final glance at the buildings. The sides immediately facing the western wasteland are blacker, more rotten, falling apart by the shingles. Masada beyond the decaying hub looks like a gray iceberg floating away.

I turn towards the storm cloud and the endless desert. I do believe I am done with sunlight.

Faithfully,
-Octavia






Dear Vinyl,

When I passed the last tree hours ago, a pair of vultures were perched upon it. One was digging its beak ravenously into a chunk of meat. A green scalp was all that I could make out; presumably the scant remnants of orc flesh. The scavengers watched me trot along with their beady eyes, and then they resumed their infinite watch upon the precipice of desolation.

Everything before me now is open desert, a veritable flat plane of stone, gravel, and more stone. It is deathly quiet out here. The only sound is the swishing of my cloak and the plodding of my hooves as I trot over perpetual flatness.

The stars above are brilliant, Vinyl. I've never seen the cosmos with this much beauty and dazzling colors. It really is a spectral cornucopia of wonder above. They say that the original alicorns came from the heavens. At this point, I have to wonder why. Is there anything so despicable and unlikeable about the celestial sphere that one would abandon it all and come down to a place like this?

Don't get me wrong, beloved Vinyl. I do cherish the earth and all of its beautiful qualities. It is simply that I know full well the degree to which negative energies have coalesced around this plane. Once upon a time, I would have ignored it all, but then I stumbled upon the Tome of Ending. There's a reason why Starswirl the Bearded neglected to die in peace. I'd pray to Celestia for understanding, but then I realize that even she wouldn't have the answer nor the solution.

None of the gods or goddesses can help us. After all, they've tried before, and now a great darkness looms before me, a darkness that is consuming me... that is consuming all of us.

We exist to be devoured, Vinyl. The key to peace is finding a way to be asleep when the unthinkable happens.

I feel night coming on: at least I think it's night. Everything is so dark and barren; the sunlight crumbles before the thunderclouds, and I can't tell how much time has passed since I left the last piece of civilization. It's bone-bitingly cold, and I hear a rumbling in the distance. Every time it echoes, my ears twitch with a ringing noise.

It's very odd. I feel like a piece of myself has been here before. Maybe we ponies have all visited this place, passing each other by like wayward spirits before being tugged to our young bodies as we are being foaled to enter this physical world. What a delightfully grim preview it must have been, but it gives me an oddly blissful feeling to meditate upon as I lie here to rest.

You and I have likely crossed paths before.
-Octavia









Vinyl,

There are things out here, circling above me. Things that shriek and echo into the night. I awoke to the sounds of them, and ever since I haven't been able to stop shivering. I'm naked and vulnerable out here in this desert. They must be able to see me. What are they? I don't remember Starswirl mentioning them in the Tome of Ending. I must read more, because I didn't expect to run into something so horrific so soon. Here's hoping that the brown texture of the cloak blends in with the arid rock. They might be able to pass me by. They just might. Oh, Celestia help me. I can't unhear them. Like dying cats in the darkness. Please. I love you so much, Vinyl. Please...

-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I almost feel like shredding apart the last little bit of hastily written madness, but I have decided to preserve it. There is no telling how many more times I will find the need to document the moment right when it collapses all around me. Sometimes truth is absolute in its most raw form. Fear not, though, my beloved Vinyl. The fact that I am writing this entry should be ample evidence that I surpassed my panicked situation. I suspect that the voluminous amount of pages to follow will assure you of the many trials that I have yet to overcome in my sojourn. I hope there's at least some ease in reading all of this that's severely lacking in the toil of writing it.

I shall attempt to explain what I've just been through, though—as always—I cannot promise to be brief.

I was just on the verge of falling into fitful slumber, when sounds over the desert echoed like banshee screams. The repetition and the intensity in which the birdlike sirens sounded off threw me instantly into unspeakable terror. It was in such a state of mind that I wrote that trite, paranoid little paragraph. I do hope you can forgive me.

At some point, I regathered my wits. The noises were circling closer and closer to the surface of the world. I felt my ears twitching with each shriek. At first, I threw my cloak around me in a foalish gesture—like a young filly might do while sleeping in her bed, afraid of monsters in the closet. I then realized that there was a noticeable pattern to the shrieks; it occurred to me that hiding under the cloak was quite likely the most sound decision. With the material draped over me like a blanket, I withdrew the Tome of Ending from my saddlebag and flipped through the ashen-white pages. The horn shard of Wh'lynsehaym illuminated the words of Starswirl.

Sure enough, early into the ancient manuscript, I found an account that Starswirl had made about his journey into the wastes, before he had gone blind. He made mention of the L'ysyhrym, or "winged phantoms" in the ancient alicorn tongue. He detailed them as sentient flying guardians who were charged with keeping the landscape clear of intruders, such as orcish saboteurs who would venture into the pits for nefarious, chaotic purposes.

I realized that—as a living creature having ventured this far—I was likely an intruder to the likes of these L'ysyhrym. As their shrieks drew closer and closer from above, I knew that it was only a matter of time before they swept me off the surface of the earth.

The moment had come for me to call upon the power of Starswirl. I must admit, I did not look forward to this moment, nor did I think that I would be having to rely on the tools he and Feathermane had inadvertently bequeathed me.

I turned to the middle of the Tome. There, the book's pages held a copper hue, with crimson stains along the edges. The foremost page within this section contained the first of many spells, namely the "spell of harmonic equilibrium." The purpose of this incantation, according to Starswirl's notes, is to dispel the leylines flowing through an equine soul, effectively masking its presence within the universe's field of flowing energy.

Unfortunately, Vinyl, I am not a unicorn like you or Starswirl. I do not possess an innate connection to leylines and their otherworldly properties. Thankfully, though, I have the trailing essence of Starswirl enchanting the copper spell pages, as well as the horn of Wh'lynsehaym acting as a channel for its power. What's needed, then—a final ingredient—is the life energy of the spell caster, and there's only one way an earth pony such as myself can provide that.

So, with the noises of the L'ysyhrym sailing closer, and with my limbs shivering to the breaking point, I prepared to perform the first of many unthinkable experiments. Procuring the pocket knife from my saddle bag, I bit onto the neck of my cello case and slit a line across the top of my left forelimb.

The pain shot through me like an arctic blast to my lungs, and I almost stopped cutting altogether. However, I persisted, until a tiny river of blood leaked out. Immediately, I retrieved the blade and pressed my hoof to the page of "harmonic equilibrium." My eyes quivered, for Wh'lynsehaym's horn immediately pulsed, illuminating the patch of desert dirt beneath me and the cloak. I heard a ringing in my ears—but it was delightful this time, melodic in its pitch and constantly lifting, as if with exultant wings. I wondered briefly if I may have been serenaded by alicorns from beyond the grave.

Before I knew it, the ringing stopped, and I felt a staleness overcome me, as if I was suddenly floating in a bubble, apart from the world. My heart rate slowed to a stand-still. My shivers stopped. The pain from my fresh cut had almost entirely left.

Could this have been the "equilibrium" spell at work? I didn't question it; I didn't dare move. At last, the L'ysyhrym's soul-shattering cries came to a halt. I felt a shift in the air, and then the sound of heavy wings beating against the wind. In cyclonic echoes, several bodies soared away from me, and I breathed in relief.

Bless you, Starswirl, for you have made me invisible.

I laid there for the better part of two hours. I knew that so much as moving an inch would have broken the effect that the spell had around me, but I couldn't stay in the desert forever. I had a place to go, however darker the horizon before me.

So, braving everything, I shouldered my belongings, drew the cloak tight around my limbs, and broke into a gallop. I sped over the dusty floor of the world, shivering each time the thunderous clouds rumbled above. I winced—almost limped, even—from the fresh pain in my forelimb. Indeed, I had bandaged the cut that I had made, but it was a very hasty task and I was almost certain it was going to bleed again at any moment. Regardless, I saw the edge of the first of many countless pits ahead of me, and I galloped faster towards my destination.

I was nearly at the crest of the first hole when I heard the shrieks again. It was hard to detect them at first, on account of the boiling thunder gathered above me. Then they multiplied, filling the air with shrill, ghostly bellows that stood the short hairs of my shaved mane on end.

I couldn't help it. I paused at the pits and glanced up at the sky. It was a foolish thing to do, I know, but curiosity is a curse of this world that I've yet to sever.

What I saw was more intriguing than frightening—at least at first. The bodies were pale, like snow-white comets streaking against the volcanic column of rising ash around me, and they were most decidely equine. I saw dangling hooves beneath the flapping of reflective, pallid wings. There were no feathers—only the unmistakable flash of leather, like the pages of Starswirl's Tome. I almost wondered if I had discovered where he got his writing material from.

Another sound broke through the thunder. I glanced southeast, and I saw a shadow against the desert surface. At first, I thought it was another pony much like myself. I quickly recovered from the bizarre vision, realizing that it was a different sort of quadruped altogether. The spine bent and flexed like a predator. I realized that an emaciated coyote had trudged its unfortunate way across the wastes, only to stumble upon the pits where I stood in a confused lurch. For the briefest of moments, its beady eyes flashed like lantern bugs in the dark, and I could have sworn it looked at me.

It was at precisely that moment that a pair of creatures descended on the poor dog in a blink. For half-a-second, there was a mess of entangled white limbs and hooves, and then the canine was yanked up—split into bloody halves and rocketed into the thunderclouds under the chorus of its own horrific yelps. Before I could spot the impossible height to which it had been flown, another of the L'ysyhrym landed halfway between myself and the nearest pit.

A gasp escaped my lips, and I crouched down at the edge of the hole, my wide eyes quivering from under the cloak's hood. I watched as the thin, lithe pegasus lurked around, its pallid bat wings flexing in the twilight air. Its leprotic body was stenciled in rust-bleeding iron tattoos, forming intricate patterns akin to the diorama along the back of a copperhead snake. When it tilted its broad muzzle in my direction—its mucousy nostrils flaring—I saw a leather bandage of scarlet flesh stitched over its eyesockets, written over with words of the alicorn tongue that shone as clear as moonlight: L'ysyhrym Nyrrh Lyn W'hygymiir S'lynn. "Winged Phantoms Bound To Prison Seal."

They were sarosians, Vinyl, though not the same breed that makes up the valiant night guard of the immortal Princess Luna. Legend has it that the sarosians were the first mortal ponies whom the alicorns breathed sentience into, and they were gifted with long life. For a choice few of them, it would appear as though that longevity has become a curse, as they have charged themselves over the eons with the thankless tasks of wiping these wastes clean of all intruders. Glancing up high, I could see patches of darkness layered within the thunderclouds: evidently their lofty homes, and quite possibly the place where they took the poor coyote—and all other mortals foolish enough to have trotted as far as I have—to where the L'ysyhrym feed on the necessary victims of their ardent patrol.

As soon as this thought came to me, I saw the mouth of the waste guard opening, its fanged teeth dripping in the deathlight. A shrill shriek emanated from its diseased muzzle, and I knew that the blind wretch was sounding off. In a matter of seconds, my body's echo would reach its pale ears, and I would be snatched away in a leathery blink, torn to bits just like the coyote.

I turned around, my last view of the surface world flickering in a blur. I dashed and slid down the pit, my limbs slipping almost immediately. As I began my perilous slide into the depths, I heard the swish of an unnatural wind behind me, and I knew that the guardian had missed me by mere inches.

I didn't stop until I tumbled into a pained heap in the center of a branching tunnel. My world had become a sound booth, cocooning me and the echoes of my labored breaths. I looked around, and all I could see in the illumation of Wh'lynsehaym's horn was rock, stone, and more rock. Several branching paths spread before my sight, all carving into the earthen womb of the world. Suddenly, the terrible ringing was louder—sending shivers up my spine.

I had to calm down, so I sat and began writing to you.

And now—yes—I do believe that I can breathe again.

With gratitude,
-Your ever living Vinyl

























Beloved Vinyl,

Darkness abounds.

It is a daunting task simply to trot forward at a snail's pace inside these tunnels. The winding nature of the corridors has utterly blocked out all hint of light from the surface world above. I am utilizing the glow of Wh'lynsehaym's horn from the Tome of Ending, and even still I am nearly stumbling into the craggy rock and porous limestone that comprise the walls of this place.

It is colder than death down here. I thought that I had every expectation of this. Nevertheless, in the last ten hours alone, I have started a fire at least three times, just so I could feel my limbs again.

Indeed, I have been navigating these chambers for the better part of a day. I can already feel my stomach gurgling. If I do not reach my destination soon, I fear that I might starve or something possibly worse.

It's a queer sensation, Vinyl, to be in such desperation within the depths of misery that one seeks something far more horrible as a means of solace. I don't think it's possible at this point to commit to any single thought without being completely and utterly headstrong, or foolish even.

The deeper I go, the more the walls around me begin to tremble. It's been a very subtle thing so far, like the rattling of a house's foundations from the onset of a grand storm. But with each hoofstep I take, I swear that I am hearing a sound that accompanies it. It is a thick and impermeable sound—lacing each breath I take and shaking me to my bones. What's more, it is accompanied by a high pitched whine, a ringing noise... the ringing noise.

Yes, I suspect that I have heard this sound all of my life, but I simply didn't know it until I arrived here.

Celestia help me, Vinyl. As foolish as it sounds, after five years of desperate searching, I almost didn't become a believer in all of this... until now.

I want to scream, but that would only make the ringing louder. My steps are becoming uneven. My shaved head throbs and I feel like collapsing. I think I hear scratching sounds against the rising tumult. I doubt I'm the only thing in these caves.

With caution,
-Octavia























Dear Vinyl,

I knew that my destination was somewhere deep within the bowels of this world. As hyperbolic as that sounds, I don't think I ever once calculated the sheer depth that I would actually have to scale to get there.

Traveling over the past five years has gotten easier for me, as you well know. Trotting several miles in a single day was once something unfeasible to this dainty mare and her even daintier limbs. That soon changed, however, as I found myself crossing the lengths of provinces, kingdoms, and even continents—all primarily by hoof. Soon enough, steep valleys and sheer cliffs were no longer of any major challenge to me. By the time my travels took me back to Ponyville, I must have looked like a completely different pony altogether, her muscles toned by every mountain she had ever climbed, her haunches thickened by every bruise suffered in the quest for knowledge from the furthest corners of the earth.

And yet, in spite of all of the distances I have traveled, both uphill and down, I don't think anything has quite prepared me for this. Not once do I recall having to spend the better part of a day... or perhaps two days attempting to descend a series of winding, claustrophobic tunnels.

This is supremely difficult, Vinyl. True, I have the horn of Wh'lynsehaym, the Star Father, to light my path. But illumination is of very little consolation when I do not know what I am looking at, much less what sort of detours I am approaching.

After all, there is nothing explicitly stated in Starswirl's Tome of Ending to suggest exactly what twists and turns he took to reach his objective. I suppose it's terribly hard for a blind stallion to provide instructions of any sort. I imagine something from beyond the conceivable veil empowered him in his trek. I almost wish it would empower me as well, though I fear it would somehow turn me blind as he became. That is something I cannot afford. Unlike Starswirl, I have a singular goal, an end point to my sojourn. I will need my eyes for such a venture, for they are direct lenses to my heart.

The rock here is changing, at least. The deeper I go, the more porous the surfaces get. I think I detect limestone and hints of subsistence. Perhaps there was an aquifer down here, a subterranean river older than time. Whatever corrupted this portion Equestria's underworld must have dried up the springs ages ago, leaving behind nothing but dust and debris lining the smooth contours of a continuously weaving intestine.

I find my imagination having its sadistic way with my mind as I creep along. For the life of me, I cannot stop thinking about the L'ysyhrym, the sarosians mutated by both time and duty. It was with brilliant ease that they consumed that poor coyote stranded in the middle of the wasteland. At one moment, it stared at me, a lost soul seeking warmth and sense in that starving deathscape. The next moment, it was split in two, dangling in the jaws of equine predators.

The L'ysyhrym were virtual phantoms, protectors of a dark world, darker than the brightest rays of Celestia's reach. They could very easily have lorded over the skies if their ambition took them far away from their posts, past the bastions of Masada, and towards the vulnerable lands of Equestria beyond.

What, then, was it that prevented them from flying effortlessly down these tunnels to capture me? Was it something that nightmarish creatures such as them would fear? Do they know what would have awaited them?

Do I know what awaits me?

Sincerely,
-Your Octavia




























Beloved Vinyl,

I've come to a stop. It's not that I'm starving. It's not that I'm exhausted. A feeling of dread has come over me, as though I am in immediate danger. The problem is, I'm not exactly sure what the threat is. I suppose this is what you would call a "gut feeling," Vinyl. Oh, how I do wish you were here with me. Your intuition was always a blissful, saving grace in moments of confusion and duress.

These tunnels have gotten extremely ugly. That is to say, the walls have taken on a far more decrepit texture, and I no longer have the capacity to blame it on anything even remotely geological.

I started noticing the change about an hour or two ago. The incline of my descent grew steeper, and I heard a staccato reverberation from my hoofsteps. The acoustics had altered dramatically. Gazing up at the bowing ceiling above me and its adjacent rock formations, I began to understand why.

There were... objects clinging to the walls and curved foundations of this place. What's more, they were anything but natural. I caught sight of reflective materials: slates of metal, greaves of bronze, slivers of hammered iron and steel. I've traveled around this world enough to know what armor looks like upon a first glance. Did some expedition once come down here? Did Feathermane or some other scholar of Masada send a legion of soldiers to explore the depths of these goddess-forsaken tunnels?

But then things became even stranger. Not only did I spot pieces of armor, but strips of leather, the scattered remnants of equine hides, bone fragments, and even a skull or two. Not everything belonged to pony anatomy; at one junction of tunnels I saw what had to have been the lower half of an orc, petrified in all its calcified glory.

At first, it was a complete mystery as to why these things were so perfectly preserved. Also, I was at a loss to guess why they clung to the walls so. But right now, as I sit here and write this, I'm observing a rusted helmet dangling half a meter from the top of the ceiling. That's right, Vinyl, dangling.

These things are stuck in fibrous, gilatinous material, like viscous slime... elastic webbing. There's a foul stench about the place too, and it's making my coat hairs stand on end. Like a curious foal, I've even placed my hoof flatly against a wall of the pale strands, and it took a remarkable amount of strength to yank the limb unstuck. I feel as though not everything down here is ancient. It seems as if only the armor is old, but everything else is fresh, also hauntingly smooth in texture. Even the ground beneath where I'm currently squatting feels almost warm to the touch. I think—

I have to stop writing. There's something here. I hear hoofsteps. Many, many hoofsteps..

-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

"H'sykylhym:" It's a very nondescript, harmless word. In a way, it's almost pleasing to the ear. That said, every phrase and bit of syntax in the alicorn tongue has its honey-laced qualities. The fact that it labels bleak things with such timeless beauty and elegance is what gives it its darker tone, reinforcing the long-reserved belief that the extremely horrible things in life must be packaged in delicate, almost resplendent fashion.

When one translates "H'sykylhym" into Equestrian basic, the equivalent phrase is "rock spiders." This too is seemingly harmless, save for the occasional arachnophobic listener who may be subjected to it.

When my mother exercised me and my talents in the slums of Canterlot, she had two choices to follow. She was either going to train me to be a great musician or an exceptional writer. I am so very glad that she went with the former, because music—as a language—conveys feelings and emotion and spiritual connection in such ways that writing has to stumble in order to catch up with its cumbersome technicalities.

If I could somehow encapsulate the "H'syklhym" that I encountered just a few hours ago in song, Vinyl, I would do so in a grating instrumental utilizing every dissonant string available to the cello. If nothing else, it would certainly convey in one cacophonous outburst the convoluted description that I am now about to write you.

When they arrived, I thought that there was a stampede of buffalo skeletons pouring down the tunnel directly behind me. The sound of their legs sounded exactly like countless cloven hooves against the walls of these rocky chambers. I broke into a gallop, fleeing wildly into the ringing noise that was consuming the subterranean world all around me.

I came upon a junction, the walls of which were as sickly porous as ever. I smelled the stench of rich, acidic decay, like years had layered a thick coat of vomit throught the entrails of this world. Utilizing the glow of Starswirl's Tome, I found a niche that my thundering heart convinced me was tiny enough for an earth pony such as myself to fit in alone. I was absolutely certain that I had to hide from whatever was gaining the distance behind me.

So, with much effort, I slid myself into the narrow partition. Once inside, I wrapped a length of the cloak around the tome, hiding Wh'lynsehaym's glow and casting myself into hideous darkness. That pitch black sensation did not last for long. To my shivering observation, the creatures themselves glowed: namely their eyes. A breath left me when I saw sets of six circles of pale green luminescence, each representing an individual head.

They were spiders—hideously large in size—and yet they weren't. When they hissed, it was with pony hisses. When they moaned, it was with pony moans. I watched as the junction ahead of me strobed with the lightning swaths cast from their multiple, glowing eyes. I saw grossly thin torsos attached to bulbous, hairy haunches. Eight sets of hooves—all of them equine—converged on a series of joints attached to soft bellies of translucent skin, through which I saw abdominable organs slowly digesting clumps of flesh and fractured bone matter.

There was a dozen of them. They herded just like ponies, only when their muzzles opened wide, barnacle-encrusted pedipalps slid out from their pallid lips. These oral appendages were used by the arachnequines to squabble amongst each other, fighting over strips of flesh and bone—some petrified, others raw. I saw strong femurs and thick pelvises, along with simian skulls barring intense overbites and fanged jaws. The H'sykylhym were fighting over the succulent remains of orcs: trolls and goblins and ogres who had undoubtedly been tossed down the very same pits I had willingly descended. Most likely they had been deposited there by the L'ysyhrym, or else teleported directly into the tunnels by the same magic used to banish monsters from all parts of Equestria everywhere. As fate would have it, these dismembered orcs did not make it all the way to the dark prison that was intended for them.

They were lucky.

I waited in the shadows, praying that the flashing lights from the rancid spider ponies' eyes did not illuminate me in my hiding spot. Oddly enough, their tense squabble within the junctioning corridors was a welcome reprieve. So long as their multiple hooves scratched and rattled against the walls of that place, I could no longer hear the intense ringing from beyond.

All good and horrible things come to an end, even if that ending takes eons. Eventually, the creatures tore off. The orcish remains were completely consumed, and I was cast once more into darkness, serenaded by the mad ringing from below.

A part of me wonders if this has been the bleak existence of the H'sykylhym for millennia. Were they always destined to become the scavengers of damnation? In the Tome of Ending, Starswirl desribes them as having been the willfully engineered abomination of the chaos lords, long before the prison was built to seal off our world from the realms beyond. In all of the eons since, these spidery beings have forged a life for themselves, subsisting on the most despicable yet unlikely sources of food imaginable. In a way, the very concept of it—albeit disgusting—glimmers with a tinge of nobility.

Deep down here, even on the edge of utter destination, harmony blossoms.

It's a shame I cannot remain a witness to it. I must now depart from this niche. The ringing is unbearably loud now. I suspect there is little distance left for me to go. I do not know whether to feel joyous or gloomy.

Wish me good fortune either way,
-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I want to bash my head against these rocks; the ringing is too unbearable. I thought that I would get used to it. I thought that my descent would allow me to adjust to the pressure of these constant reverberations. But that's simply impossible. I am mortal; there is no adjusting. There is only the descent, the death, the plunge. It's pulling at me, grabbing at my hooves, caressing my throbbing heart with each heated breath.

Yes, I do feel as if it's panting after me, almost as if it's a starved canine slobbering over a succulent piece of meat.. There shouldn't be wind down here, and yet I detect a breeze. The air circulates, spins heated cyclones around my twitching ears. I love this cloak, but Celestia help me if I don't feel like outright tossing it into the next crook or hole that I find.

My saddlebag and music cases feel like anvils affixed to my spine. Somehow, tossing them into the shadows wouldn't rid me of this exhaustion, for I would still have the weight of this damnable flesh, wrapped around me like a burlap carcass.

I do not belong here, Vinyl. Nopony belongs here, and yet this is where we all must go. I'm simply not going about it naturally, but I have no other choice. To live above, and apart, would mean stretching the madness out, would mean ignoring the ringing noise that is now seeping into my ears like blood, that is now a part of me, that has always been a part of me. Those impoverished years of foalhood in the streets of Canterlot were but a preview. I now see the accursed bookends of my life, and I can't write poetry about the meat in between. It is all too rancid... to sour... to spoiled.

Spoiled meat. Everything and everything. My hooves hurt. This ringing. It's getting even louder. Blessed Celestia, how is that possible? I'm writing just to try to ignore it, but I can't. Something's around the corner. Something wants to scream and laugh at me all at once. It's prayed on me all my life. It knows the names of every pony on every grave stone ever. I do not want to look at it, for I'm afraid I will see some infernal number that will encompass me, that will shrink my years into something the size of a thimble and swallow it in one gulp. We are so small, Vinyl. So small and fragile and full of tears and...

My goddess. I can't, but I must. I can't, but I absolutely have to.

Putting the pen down to go and investigate. For harmony's sake, I must concentrate. I must keep sane. I must.

In desperation,
-Octavia

























My dearly beloved Vinyl,

It is not ringing. It is screaming. It has never been ringing. It has always been screaming.

Gods and goddesses help me. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry for all I have ever done. I have wanted to sing. I have wanted to be harmonious. Truly, I have.

I am so exceedingly sorry. Please forgive me. Please forgive me, everypony.

-Octavia

















Blessed Vinyl,

It has taken some time, but I do believe that I have composed myself enough to write, or at least to write decently. How I often envy the telekinetic fortitude of unicorns, Vinyl. It is so very hard to keep this pen straight in the crook of my hoof, especially under all this bedlam—the thunderous noise of ages.

I stand on the last precipice of the winding passageways, opening up to a monumental cavern alit with pale light. The glow does not come from the rock walls or the glistening stalactites or the endless, pallid lengths of time-forgotten rock. The light is coming from the essences of ponies—screaming and flailing souls—who are currently blurring down past me from the limestone orifices spanning the walls and ceiling of this cacophonous domain.

From every corner of Equestria, from the expansive reaches of the mortal domain, they are drawn here, effluent in form and shimmering with agony, flung towards the epicenter of darkness by something far more infernal than gravity, empowered by pure malevolence and suffering. Their energy trails behind them like comet dust. They are dead, and yet they are filled to the brim with the gleaming vestiges of life. They have many eons ahead of them, the lengths of time it will take for the cosmic forces to consume what is left of their beings, to eat them whole and devour their screams.

When they first came, I thought it was the H'sykylhym clawing in pursuit of me. I soon realized differently: the rock spiders couldn't be capable of making these noises. They are animated by something far more stale than life; they do not know pain.

This—all of this is pain; all of this is inevitability. All of this is our future.

Five years of scouring the world, and by the power of Starswirl, I have finally arrived.

I disrobe of my cloak and set down my belongings. Opening the larger of the two cases, I produce my cello and stand upon the brink of eternity. The streaking forms of descending equines blur past me in a river of suffering, illuminating my view of the abyss, but they are not my audience.

I bring the bow to the cello strings. I play steadily, my shivering hooves finally relaxing as I submerge myself in the depths of my craft. The sound that I produce is delicious, and it parts the river of the dead as I cast my notes into the throat of desolation.

I play the song, Vinyl. I play your Symphony. I listen as the chords rise and fall, until I reach the abrupt cutoff point.

My heart falls, for I hear nothing further. The end remains the end. Your Symphony is still unfinished.

That is how I know that I must take the plunge. I am ready, my dearest Vinyl. I am ready to bring your music into the depths of misery.

Give me strength,
-Octavia

















My Dear Vinyl,

One does not take the final plunge without paying a price. There is a reason for why there are so many abominable guardians who patrol the diseased mouth of this place. The darkness below is meant for the dead and the damned: those who have flourished in life and those who have been banished from it.

I am the one true blight, the thing that festers in this insidious hovel. I do not belong, and yet I keep trotting forward, marching towards the narcrotic gates that border the neverending beyond. The stone here is smooth, polished by the sheer echo of screams over countless centuries. Even now, the buried landscape shimmers from the river of shrieking spirits soaring above me. Small, black skittering things spread to avoid my plodding hoofsteps. I am not what they are meant to feed on; I am not the succulent morsel of this terrestrial abdomen.

In the penumbra of the dead spirits' glow, I pause to listen. The voices of the screams are disparate and fleeting; I struggle to scavenge something intelligible from the continuous roar of agonized pleas and undulating yelps of confusion. What I do hear is multiple languages, many of them deader than the others. Not all of these souls belong to modern day. Time has no sway over the currents of the dead. Those swirling above me are from the past and the future as much as from ponies who are dying right now. Through time and space, they have converged on this spot, this bleak destination of destinations, fueled by a force of nature imposed upon them—imposed upon us all—by an act of mercy that was simultaneously a killing blow.

Curious, I pause to glance at the Tome of Ending. The pale shard that is Wh'lynsehaym's horn shimmers in a rhythmic pulse, matching the speed at which the spirits blur past me overhead. Even beyond his own destruction, the Star Father of all alicorns is empowering the flow of equestrian souls. I can't imagine that this mechanization was part of his initial purpose, but I also doubt that he—or any of the other alicorns who are long gone and buried—ever anticipated the consequences of their infernal engineering.

The universe's greatest curses were always blessings in the making.

I hear another set of screams, but somehow they are far different than the tumultuous bellowing of ponies around me. I gaze upwards at the wall of the cavern, just above the amber-glowing edge ahead of me. Several bodies tumble out of a gaping tunnel. They roll downhill like loose lumber. Upon landing, they immediately stand up straight. They are bipedal beings, orcish abominations whose first impulse upon arriving here is to squabble and fight with one another. No doubt they were teleported here by Celestia, Cadance, or some other monarch in an attempt to cleanse the countryside of monsters. Just like the devoured bodies I saw in the mandibles of the H'sykylhym above, their teleportation has avoided the prison. They too are lucky.

I watch as they pause in their struggle, gawking at the shimmering flight of ponies above them. It's as if they've never seen a soul before, much less comprehended the concept of one in all of their dastardly years of pillaging and raping Equestrian villages. For the first time in their paltry lives, these trolls and ogres are experiencing fear, and it will soon be the last sensation they'll ever know.

The cavern rumbles. A huge, bass roar explodes across the subterranean domain. The force of the volume is enough to throw me off my hooves; it practically crushes the skulls of the orcs far away. I watch fitfully as those still with the strength to stand are consumed by a horrendous, three-fold shadow looming over them. Six red eyes shimmer like hot coals in the inky darkness. Then—in a flash of soul-bred lightning—three sets of jaws open, wide and glistening.

Thunder echoes across the depths, followed by the screams of the orcish morsels below. In swift order, the writhing creatures' bodies are reduced to paste. Gigantic paws pin a few of the writhing stragglers to the stone while their shrieking siblings are thrown down a trifecta of mangy gullets. Soon, all of the trollish miscreants are devoured, and the guardian of the end roars once more, savoring the succulent taste of living meat.

Cerberus is here. I must make swift with one of Starswirl's spells, or else this entry may be my last.

I endeavor to write to you from beyond the veil,
-Octavia

















Dearest Vinyl,

I have arrived.

It took immeasurable toil and loss of blood, but I have successfully passed the guardian of the end, and I am alive.

I am alive—and for once that holds a singularly fantastical meaning. It counts for something here that it never did in the surface world. Even now, I find it difficult to write, for the light is near blinding: the glow of my own blood.

As soon as Cerberus consumed the orcish victims of banishment, his heads turned towards me. I knew that it would have been only a matter of time before the otherworldly canine pounced upon my figure, rendering me to the same fate as the trolls and ogres that were now digesting in his stomachs.

As his pounding paws broke the flow of screaming souls above, I knelt down and flipped through the pages of the Tome of Ending, until I came upon the copper sheets where Starswirl's spells were located. There—in a fitful glance—I came upon a purposefully creased page where I had bookmarked the "spell of life-anchored animation." I had prepared well for this moment, and with Cerberus' approach turning into a howling charge, I had only a few seconds to spare.

In swift order, I produced the silken sheets from my saddlebag. Unfolding them, I exposed my carefully preserved mane and tail hair. Next, I ripped the copper sheet containing the "spell of life-anchored animation" and folded it tightly over the brown fibers that I had shaved from my body far back in Masada.

What was needed was the final ingredient. I unfolded the bandage from my left forelimb and pressed the blade to my fresh wound. It took little effort to invite blood to the surface of my flesh this time, but the process pained me nonetheless. Once a liberal drop came loose, I applied it to the fleshen sheet of enchanted manuscript that was bundled around my mane hair. Wh'lynsehaym's horn glowed from the Tome of Ending, and I watched in amazement as the page with the "animation" spell came to life.

It unfolded and expanded, taking on an equine shape. Soon, the rune-etched parchment of ancient flesh was sporting my own mane and tail. It chose a direction at random and lurched forward with mechanical purpose.

By the time Cerberus approached, its attention was stolen three-fold. I watched as the massive creature became encumbered with animalistic confusion, its three sets of crimson eyes narrowing on the lumbering golem that Starswirl's magic and my life-energy had afforded. Soon, the equine effigy with my tail hair was trotting under the end guardian's very limbs. Cerberus took a heated breath, its back hairs bristling, and it thrusted all three mouths forward. The triad of jaws converged on the pony-shape, tearing it to shreds. The cavern filled with the fitful gurgling sounds of all heads fighting for a larger share of the "meat."

I wasn't watching at this point. I was running, galloping straight towards the edge of the abyss. With the immortal canine distracted, I had an uninterrupted path to the bottomless pit beyond. The shrieking spirits were flying closer by me now, preparing for their final descent. I was preparing too.

When I reached the edge, my breath was taken from me. Deep down in the infinite blackness, set apart from the onyx currents of endlessness, I saw a great glowing ball of lights—amber and flickering, as if fed by a heap of mortal torches. That was not my destination, but I knew that it was a necessary juncture before I came upon the infernal prison. I had very little time to comprehend the fact that I was about to become the first living pony to have willfully made this plunge well before her time. I still had blood inside of me, and that currently had one purpose and one purpose alone.

I opened the Tome of Ending once again. I flipped to the copper sheets until I found Starswirl's "spell of effluent wings." With my left forelimb still bleeding, I flung it into the book and closed the Tome around it. My wound stung as magic coursed through and around me. I hissed, feeling as if electric bolts were shooting out of my every joint. When I plunged, it was with gentle teetering, as if I was a foal tilting over into the deep end of a pool.

I did not plummet; I floated, drifting slowly down into fluidic darkness. I coasted along the shooting stars of agonized spirits who were drawn faster into the abyss than my flesh and bones possibly could. As selfish as it is to write, my descent had a torturous quality all of its own. I shivered with anxiety during the entire flight, imagining the horror that would encapsulate me if I was to somehow miss my target—if I was to tragically drift well beyond the amber-lit platforms that served as the summit of the prison to end all prisons.

My panicked thoughts were swiftly replaced by a dark sense of wonder, for it was then that my mortal eyes finally took notice of it. With blacker-than-black motions, the darkness split apart, and I saw the shadow of an immense structure, rotating and grinding clockwise beneath me.

The size of it was unbelievably large, as though an onyx continent was swirling, spinning, drilling deeper into the abyss. And beneath this lifeless plateau, arranged in corkscrew fashion, was another continent—and then another beneath it. Ultimately, all five chambers of the machine became evident, bigger than the vacuum in the center of this world could possibly allow, and yet they constantly pierced a seamless veil, where the junction of this realm formed frictious contact with the next.

That was when I realized that I had finally surpassed Feathermane. The illustration that Starswirl had blindly drawn in the sand outside the western walls of Masada were no longer a wind-blown phantom, but it was real to me, as real as any paradox could be to a fragile, shattered soul. I almost wished that I could go blind too, but all I could do was drift towards the machine, for I was now anchored to it, much like the souls screaming past me.

I was damned.

My quivering sight was consumed by flickering lights, and I realized that I was coming close to the platforms above the machine. I saw an endless urban sprawl of demonically constructed buildings, shantytowns, shacks and lean-tos: all struggling and squabbling to consume the infinitesimal property available to them upon the summit of this infernal prison in the middle of eternal desolation. I know better than to expect other ponies here. This is the home of the banished, the only orc town with the actual audacity to exist in this universe, and it is here within the peaks of purgatory, far away from the harmonic fields and sunlight of Equestria, that it lingers in decrepit glory.

When I finally landed—atop a splintery stretch of decayed wood nailed to a stretch of rusted metal—I fell over on my side. I instantly whimpered, for I felt as though my body weighed several tons. It was more than the fact that Starswirl's "spell of effluent wings" had dissipated; I was a single mortal pony in the valley of the damned. I drew my belongings and music cases closer to my cloaked form. I couldn't let the disorientation of my hectic arrival distract me. There were festering orcs and creatures here, the cream of the crop of Equestria's banished population, and if I stayed in one place I would not remain this heavy—or this mortal—for very long.

Before I set off for a hiding place, I had to stop and pause. A bright glow was illuminating my cloaked features, and this time it was neither the cyclone of souls or the horn of
Wh'lynsehaym. I looked at myself, and my violet eyes eventually wandered to my left hoof. I was bleeding, and the blood was glowing. It shimmered with a bright crimson light as my life energy shone like a beacon in that damnable place beyond the veil.

I gasped, and instantly I threw my cloak off. I glanced down at my haunches, for I already knew what would come next.

Layer by layer, my cutie mark was dissolving. I watched as the purple clef pealed away—ribboning off from my now blank flanks—so that it gathered in the air and split apart like a flock of fluttering butterflies. The glowing stream lifted up out of the abyss, where it joined a coalescing spiral of similar ribbons as every cutie mark of every pony soul who had entered this domain was stripped from their essence.

And that is how the reality of the moment came to me, that I had reached the point of no return.

I am now a resident of Tartarus, my beloved Vinyl. There is no going back. There is only a Symphony, a broken song, and I must complete it.

With adoration,
-Your Octavia


















Beloved Vinyl,

The ringing is unbearable, but I think I'm beginning to understand it. It is the new silence against which the screams hold precedent. In the realm of Tartarus, there can be no absence of noise. This is the true center of the universe, the place where all souls are engineered to gravitate towards. There is no rest, no stillness. Everything collapses, coalesces, and churns into an ethereal pulp. This is the crucible of all pain and misery, and the only way to end the torture is to ignore it, and the only way to ignore it is to fall asleep.

My dearest Vinyl, I have plunged myself into the depths of this cosmic landfill. I must hear beyond the ringing noise and the perpetual screams. I must listen for a hint of a continuation—an added note or two to your symphony.

And until your song is complete, I cannot rest. I cannot sleep.

It pains me to no-end that I've yet another hurdle before I can traverse the first of the infernal machine's five chambers, for lying atop the mammoth prison is yet another penitentiary altogether, acting as a blighted roadblock between myself and the destiny beneath. Scholars and theologians have predicted the existence of this decrepit place, calling it the "last bastion of orcish resolve." Starswirl the Bearded wrote about it in the Tome of Ending, referring to it as "Pandemonium, the Demon City." Personally, I like to call it damn annoying.

Throughout the centuries, millennia, and eons of Equestrian civilization, there have been foul creatures: orcs, trolls, goblins, ogres, and all manners of impish squalor. Unlike the behemoth monsters spawned by the chaos lords of old, these orcish fiends have been susceptible to magic spells—both ordinary and regal. As a result, the summit of Tartarus has been the destination of countless banishments, performed over the passing ages, with the intent of forcefully relocating these sentient creatures permanently away from the vulnerable landscape of ponydom.

It would appear that, over the years, these ill-fated creatures have constructed a remarkable albeit ramshackled metropolis within the depths of the world's abyss, using the topmost chamber of Tartarus as a foundation. I've come to fully understand this, for I have noticed the currents of equine souls revolving ever so slowly above us. Tartarus is forever swiveling counter-clockwise, and Pandemonium is likewise twirling in an icy fashion.

How they've managed to construct such a series of buildings was a mystery to me, and then I took a closer look at the rooftops and platforms across which I was stumbling. Most if not every single plank of material has served a secondary purpose in its previous life. I see sheets of rusted metal, circular shields, swords and scabbards, pike handles, spears, the battered skin of iron bulwarks, and loops upon loops upon loops of chains. Most orcs were banished in the middle of attacking or pillaging pony villages. Undoubtedly, when they were teleported to the abyss beyond Ceberus' vigil, their weapons and armor followed them. As the millennia wore on, so did the piles of junk that once fueled their anger and resolve upon the surface world. Pandemonium is quite literally the sum of so much murder and war, for the very tools of such have now formed awkward shanty towns replete with narrow alleyways and rickety balconies and meandering courtyards. Every other step is perilous, for one risks slicing one's limb on a jutting piece of armor or the edge of an exposed blade or the spokes of a blood-stained spike.

The orcs do not live here; they die here, slowly being consumed by pain and rage over the remaining vestiges of their pitifully spawned lives. Even now, as I sit in a cold, dark corner of an abandoned lean-to, I hear them squabbling and fighting with one another. Every other word is an obscenity, and the exclamations between those are filled with bitterness and venomous anger.

How pitiable and bleak an existence it must be for these monsters, to have been born of malice and to be destined for destruction. I know that alicorns such as Celestia and Cadance have endeavored time and time again to appeal to these creatures on the surface, to bring light and harmony to their existence in hopes that they might become sane beings with whom Equestrians can coeexist. But the sad fact of life is that there are many things that are damned well before they were even born, otherwise such banishment spells would not have a reason to exist in the first place.

I wonder what Celestia would think—I wonder what Princess Twilight Sparkle and all the other educated souls of our world would think—if they were to discover that it was not just the orcs and trolls who were damned before birth.

But it is all of us. We are all damned, Vinyl. We are all cursed to come here eventually. I wish I had been able to read Starswirl's Tome of Ending sooner. I wish I had the true knowledge of everything before all of this started.

And I wish—more than anything—that I could have shared that knowledge with you before it came to this.
-Octavia











Dear Vinyl,

Pandemonium will never sleep, and that is how I know it will never die. Even if the orcs and goblins and ogres all around me were to finally slay each other overnight, the streets would simply fill back up as soon as another batch of ugly creatures fell into the filthy avenues to populate the districts once again with their raucous behavior and vile hatred.

How does one sleep upon the summit of Hell? It is impossible. I know, for I have tried. I can't tell whether it's the insidious nature of this place or if something about me has intrinsically changed.

I can't stop lifting the cloak to look at my flank. No matter how many times I glance at my haunches, the purple treble clef does not return to my gray coat. In truth, I was never too fond of my cutie mark. Most fillies at a young age put a great deal of weight on the transformation, celebrating with their friends, holding cutesie-neara's and the like. I was not a pony who gave it much of a thought. It's probably because, on the evening that my cutie mark came to me, I was too busy curled up on a bed in the upstairs loft of my foster parents' home, sobbing into the shadows of night, clinging to what little vestiges I had of my dying mother's phantom scent.

My talent only came to me because my mother had to leave me. In a way, playing music has been as natural as gravity, as natural as dying, as natural as falling down here to Tartarus.

So here I am, shivering in the shadow of existence's fate, and all of the tears have dried up. I don't have anypony to share my sobs with. I only have words, and it is my joy—my meaning in existence—to share them with you.

I hear the shuffling of feet. The air stinks with the flesh of orcs. I must stop writing and hide, Vinyl. If they find me—if they take away my mortal existence here, on this side of the veil—I do not know if I will emerge as an equine spirit capable of finishing her journey.

I can't allow them to see me. If I fail, and I find myself in their rancid clutches, I'll make your name the last thing that I scream.

With love,
-Octavia










Blessed Vinyl,

I have managed to elude the orcs' attention. This has been no easy feat; my forelimbs throb painfully as a result.

After one or two close scrapes with the bipedal monsters, I realized that I could not rely on ordinary stealth alone to evade capture. After all, I am not exactly traveling light. I have a cello case and a violin case with me; I cannot afford to lose either—not yet. On top of that, my satchel full of tools and the Tome of Ending have made this journey rather cumbersome from the start. I had to find another way to mask my presence here until I discover a descending route to the actual summit of Tartarus.

What I decided upon was a particular spell within the copper sheets of Starswirl's book. Quite similar to the "spell of harmonic equilibrium" that I used to escape the sonic reach of the L'ysyhrym high above, this new encantation, labeled the "spell of harmonic resonance," performs almost the exact opposite. Rather than eliminating all evidence of my spiritual weight within the fabric of universal leylines, it instead broadcasts phantom echoes of myself in every direction at once. Thus, instead of a cloak effect, the spell's power gives off a distraction.

I first utilized this not that long after my last frantically scribbled letter to you. Less than ten minutes after writing, I had performed the spell, and every orc within the vicinity of me was thrown into feverish confusion and dismay. At first, they appeared utterly perplexed, but then a great panic overwhelmed them. They ran away from the balcony upon which I was perched, descending into the lower platforms where they started banging on walls and metal shingles, shouting obscenities as they demanded that the elusive stranger "show itself."

While this might sound like a fortuitous situation, I can only wish that the "spell of harmonic resonance" was as easy to perform. Since I am dealing with more common sensory elements than the leylines that threw off the L'ysyhrym, I must channel the power of the spell into the space of the underworld around me. As fanciful as this may seem, it quite literally involves producing a sensory element that can overwhelm those capable of observing me. Since I do not possess the ability to produce a shining beacon or an intimidating scent, I have to resort to something in line with my own talents.

Each time I do the spell, I open my cello case, produce my bow, and play an instrumental into the hellscape. It is as though the rooftop of Tartarus has become a concert hall, and yet all ears who hear my strings... don't hear them, for the "harmonic resonance" spell sends every orc stumbling in confusion. I can't say that I expected to perform a symphony where my audience would willingly run away, but it doesn't bother me one bit—not here, at least.

However, just like with all the other spells, an earth pony such as myself must use her own blood as a catalyst. I accomplish this through no simple feat: cutting my flesh until enough droplets of blood form that can activate the runes etched into Starswirl's book.

I don't wish to alarm you, Vinyl, but I have already made no less than three incisions into my left forelimb. They are thin cuts, granted, and quite easy and simple to clean. But nothing changes the fact that they sting terribly, and Pandemonium isn't exactly the most sterile place in the underworld.

It must sound terribly odd to speak of infections and minor injuries down here. However, the fact is, I am still mortal and I can still die. I know this, because the orcs around here qualify just as much. Unlike the cyclonic current of wailing equine souls above and around us, the populace of Pandemonium did not arrive here by passing through the mortal coil. They are refugees of mortality, flung here by spellcasters who saw them as nothing more than mere rubbish. If I possessed orc blood, I surely would have utilized such a transportation spell to make my journey here all the swifter, but even then I wouldn't have had the fortune of finding Starswirl's Tome in Masada and learned what I needed to know in order to finish my sojourn.

The orcs here die. Constantly. I've seen hordes of the monsters gather around, drooling in bloodlust as new batches of ogre and trollkind fall to the rooftops of this place. Those who are injured upon arrival are made the target of gruesome sport, with several of their sophomoric brethren happily kicking and flailing and pummeling their flesh until they gargle up their own blood. Those who are well enough to stand, trembling on their own two feet, are thrown into chains, forced to endure years of hardship and slavery until they can "earn" the right to march freely through these decrepit streets of misery, having pledged their honor to one demonic gang or another.

It's hard for me to not pity these creatures, Vinyl, as detestable and cruel as they have been to the legacy of equine civilization. After all, they are equal parts of the machine of death, the grand prison that is collecting all agony into its cold pumping heart and channeling it ceaselessly into the black abyss below. I wonder where their souls go—if they even have any whatsoever. Do they ever end? And, if they do, does that make these orcs—these vile, selfish cockroaches of existence—far luckier than ponies like you and I?

But then I remember a keen observation that I had made, something that reminds me of the glory that ponies still have to hold onto and treasure.

We do not have the same blood, orcs and I. I've seen them smash the brains open of their fallen brothers and newly-arrived neighbors. I have seen bowels spilled open in the sick amber light of Pandemonium's lit spires. The blood of orcs does not glow in the dark.

Mine does. I am a piece of equine life, still imbued with Equestrian spirit. Here, beyond the veil that Cerberus guards, I am precious; I am special. Every time I slice myself open to gain fuel for Starswirl's spells, every time I so much as spill a drop of myself to evade the enemy, it sparkles with effluent life. It is a deep crimson glow, like the dim luminescence of a photographer's darkroom or the scarelt bulbs of a Hearth's Warming tree.

Here in the destitute depths of Ponymonium, I've not had the liberty to admire such luminescence. With bandages, gauze, and the folds of my cloak, I have endeavored whole-heartedly to hide the light burning outward from my being. But, with each mile that I cross, with each platform that I plunge past to find a way out of this demoniacal city, the task has gotten harder and harder. I cannot proceed without cutting myself more, and it becomes increasingly difficult to hide my shimmering essence, to hide the fact that I have a soul.

I am alive, and right now that is my biggest weakness. I must keep writing, Vinyl, or else I may lose what little strength I have left. I don't wish to lose you.

In faith,
-your Octavia




















My Beloved Vinyl,

Hours ago, I heard screaming, and it didn't belong to an orc.

I had been sneaking my way down the depths of Pandemonium, descending one wretched level at a time, avoiding droves of murderous orcish packs and ogre gangs with the aid of blood, music, and Starswirl's spells, when I first heard the shrieking sound.

I first imagined that the creatures here had ensnared a pony soul. It's not exactly an inaccurate assumption. On the first hour I arrived on the rooftops of Pandemonium, I had witnessed equine spirits falling loose from the cyclonic current above, landing in the streets only to be relentlessly butchered by orcs who were lying in wait for them. I simply didn't write to you about it, Vinyl. I couldn't.

The whole scenario was detestible. I'm still recovering from the sight of the ponies' effluent shapes being torn apart and reformed just to be massacred again. Goddess knows how long they were ripped to shreds and reassembled, with only trolls and goblins to receive their anguished cries, until the gravity of Tartarus caught them again and they were once more thrown into the river of death spiraling into the abyss.

Their screams were swift things—as bleak as their awkward passage through this demonic detour. The screaming that I had been been hearing for the past few hours was another thing altogether. In another place and in another time, the sound would be relatively innocuous, like that of an infant after having bashed its knee. Chillingly enough, the sound reminded me of trips through the Ponyville maternity ward that you and I used to take when we once mused the thought of adopting a foal of our own.

Perhaps it was that memory that urged me forward, that made me trot through the shadowed alleways adjacent to my predestined path. There was no reason for why I made the detour that I did. My destination was straight down, deeper into the abyss. Too much was at stake to risk it on fruitless ventures through this orcish ghetto.

And yet, I marched on, fueled by horrific sounds and the scent of misery. If I blinked, Vinyl, I could very well see myself as a young filly trotting her way home through the garbage-strewn lower streets of Canterlot. I heard the screams, still, but they were changing in pitch. They sounded like cats starving in the darkness. I wanted to vomit instantly, but there was no food in my stomach. I had no more desire to eat than I did to sleep. The flesh was just an attachment to the soul, and it did what the soul wanted. Right then, the soul wanted answers, to visualize the source beyond the anguished wails.

I found an enclosure built out of rusted metal shingles. There, a series of stoves rested before me, all constructed out of former torsos of orcish armor. A fat ogre was positioned at the end of the hovel, presumably an engineer, for he was utilizing his fat limbs in turning dials, valves, and other ingeniously fabricated tools that channeled heat and flame from the stoves and into the various corners of Pandemonium. It hadn't occurred to me until then, but I was greatly curious over just what was powering the decrepit city, what was giving it light and animation and heat within the abyss of ages.

I stood silently in the shadows, waiting for the ogre to leave so that I might inspect things closer. Thankfully, I didn't have to perform the "spell of harmonic resonance." He had stumbled off, ambling down an opposite corridor to answer a fellow orc's cry. While he was gone, I trotted into the space before the stoves, dragging my music cases with me. The screaming was deaffening at that point. I approached the stoves, urged forward by curiosity and horror all at once. I looped a fold of the brown cloak over my right forelimb and used it to protect myself form the heat as I pulled at the handle of one of the stove's lids.

As soon as it opened, I heard the ringing sound in my ears, vibrating through my teeth. Mother lay dying in bed, the dim light of morning highlighting the degree to which her eyes had turned jaded. Kittens mewled in fear and hunger, silenced suddenly as if a shroud had washed over their tiny, tiny eyes. Every horrible memory that I had ever experienced came rocketing through my mind, as if in a desperate bid to overwhelm what I was currently witnessing. They very nearly failed.

There were foals in there, Vinyl, tiny infants curled nose-to-tail within the blazing wombs of those stoves. They burned with the intensity of shooting stars. At a loss for breath, I gazed intently, desperate to see the source of the fuel that was consuming them—until I realized that they were the fuel.

Here in the cold abyss, between Tartarus and the threshhold of dying, the spirits of stillborn foals are brimming with dense, untapped life energy. They are incapable of experiencing joy, and yet they are frozen fetuses, perpetually bound to the innocent forces that engineered them upon the crest of existence. Their screams are their agony, and their agony will last far longer than you or I. It lights up the wretched heart of Pandemonium like a furnace, giving demons artificial daylight to commit murder by.

You might wonder why I didn't free them, Vinyl, why I didn't hide them under the folds of my cloak and find an edge of the city so that I may toss them into the merciful ether. But, if you think at all like I do after all these years, my love, then you must have come to the same conclusion that I have.

These unborn souls will burn out far more swiftly here than they ever will in the prison chambers of Tartarus. They'll sleep far sooner if I just leave them be.

And so that's what I did, marching away from that infernal engine room with all my nightmares thrown behind me. Only, now, I have more than my blood and my scent to mask. I have my tears.

I love you so much,
-Octavia

















Dearest Vinyl,

I was barely six winters old when the ringing in my ears began, when I would wake up from my sleep, screaming. It was before I found my talent, before my mother died, before I could tell apart the multitudinous shades of misery that had encompassed my young life, shades that I had once been blind to, until one week in summer.

Every poor family in the lower streets of Canterlot lacked many things. They lacked money. They lacked food. They lacked heat and they lacked a decent shelter. But there was one thing that every family, no matter how impoverished, always had.

Cats were an abundance in lower Canterlot. They sprouted out of every niche in the dark alleys. They hung out in droves along the outer sidewalks and walls, stealing every swath of sunlight that would sweep through the districts at noonday. Most of them were strays; some of them were even feral. For one reason or another, though, they were still our greatest ally, and each individual one of those feline souls had a separate family it clung to with utter devotion.

Our street had nine cats when I was six years old, and of the nine, one in particular must have considered itself ours, because it stayed by our hovel every night, sometimes even cuddling up to my mother and I. Her name was Kathryn, not a name that I chose. That was back when my mother still had the strength and poetic resolve to attribute beauty to this world.

I loved Kathryn. I loved the way her eyes shone in the middle of the night. Most fillies my age were scared of nocturnal creatures; I felt differently. Kathryn was our watcher. She guarded us from rats and other vermin; every other family dealt with a constant barrage of fleas, but not us. Kathryn stuck to my mother and I with such loyalty that it dazzled me. I would remember my mother commenting between coughing fits that our cat loved us more than my father. I found that both silly and strange, but it didn't matter anymore once I had gotten a chance to pet Kathryn and tell her how happy I was to have her around.

One summer, the summer when I was six, Kathryn started to gain weight. I was worried that maybe she was eating too much, and I would comment to mother about it. Every time, my mother would avoid the topic. Her eyes—which were still healthy—started to develop a pale sheen, an expression that was both mirthful and melancholic all at once. I was confused, until one particular night when my youthful attention was utterly stolen.

Kathryn gave birth to a litter of kittens, nearly seven in all. It was the most heavenly thing I had ever witnessed. Mother rolled out a towel for her to make a nest in, and I watched in awe as these seven tiny bundles of life curled up to Kathryn's belly to nurse. I had asked mother to call some of the local fillies so that they too could see this miracle that had taken place. But, as the hours rolled by, no other pony came. That was the first time I felt true unease. We lived in such poverty and squalor, and here we had something joyful for once. Who wouldn't want to celebrate this gift of life, this most precious of singular instances?

But then, as the night wore on, I started to understand. Of the seven kittens that had been born before my very eyes, only six of them remained stirring. One had fallen still; not even its tiny tail was capable of twitching anymore. Before my mother could protest, I reached a small hoof in and touched its furry coat. It felt colder than a windowpane in January. What sort of deep sleep was this? I asked my mother, but she didn't have to answer me; another kitten had likewise turned still.

In the next forty-eight hours that followed, three more kittens died. I know this, for I did not leave Kathryn and her litter, not even to eat—as if we had that much food to begin with. I watched each of the precious little things as they stopped moving, as their starving cries crumbled to dry gasps in their choked throat. They breathed their last breaths in soft, trembling shivers, sliding away from the fountain of life in as quiet a splash as they made when they first entered. I could only count their passing by number, for I hadn't named them. They all died so rapidly and unexpectedly that I soon realized that the endeavor was fruitless. They were meat; and you didn't name meat.

I remember the look on my mother's face. She used to smile at me in those days, the years when she first started teaching me music, when she coached me into utilizing my innate talents. That summer was the summer that her smile died; it passed away along with those kittens, and soon the gates of death would leech the rest of the warmth from her, year after year, until she could applaud my music no longer.

I didn't know anything yet. All I knew was tears, tears of confusion. How cruel could life be that such precious and beautiful things would be born solely for the sake of dying so pathetically, as if they were dead long before birth to begin with? Existence had suddenly become a machine for me, carelessly churning warm masterpieces from one end of the furnace to another. Surely it was not a harmonious world that could allow this, that could reward death and life with equal scores, as if it was all the same infernal thing.

Two kittens survived the initial onslaught of starvation and malnourishment, but not for long. One of them couldn't summon the strength to walk like its much healthier sibling. I was dismayed, for I had almost concocted a name for it. I was going to name it "Chocolate," like the things I saw in store windows that my mother said I'd someday be able to eat once I made a name for myself with music.

Chocolate lived long enough for his eyes to open, which was the worse part. I gazed upon his confused and pained face as we made eye contact. Just like that, I knew for a fact that he had a soul, just like each and every one of his dead siblings had spirits. That's what made the coming week all the more tragic, as I struggled and endeavored to feed him, to give him reasons to live, and yet his body rejected every single gesture. I went to sleep one night with Chocolate nestled in my forelimbs. When I woke the next morning, it felt like I was hugging an ice pack.

I got mother's attention, but I had very little to say. I was a sobbing mess. I suppose I still had yet to wake to the tragedies of life. Mother must have known this, because the amount of ceremony that followed was downright ridiculous. She gave me a very delicate speech about the tenuous balance of life, about the continuous, invisible war between the forces of harmony and the discordant whims of chaos, and how the struggle between good and evil still manages to wreak havoc on the innocence that abounds in the surface world.

There was no place to bury Chocolate, but this didn't stop mother from attempting a ritualistic service of sorts. First, I watched as she bathed Chocolate's body under a rusted spicket, dousing the kitten's coat and cleansing it of all filth and parasites. She then wrapped his fragile little form in a lime-green washcloth. While it was still sunny out, mother took me by the hoof and guided me out into the middle streets of Canterlot, the first time she did so since buying me my first violin.

In the far edges of the decrepit alleys, we found a series of dumpsters. The place was rank with the smell of Canterlot's filth, but I could hardly notice from an entire morning of sobbing. Mother opened a dumpster and stood beside it with me. I was allowed to cradle Chocolate's wrapped-up body one last time as mother said a prayer of sorts. She sounded for a brief moment like a minister of the Harmonic Assembly. I listened as she said something poetic, entreating the invisible powers beyond, the positive energy that was thrown into motion by ancient alicorns before the dawn of time. She prayed that Chocolate's spirit might find its way to "paradise," that he would experience the joy of life that was otherwise robbed of him.

I remember it all sounding very strange. I trusted and loved my mother, but this excessive pageantry was doing nothing to change the fact that something very precious had died, and it would never, ever come back.

Her prayer ended, and she gestured gently for Chocolate's body. I reluctantly gave him up; I'd have much easier given her a leg or an ear. Then, after a final murmur launched at the heavens, mother tossed the kitten's body into the dumpster. What happened next was so sickeningly hilarious that it almost made her collapse. Quite likely, mother had expected the dumpster to be half full; it wasn't. Chocolate's body struck pure metal like a missile, and the bass reverbations from the dumpster sent an awful ringing through my ears, like the percussion of heavy drums in bombastic symphony.

It utterly shattered whatever fragile pretense had been constructed by the flimsy prayer my mother had so devotedly given in the first place. The ringing followed us home, nipping at our fetlocks like a shadowy pack of timber wolves. At night, the ringing filled my ears, and I remember begging, crying, sobbing for it to go away. I tried waking my mother, but she was done with it, done with the misery, done with me.

I am twenty-five years old, and that ringing has not gone away. I close my eyes, and I expect to see Chocolate's limp body in my arms when I awake, wondering if I too may be as dead as the thing I once loved, as everything I had ever once pretended to believe in. My dreams have constantly been haunted by the writhing, squirming effigies of soft things upon the penumbra of annihilation. I hear the cries of tiny kittens, their mewling voices growing more and more shaky as the infinite darkness consumes them one by one.

I once told you about it—about the dreams, about the ringing in my ears, about the dumpster and the smell of garbage and the smell of all life rotting in those streets along with my innocence and my mother. I told you about a horrifying thought, Vinyl, a thought that I had once believed in, a thought that used to define me in the days before I met you: that the only reason precious things exist is so that they can be destroyed.

Here in Pandemonium, upon the edge of Tartarus, I finally understand the essence of suffering. We are all precious things, and we all exist to suffer. That is the power of Hell, what gives it its fuel and animation, for we are all destined to come here, Vinyl. I wish that it wasn't true. I wish I could lie to you, as my mother used to lie to me and herself, by claiming that there is some sort of "paradise" that all ponies can enjoy when death consumes us, but that is not the case. There is only one destination for the souls of all that has lived and died, and it is anchored to Tartarus, bound by its grinding pain and agony.

I have read the words of Starswirl the Bearded, the infernal testimony of he who has marched into desolation and come back to share a truth with the world so miserable that they rejected him, just as his eyes forever rejected the light, for to ingest knowledge of the endless ending is to go mad and be mad. And still, that madness was the only clarity he could possess, and I've yet to understand what it was about such hidden sight that managed to drag him back into the depths, that is managing to drag me.

Perhaps I too have been mad, but if that's so, the insanity was born inside me long ago; I only had the wherewithawal to cling to it then. I heard it in the ringing noise between my mother's wheezing breaths. I heard it in the wretched tonality of cats wailing and shrieking in the darkness. They were sentinels to an unseen horror that hunted me in my childhood, that struck when I wasn't looking—and slew my mother instead.

I clung to her in the morning hours, in the dim light that bounced off her glazed eyes, reflecting me like cold marbles at the bottom of a drowning well. There was such great blackness in her irises, and when her mouth opened to give off a last breath, I heard a ringing to the final wheeze, much like the reverberation of that dumpster, much like the thunderous drums that powers the five gargantuan chambers of Tartarus now spinning counter-clockwise beneath me.

When mother died, she knew where she was going, and though she didn't mean to, her eyes told me that I too would follow her there someday, that each and every one of us would make our final descent into suffering at the end of all things, because most of us die with our energy left untapped—like the fetuses burning in the stoves of orcish parasites—for Hell exists to be the boiler room of this floundering universe, and all energy has to go somewhere, has to be consumed, has to be broken apart and shifted down the tiny capillaries of least resistance, and even if it doesn't take an eternity to break us down to our threadbare, screaming parts, it still takes an indescribably long time.

Hell is a necessity, Vinyl. If it didn't exist, life itself wouldn't exist. There is more to the machine than what lies beneath the surface, than just what Cerberus guards. We all have to do our time in the prison of ages, just as we are all given time on the surface world. The fortunate lot of us are those who know how to expend harmonious energies in the mortal years that are afforded us. Those of us who die with our accomplishments made and our virtues exercised have less energy left to burn, and it is such fortunate saints who have less of a term to serve in the infernal prison of the depths. They will sleep sooner, and thus ignore the pain of endless ending, for the only form of peace one can hope to experience in the infinite void is the utter lack of comprehension itself.

I suppose I could have made use of this knowledge, Vinyl. With the Tome of Ending in my grasp, I could have stayed on the surface world, could have fought the blindness, and could have taught hundreds if not thousands of ponies the true nature of eternity. Perhaps I could have even founded a new religion, a means by which equine souls could find peace in utmost harmony.

But I couldn't. I had to come here, Vinyl. I had to dive deeper than the darkness in which I dream of such haunting death and anguished, mewling cries. I had to go deeper than even the soul of my mother when she slipped away from me, when she paved the slope smoothly into the bottomless pit of agony. I dove in without looking back, without mourning the destruction of my hopes, dreams, and talents.

For you too were a precious thing,

Yours forever,
-Octavia














Dear Vinyl,

The changes have begun, just like I imagined they would. I simply didn't expect them to be transpiring so soon.

I first noticed them when I began tripping on the length of my cloak. I paused, halfway in the middle of scaling a series of metal-plated bunkers close to the bottom level of Pandemonium. I removed my cloak entirely. The wounds on my forelimb had dried, so I had no risk of shining bloodlight while I examined my robe.

The cloak indeed seemed larger somehow, as if it had grown several centimeters over the past twelve hours. I knew better, of course. I glanced down at my limbs, and I saw that there was less distance than I remembered between the ends of my hooves and my upper joints. It was a subtle change, but shocking nevertheless.

What was more, when I raised a hoof to the back of my head, I felt a tiny forest of mane hair having sprung back up where I shaved it. I know it's been the course of at least three days since I first landed here in Pandemonium, but a mane wouldn't naturally have grown back in even three times that time frame. Then again, I'm not exactly in a "natural" state, now am I?

There's something else that's unique about the mane hair. It's far softer than it was when I shaved it back in Masada. If I didn't know better, I'd imagine that some invisible ghost had moistened and conditioned it overnight. This isn't possible, of course, but my hair feels unrealistically soft as it grows back. It almost feels like I'm stroking the developing mane of a newborn foal.

I have to hurry. I must get out of Pandemonium before it's too late. Already, I can feel my limbs wanting to rip off from the insane effort it takes to drag this cello case with me. Things would be a great deal easier if I could just carry the tinier violin by itself, but I can't. I have to bring the cello to the first chamber of the prison at least. From then on, I should be fine.

I need courage. But, more than that, I need to stop shrinking.

Goddesses help me, Vinyl,
-Octavia











Beloved Vinyl,

As you can suspect, my journey has required a certain degree of detachment in order to bring me this far. If I had stopped to help out every beggar along the arid highway leading northwest out of Equestria, if I had paused to chat with every family along the streets of Masada, if I had halted my travels to humor the ministry of every monk within the Harmonious Cathedral, I would not have been able to approach the pits of the wasteland that have brought me this far to begin with.

In the dark decrepit hovels of Pandemonium, the situation has not been altogether different. My account of discovering the unborn foals was just one scenario, Vinyl. The fact is, I have run into several situations where every fiber of my being wanted to stop and intervene. But how would I intervene? I couldn't even begin to guess. Possessing the Tome of Ending does indeed make me feel somewhat empowered, but all it's managed to do is help me evade the orcish maurauders of this place. I very deeply doubt that there's a spell in Starswirl's arsenal that would actually allow me to combat these creatures.

And to what end? I've observed them ensnaring and torturing the wayward souls of ponies who have fallen into this wretched hovel. It pains me to no end to witness it, but what good would come of my interceding on the spirits' behalf? The best that could happen is that such spirits would be tossed back into the currents of the dead, bound to suffer the same anguish and torment as all souls who descend into the depths of Tartarus' hellscape.

But this one time, several hours ago, I simply could not control myself, Vinyl. There is only so much that an equine can endure in this nightmare before the pressures and misery of the orcish slums finally have their effect on her.

I was snapped out of my stealthy sojourn through this demon city by the sound of an otherworldly shriek. I craned my neck around a pillar of rusted, barb-wired shields nailed end-to-end. Sure enough, another equine soul had fallen loosely to the body of Pandemonium. The spirit did not achieve horrific lucidity until it had descended to the deep level around where I stood. There, its form became corporeal, bouncing pathetically against the rusted, ramshackled surfaces of the amber-lit ghetto. It didn't last long until a legion of orcs descended upon it in a fit of growls and blood-curdling cackles.

With a shudder, I tried to look away. But there was something different about this spirit, Vinyl. It was a mare—what's more, it was a young unicorn. By my estimation, she had died at a young age, and quite unexpectedly too. I saw pure fear brimming from her effluent eye sockets. At first, she didn't register what the orcs were doing to her. My heart sank as I heard a voice resonating from her energetic form, begging to know what had happened to her husband, her foals, an entire village full of ponies that had apparently drowned in a great flood along with her.

At some point, the delirium passed, making way for true agony. By then, the trolls and ogres had unsheathed their blades, and they were taking turns butchering the hapless unicorn spirit. In the throes of torture, the pony's essence mimicked mortal wounds. I watched in a frozen lurch as its body ripped apart, rolling across the plywood walkways, unraveling with splashing, translucent sinews and intestines, only to swiftly coalesce—glowing body and entrails and all—with its reforming mouth locked in a ghostly scream. Not a second had passed when the orcs descended upon her once more. After centuries of hideous ritual, they knew the rules of this unholy game, and they took advantage of it, ripping her head clean off and kicking the lumiscent cranium around until unearthly forces flung it back to the central weight of her spirit, so that she molded back together under a chorus of sobs and wails, begging to the ancient alicorns of harmony for one sight—one single glance of her children—to know that they were suffering a fate far more gracious than this.

There was no answer to her prayers, only more bludgeons and blows from the minions of Hell's summit. They ripped her apart and lacerated her endlessly, spitting into her glowing wounds while they locked back together, giving the creatures more meat to massacre over and over. This went on for an eternal twenty minutes. In all of my time in Pandemonium, I had never seen a soul tormented for this long. I feared for a moment that she had wandered too far from the current, that she could be lost amidst the violent torment of these orcs for days, months, even years.

Hell is Hell, Vinyl, but somehow I felt that this was not the destiny meant for this mare's spirit. I should have known better than to get involved. Starswirl's Tome has taught me the true nature of Tartarus, of the process by which the end of all existence digests a soul gradually over time. I suppose I was still poisoned by the kiss of pure grace. A part of me still clings to hope, Vinyl, and that is not always a blessing thing.

From an adjacent alleyway, I saw that they were gradually kicking and shoving the mutilated spirit into an open spot located in the middle of a broad, torchlit street. If I was to do anything, now was my time. I reached into my cello case and removed the instrument, but I suddenly found it too cumbersome to carry it five feet, much less to go galloping straight forward with the neck of the thing clasped in my mouth. My limbs were smaller than the last time I had performed the cello.

So, for the first time since I purchased it, I lifted the small violin out from its container. It seemed less tiny to me now; I wondered if I could actually play it without mishap. I suppose I was about to find out.

I waited for a break in the beatdown. Sure enough, as I watched fitfully from the sidelines, a giant ogre rushed in and kicked the glowing unicorn spirit. She rolled—sobbing—across the platforms until she came to a stop about fifteen feet from me. Holding my breath, I dashed out into the open torchlight of Pandemonium, billowing cloak and all. At first, the orcish gang was simply too stunned to do anything but stand and gawk at the sight of me. I couldn't blame them; my mind was stabbing me for doing something so brash and suicidal.

However, I am not in the least bit ashamed to say that I dove by her side, Vinyl. Then, without delay, I clasped my teeth over the edge of my pocketknife and swiped at a spot above my left rear leg. The flashing pain was brief as blood leaked down my haunches, which was propped upon the centermost, unfolded copper page of the Tome of Ending. I sat on Starswirl's book like a seat cushion, allowing the blood to mingle with the runes so that it activated the "spell of harmonic resonance" that lay within. Then, as the final catalyst to the magic, I played a melody on the violin.

Thus, I flung sound into the air, and the echoing noise that reverberated throughout Pandemonium was louder than any shriek or wail of agony that had transpired there over the past three thousand years. The orcish populace swiftly forgot that they had even spotted me to begin with. What's more, they were so completely awash in confusion that they ignored the unicorn spirit altogether.

Orcs are orcs, and soon their panic turned to anger. Like starving animals, the creatures turned on one other. I watched in fitful horror, struggling to play evenly as the vagrant streets of the demonic shantytown turned into a veritable blood bath. Troll turned against troll; goblin turned against goblin. The ugly monstrosities lunged upon one another, rendering each other's flesh to ribbons with merciless swings of their blades.

What an awkward sight I must have been, a lone earth pony in the center of a hellish city, playing a fiddle while a confused unicorn ghost clung to me in the midst of a rampaging battle. The air stung with the foul smell of orcish entrails and steaming body fluids. I felt remarkably unfazed by it all; but, of course, I was intensely concerned about the spirit whom I had just spared from a prolonged beating.

Soon, the battle raged on, taking its heated melee away, spreading past the streets adjacent to the blood-soaked courtyard in which I stood. My music stopped, and I panted for breath, listening as the battle infected the distant fringes of Pandemonium, no doubt purging the demonic population of its angrier occupants.

The pain in my flank was excruciating. I knew I had to patch it up swiftly before I lost too much blood. However, the first thing on my mind was the mare's spirit. I turned to her and tried to say something, inquiring whether or not she could register my words.

When her glowing head lifted, she gazed past me. There was panic in her eyes that knew no rest. She could very well have been lying in the center of a beautiful garden, surrounded by sunshine and flowers, and still she would be acquainted with no less agony and despair. She murmured something in an accented tone, reminiscent of the dialogue of pony civilizations two hundred years deceased. Only two and a half sentences came out, begging for knowledge of where her children went.

It was then that I saw something fluttering through my peripheral vision. Was it a butterfly? A moth? I turned to see, and that was when the spirit before me yelped.

I flashed a look in her direction, and I gasped. Something was ensnaring her: tendrils of white fiber from beyond. I watched in horror as the ghostly strands yanked her through the surface of the street. She sank through, once more an incorporeal shadow of the mortal she once was. Her screams were like distant pindrops at the far end of a deep cave, and then her wails melted into the singular ringing noise of damnable existence.

I called out after her, but my voice was nothing but a solid echo against the guts and writhing bodies of dying orcs all around me. I woke up to the fact that I had instigated a massacre in the heart of Pandemonium—and to what end? The spirit that I saved was simply dragged off into a deeper Hell, and I had bled myself for nothing.

So it was with a dull lurch that I trotted down the empty, abandoned streets of that demonscape. The deaths that my spell had caused emptied the avenues, making them momentarily safe to traverse, but that was very little consolation.

I had hope, Vinyl, and that hope rewarded me with nothing but emptiness. What more do I hope to eke from the abysmal depths of Tartarus? What was it that ensnared the ghostly mare from beyond? Was the prison embracing her? Had it yet to embrace me?

I do not know, Vinyl, but I must press on.

In deep thought,
-your Octavia
















Dear Vinyl,

I do not understand.

I have descended the entire body of Pandemonium. I have trotted down every walkway, every rickety plank, every rusted platform—and I simply do not understand.

Surely this is the topmost surface of Tartarus. Surely this onyx metal is the exterior to the continental prison that the ancient alicorns had constructed eons ago. Undoubtedly this is where the city of the orcs end and the bowels of Hell begin.

But where do I go? Where is there an entrance? I see no seams, no visible line of separation. Should I be looking for a door? A hatch? A chamber?

No doubt, the five chambers were built so that they could not be opened, and this topmost part of the infernal machine is no exception. But I know that Starswirl had entered. Not only did he come here, but he rose back up to the surface world—somehow—with the strength to write about it.

Was it his blindness that gave him a secret sense, a keen understanding for how to enter and exit this place? All I see is black metal, and in the hard surface are a myriad of effigies, dark equine shapes twisted and turning and—

No.

They are not effigies. I understand now. Forgive me, Vinyl, but I must stop writing. I must examine this more closely. I think... yes, I think I have discovered what had happened to the ancient alicorns who built this place.

Sincerely,
-Octavia















Dear Vinyl,

In the Tome of Ending, Starswirl the Bearded writes of how the ancient alicorns "sacrificed their immortality" to imprison the chaos lords within Tartarus forever. It is even common knowledge among mortal Equestrians that Tartarus was a sacrifice that saw the end of alicorn civilization while at the same time assuring a mortal landscape free of horrible monsters.

What very few ponies know, Vinyl, is that the alicorns not only gave their lives to build Tartarus, but they gave up their bodies. It is believed that the Star Father Wh'lynsehaym and his children were so prosperous that their bodies outnumbered the stars in the sky, shining their life energy across the fields of this primordial world. I know this, for I have seen their fate. There were more alicorns than there were grains of sand on a beach, Vinyl, and they have all coalesced here. They have all died in each other's forelimbs, molding together, solidifying together.

Tartarus is the ancient alicorns. They knew that the only way to lock away the power of the chaos lords was to utilize their own spirits of immortal harmony. So it was that they ensnared the five abominations of old and surrounded them with their own essence. The alicorns then gave up the ghost, and their ashen bodies molded together, becoming something far denser than the strongest metal on earth, and just as lifeless.

Deep within the five enormous chambers, empowered into cyclonic motion by the last will of Wh'lynsehaym, the heart of Tartarus holds sway over the currents of the spiritual realm. Its power is unrelenting, and it harnesses a gravity to which all magics, all energies, and all leylines are hopelessly drawn. The result of this is that all spirits of all ponies who have ever died ever are drawn to the same nexus that is responsible for keeping the leviathans of chaos from destroying the lands above.

It is the most fragile balance of all, Vinyl. In exchange for a harmonious realm, in exchange for peace on earth, the alicorns created a purgatory. Hell itself is a force, a state of decay that all spirits must endure. Only, after the construction of Tartarus, Hell found an anchor, a place where all souls would be inevitably channeled.

I've read Starswirl's Tome of Ending over and over. Nowhere does he ever state that the alicorns potentially knew of the fate that they had constructed for all future Equestrians. I sincerely doubt that even Starswirl could have ascertained the truth behind it all.

I would like to think that the alicorns were simply ignorant, that they were so intensely concerned with protecting the mortal realms and the cosmos beyond from the rampaging forces of chaos that they neglected to think of the consequences for the hellscape that they had designed. How could they possibly have known that the five chambers built for ancient monsters would inevitably become a prison for the souls of those whom they were sworn to protect in the first place? What possible scope could have allowed them to see that we unfortunate mortals would become acquainted with the banished monstrocities in those damnable chambers?

But now I think differently, Vinyl. It occurs to me that the alicorns knew very well that they were damning the spirit realm in their desperation to salvage a future from all existence. What a horrible price that must have been: to assure the eternity of everything while at the same time acknowledging the torture and pain that would come with the labors of maintaining such equilibrium. Did they have any respect for us at all? Did they feel for the mortals whose eternal fate would be bound by the giant weight that they had dropped upon the bleeding fabric of the underworld?

Surely, we were just insects to them, Vinyl. They were gods, immortal icons through and through. They tasted the luxury of annihilation while we all must linger on within the wounds they have made in this world. How easy it must have been for them to have retired with the full knowledge that Creation would be preserved, and yet altogether ignoring the fact that suffering too would be maintained until the end of ending.

And yet, I cannot bring myself to despise them. I walk over their fossils—their twisted and gnarled bodies that make up the black shell of Tartarus beneath me. I see the folds of their wings and the spikes of their horns, interlaced tightly in frozen torment. Perhaps they did not die after all, Vinyl. Perhaps they are still alive in there, sleeping in deep, restless anxiety, and their nightmare is what powers the machine, that gives it animation and purpose.

What would happen if the nightmare ended? What would happen if the alicorn dream fell apart, and all manner of evil flew out from the shattered scarab shell that was their crowning achievement and holocaust all at once? Would the doom of the universe at the claws of the chaos lords be a better fate than what we all ultimately have in store? Would worldly peace be anymore fleeting than the eternal sleep that lingers beyond the years of torture and despair awaiting each and every one of us?

Hell is terrible, Vinyl, but we at least hope to find bliss and nothingness at the end of such a twilight tenure. Can the alicorns afford the same? In their slumber, they have become the unwitting wardens of Hell, just as much as they have formed the walls and floors of it. I cannot think of a more deplorable fate, and yet it consumed an entire race of gods and goddesses who came before us.

When the only gift our cosmic superiors could give us was something wrapped in the fabric of utter misery, what—then—can be more beautiful, more precious, more sacred than the world that they so ardently sought to protect?

It is so very dark here, Vinyl, between the bulwarks of Pandemonium and the upper layer of Tartarus. But that darkness reminds me that I once was able to cherish light in the first place, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I have only one race to thank for that.

I must find a break in their bodies. Somewhere in this black mesh of frozen alicorn limbs, there is an entrance.

Something is happening to the Tome of Ending. The horn of Wh'lynsehaym shimmers, fluctuating with each movement that I make. I think it is guiding me someplace. I must find it before the orcs discover the source of my hooves' scraping noises here in the abyss. I never thought I would ever be in such a hurry to descend into Hell.

In earnest,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

I can only describe it as harrowing.

After much searching, I finally found the entrance to the first chamber of Tartarus, though it would be far more appropriate to say that the entrance found me.

I wish I could say that it was with ease, but it wasn't. A band of orcs had spotted me by the glowing aura of Wh'lynsehaym's horn, and they gave chase. From a towering platform that loomed over where I galloped, they came charging down, carrying torches and all manner of ancient, rusted weaponry.

My first thought was to play the "spell of harmonic resonance," but I chose not to. It occurred to me that—there in the basement bowels of Pandemonium—the musical trick would not work for me. The hellscape between the orcish city and the surface of Tartarus is mostly barren, not to mention spacious. Aside from the large, thick, metal-reinforced pillars that hold up the demonic ghetto above, there is nothing but bleak emptiness that devours all echoes. I knew instantly that any sound spell would fail in confusing the orcs, and they would simply rend me to pieces while I foolishly floundered over a cello or violin.

As I tried to flee them, it became apparent how swiftly they would outrun my hooves. Though my body hadn't needed food nor sleep since I first plunged into the abyss beyond Cerberus, it was still immeasurably weary from countless hours of descending the levels of Pandemonium, not to mention being abused by the multiple bloody lacerations I had made to perform Starswirl's spells. Ache and exhaustion had overwhelmed me, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the orcs did to me exactly what I had seen them do to countless equine spirits before. Unlike those souls, however, as soon as I'd be torn apart, my body wouldn't be able to come back together again.

I fell into a cold, cold panic. I thought of screaming. I thought of begging with them. I thought of ripping Wh'lynsehaym's horn loose and somehow utilizing it as a crude weapon.

Most of all, Vinyl, I thought of you. I thought of your placid smile, of the magenta sheen in your eyes during a bright sunset, of the tired purr to your voice as you let me nuzzle you to sleep, night after night. You have always, never-ceasingly been a source of strength to me. Even in my darkest hour, when all of my sorrows and fears rose to the surface, you've been my guiding light.

It was then, in a teary-eyed blink, that I saw shadows dancing across the frozen effigies of the deceased alicorns all around me. I turned to see that Wh'lynsehaym's horn was glowing brighter than ever before. What's more, it was strobing with brilliance every time I pivoted the Tome of Ending in a particular direction.

I ignored the incoming charge of the orcs, instead choosing to trot calmly towards where the horn was pulsating the most. I found what looked like a giant groove creased along the bodies of the stone-solid alicorns. Had I discovered the entrance? Had I stumbled upon the lid to the prison of ages?

I didn't even need to utter those questions out loud. With an abominable hiss, like mists rising from the nostrils of a sleeping dragon the size of a continent, the groove separated. The sheets of black metal glided apart on either side of the partition. The grinding noise that came with it was deaffening, and the resulting gasps of the orcs were drowned out in an instance.

I was absolutely alarmed by the nature of what was happening, and yet a deep part of me was intrigued all the same. The pulsating horn of Wh'lynsehaym, the Star Father, was opening the door to his dead children's prison for the first time in three thousand years—when Starswirl the Bearded first entered and exited this damnable realm. So engrossed was I that I didn't even notice a separate roll of thunder that was bellowing out from on top of me.

I glanced up, and I gasped. All of Pandemonium was splitting in two. I watched as the bottoms of countless platforms bowed and heaved as if a giant toddler was pulling it apart with twin hooves. I realized—just as the shrieking orcs were starting to realize—that with the lid of Tartarus opening up, the foundations of the orc city were being ripped out from underneath it. It was only a matter seconds before the entire festering city of demons and imps came crashing down on top of us all.

It was no time to panic. I had read Starswirl's Tome repeatedly. I told myself that I knew what lie in wait for me beyond the gaping mouth of the prison. There was no way I could go about this with an impulsive leap. A spell was in order.

So, taking a page from Cerberus' cavern, I flipped through the tome until I found the "spell of effluent wings." The orcs behind me were starting to clamber in my direction—or, better yet, in the direction of the sudden, gaping entrance before me. I had very little time to spare. When I cut my forelimb for blood, it was hardly a delicate procedure. I leaked a great deal more profusely than I had hoped. Nevertheless, hissing my way through the pain, I soaked the copper pages with my essence and felt my body becoming light as a feather.

The vagrant creatures were practically diving at me by the time I threw myself into Hell's mouth. They flailed apprehensively on the edge of the entrance as I descended past them. It was as though they were overwhelmed by a great deal of hesitance upon the edge of Tartarus' gaping maw. It mattered little, for as soon as my body descended into the stale darkness of the first chamber, and as soon as Wh'lynsehaym's horn grew distant from the infernal lid to the place, the door began sealing itself behind.

A cacophonous echo blasted down from above. I looked up in my descent to see the orcs shrieking and fighting for what little space was left in between the closing metal lid. In a bright flash of amber light, I made out the body of Pandemonium falling on top of them, crushing them to a pulp against the teeth of Tartarus' upper entrance as it all came together around their twitching bodies. Everything became echoes of stifled bedlam, and soon I was engulfed in darkness—save for the pale glow of the Star Father.

Pandemonium is no more, Vinyl. After three thousand years, my presence here has utterly demolished the last bastion of Equestrian orcs. Perhaps in a few more millennia, another damnable metropolis will take its place. However, that is not my concern; my conscience anguishes not.

In a cold chill, my hooves landed on something. I glanced down to see what could best be described as a mountain of heterogenous junk. I almost whimpered from the sensation, only to hear how high pitched my voice had become... and how much that startled me. I have changed. What's more, I have arrived upon the prison of darkness.

It is all just as Starswirl has written, and yet no words of his could prepare me for this place.

Hell has devoured me.
-Octavia















Beloved Vinyl,

I cannot stop crying. It is not the utter despair that is making these tears flow. It is not the cold sterile air of this place. It is not the wails of utter misery echoing in the distance nor the perpetual blackness looming beyond every crumbling hill of ancient refuse.

It is something else, something glorious.

I landed here in the first chamber barely two hours ago. I did not know where to go. Wh'lynsehaym's horn had adopted a constant glow; it could no longer tell me in which direction I was to trek. So I wandered aimlessly. If nothing else, I was attempting to get my bearings of this place: in desperation that I somehow could.

The venture has been for naught. All I've found are hills, crests, and dunes upon dunes of junk. Rolling plains of crumpled, fallen debris fill the cavernous expanse all around me. From toys to furniture to farming equipment to picture frames to all manners of jewelry: this entire domain is a veritable heap of hazardous randimosity. I find myself slipping time and time again as I endeavor to scale a peak or two of the towering bric-a-brac.

One such mountain, I ascended only a few minutes ago. Raising the Tome of Ending high above my head, I shone Wh'lynsehaym's horn in every direction. The light couldn't penetrate into the darkness far, but of what I could see in that pale glow: all was barren plains of fallen antiques and the boundless, unnamed detritus of ponydom.

How all of this garbage got here is a mystery. Everything is covered in dust and sediment, as if the junk fell here millennia ago and has lingered—untouched—ever since. I know better than to think that I'm the only lone soul here. I hear moans in the distance, accompanied by the skittering and clamoring of limbs. This continental cavern is home to more than trash and darkness. Even now, I shudder to think of what will happen when I encounter the denizens of Hell.

But it is not them who I seek, nor is it the abandoned hovels of this forsaken tomb to miscellany. As I stood upon the hill of refuse, I felt my heart beating through my chest. It was time that I test the waters.

I could no longer use the cello—not like I wished to. I had simply become too small for it now. Instead, I reached into the violin case and pulled out the smaller instrument. I knew that it was the appropriate size for a foal when I first bought it in Masada. Everything fit into my forelimbs comfortably as I sat there in the belly of Tartarus and performed a song... the song.

Your song, Vinyl. I played it; I strummed it into the shadows of oblivion. When I reached the abrupt end of the instrumental, I slowed my movements and closed my eyes. My whole body relaxed, as if waiting to wade in the rising tide of fortune.

There were mornings, Vinyl, when I would wake up in a fit of gasps. I would think—with fitful spasms—that time had somehow reversed, and I was once more a filly in the streets of Canterlot, lying beside the invalidic body of my mother, having to weather another day of her wheezing breaths while being powerless to do anything about her impending doom.

But before the tears would spring from my eyes, I heard a sound—a most heavenly sound—the sound of your voice as you slept and stirred beside me in the early morning glow. And when the tears came, they were warm things, like a lazy rain shower on a summer afternoon, smooth and cleansing with each quivering wave. I'd lie close to you, hugging you from behind, stroking your mane and murmuring ceaselessly my passionate, devoted, and undeniable love for you, for the pony who had come into my existence and given it such warmth, such meaning, such life. You'd squeeze my hooves back from beyond the veil of sleep, and when I saw the curve to your slumbering lips, my entire world melted, and the tears would double.

Now, I am crying again Vinyl. I am crying because for the first time in over five years, I am feeling that warmth again. Even here in the pit of Hell, it soothes me, caresses me, and sings to me.

Your voice, Vinyl: it sings to me. For as I finished the performance, and as my bowstring lingered on the notes, I found more chords springing up to me from the abyss. I played the next few notes without thinking, and before I knew it, the song had evolved. It had grown: blossomed like miraculous flowers in the throat of darkness and misery. Before I knew it, my violin solo had ended, but not without performing half of a bridge that I had never even heard before.

The song isn't finished, Vinyl, not by a long shot. Your symphony continues, for it calls to me, rising up in victorious pitch, like the angelic breaths of a pony stuck in endless sleep, no matter how fitful her nightmares.

I can't stop crying, Vinyl, because after so many years, I am so very close to finding you. And I will find you, my love, no matter how long it takes, no matter how deeply I must plunge, no matter how much of myself I must sacrifice to the darkness. I will find you, and I will hold you once again.

With utmost adoration,
-your Octavia




















Dear Vinyl,

The only way to go forward is to descend. This is not an easy task by any stretch, but it is a journey that I must take. After all, though your symphony has miraculously acquired a newer piece to its instrumental, it is far from finished. I must go deeper into Tartarus to find more, and that only means one thing and one thing alone: trekking downward.

It is not as though I can simply find a ladder and use that to scale my way towards the second chamber. The alicorns built this place as a prison, and that's all that the mammoth interior of Tartarus has ever been. However, it would seem that the purgatorial weight that has collected over the years, combined with the chaotic whim of the abomination ensnared within, has brought about an unfathomable change to this domain.

Unfortunately, Starswirl the Bearded's details of the makeup of this place is minimalist at best. Even if he did attempt to establish a map of the first chamber's interior, it would not have been of much use to me. Over the course of three thousand years, this crumbling landscape has undoubtedly experienced several shifts, mutations, and alterations to its hellish topography.

A great deal of this has become more than evident as I've trotted down the precarious slopes of the place. The "ground" below is constantly shaking and shifting. I hear terrible groaning sounds: the noise of thousands upon millions of tons of debris settling against each other beneath me. More than a dozen times, I've nearly pratfalled from slipping on a bicycle wheel or tripping over a pile of books. It is not rare for tiny avalances to occur on either side of me, filling my ears with the cacophony of random objects flowing downhill along my descent.

All of this I witness in the pale glow of Wh'lynsehaym's ancient horn. Everything is gray, bleak, and lifeless—as if whatever vibrance these rattling piles of possessions once had was sapped dry after eons of neglect and bitterness.

I must admit, I did not expect a scene like this. It's not as if I'm complaining; I simply feel as though I am missing something, and I fear that whatever it is, it will overwhelm me when I least expect it. Everything is so desolate, quiet, and tense. I feel that the sound of butterfly wings would be like thunder in this deep, deep expanse. I trot downhill nervously, my every hoof-step a pensive thing, for I almost expect an errant explosion to rock me to my core at any given gasp.

Simply moving forward is a difficult task in and of itself. I am so small now that—I swear—the cello case weighs at least half as much as I do. I find myself having to drag it by the neck behind me, grinding its black surface through heaps and mounds of wooden and metal debris. I pause to take breaks several times. When I try to cool down I only sweat more and more. This cloak—as wonderful as it is—now utterly suffocates me. It is practically a blanket to my petite body at this point, and it rides over my hooves and legs, nearly tripping me with each step. I am quite seriously considering slicing it into smaller sections so as to be less cumbersome.

I suppose it would be a great deal easier to simply cast off these things: to toss the cello case into the mounds of garbage and throw my cloak to the invisible wind. But I can't make myself do that—not yet. I am quite certain that I have need of them still: especially the cello case.

After all, if what Starswirl the Bearded hinted at in his writings is true, then there will come a time when I will no longer be able to descend merely by my own strength. I will reach an impasse, and once there I will have to sneak past something that was banished here at the Dawn of Harmony. Only by evading its senses will I find a way to descend even further, and still it will be an arduous trek to the second chamber.

That is assuming, of course, that the symphony isn't finished by the time that I get there. I hope beyond hope, Vinyl, that you are anyplace—anywhere—but within the second chamber.

I must stop writing. I hear noises ahead and down below. I think I know which direction to take now.

Blessed Celestia, this cello is so damn heavy,
-Octavia














My Dear Vinyl,

I bought this cello seven years ago. You should remember. As a matter of fact, it was you who saw it lying on display in the front window of the Ponyvillean Music Emporium during our first walk through town after moving in. At the time, I didn't exactly need a brand new cello. I was always using the antique instrument that I was given by one of my many foster parents a decade prior. It had served me through many performances and symphonies throughout Canterlot, and it still had a lot of life left in it.

However, when you spotted this one cello at the Emporium, and I saw that mischievous grin of yours flashing beneath your violet shades, I was suddenly enthralled by an impulsive wave of euphoria. The first instrument I had ever used was bequeathed me by my mother, and it meant the end of one miserable life and the beginning of a terrifyingly lonely one. Suddenly, the thought of buying a brand new cello held a great deal of potential significance to me. After all, you were the essence of my brand new life, Vinyl. Beginning each morning with you felt like starting my existence anew everyday. I suppose I wanted to encapsulate that somehow, to symbolize it with an act of brazen indulgence. I wanted to live again—to be reborn in every metaphoric way feasible.

It was not a cheap decision, to say the least. Inevitably, we had to scrimp on groceries for the next few weeks. Still, I knew that I had your ever-loving support. That didn't stop me from weighing the decision entirely on your permission, regardless. You merely chortled at my excessive humility and practically dragged me into the music store yourself, where I made true with burning a hole through my bit bag.

That night, after spending hours tuning it inside our still sparsely furnished apartment, I played an instrumental on the thing for the very first time. The sound resonating from its wooden body was unique. For so long, I had become used to the wavering vibrations produced by my antique touring instrument. However, I liked the sound of this new cello for a completely different reason. It had a crisp quality, something unfettered by the fractures of time and use. In many ways, it made me think of your synthesized masterpieces—so dependent on the purity of the sound, much like you.

I was honored to have you as my first audience, and I delighted at the sound of your solitary applause against the floor of our apartment. And then our reverie was cut short as the tenants below us started banging on the ceiling, insisting on silence for the rest of the evening. I blushed with embarassment, but you merely laughed—producing a heavenly sound that no instrument could mimic, no matter how new or expensive. We cuddled in a fortress of unpacked boxes besides the fireplace, and I spent the rest of the night nuzzling you, finding ways to summon that laughter over and over again, so that I could drown myself in that perfect sound.

That is what this cello means to me, Vinyl. That—more than anything—is why I have held onto it for so many years, even in the arduous months of late where I've traversed the far reaches of Northwestern Equestria to get to this spot. It is full of memories: clean, symphonic, happy memories. When I play it—even if it isn't a performance of your song—I hear your voice, and it is a sound that makes me want to laugh and smile. I close my eyes and I feel as though I am with you once again by the fireplace, surrounded by all of the treasures that have followed us from Canterlot, ready to be poured out upon this bright home we had acquired in the humble heart of Ponyville.

And yet, as much as I love and adore this treasure of mine, I must remind myself that it is simply an object, an artifice, a bridge to the goal and not a piece of it. In many ways, the memories of you are just as superficial. They fill me with mirth and they drive me ever faithfully towards you—yes—but in the end I must clear them from my path if we are to reunite.

I can only wonder, though, just how much more I will have to give up, and just how difficult it will be when the time comes.

And yet, for you, my darling Vinyl, everything. Absolutely, everything.

With devotion,
-Octavia



















Dear Vinyl,

I cannot measure time in this place. Starswirl made it clear in the Tome of Ending that Tartarus exists within a void where time and space hold little meaning. I think that might clearly explain how so much junk has filled the belly of the first chamber; it is the accumulated rubbish of the past, present, and future.

Whatever is the case, I do believe I have reached the churning center of whatever energy empowers this place.

It started with the sounds that I wrote about hearing in the entry before last. Over the course of several hours—or days—I approached the cacophonous reverberations, with only the pale gray glow of Wh'lynsehaym's horn as my pathfinder. Within the last few hours alone, however, I discovered that I could just as well put the Tome of Ending away, for several blazes suddenly lit the hellscape, billowing from dozens upon dozens of random pyres that consumed these peaks—these cliffs of castoffs.

The noises, indeed, turned out to be the wails of equine souls. Unlike the tornadic river of spirits that orbited the body of Pandemonium above, these damned ponies have lost their lustre here. Perhaps it happened at some point during the process of being dragged through the metal shell of alicorn bodies that entomb this place. Tartarus' gravity overwhelmed them, sapped these spirits of energy, and deposited them here like loose bits. When they arrived, they were not alone. The clutter and scrap of countless ages followed them, haunted by whatever residial emotions of pain and remorse that empowered the spirits to still cling to such materials.

I stand now on a hill overlooking a veritable battleground of covetous strife. Droves upon droves of stumbling spirits squabble over anything they can get their necrotic hooves on. These undead quadrupeds drag their wounded limbs and flanks through mountains of refuse, clutching to a piece of glittering treasure that they insist is theirs, only to look over their shoulders and see an item in the embrace of another pony and suddenly desire it with even greater passion.

What follows is a ridiculous scuffle as everypony tackles one another, fighting tooth and hoof over something of banal importance. The air fills with groans and howls as every obscenity that has ever graced Equestrian civilization makes itself manifest in three dozen dead languages simultaneously. I can't help but wince, for as absurd as the fights are, it doesn't change the fact that they are utterly brutal. It is not rare for me to see a stallion snapping another pony's neck at an awkward angle or bashing a fellow spirit's skull in with a random heirloom or two. Just like the unfortunate souls who landed in Pandemonium, these undead entities morph back into gasping victims of pain, only to fall prey to an amnesiac frenzy as they rejoin the fray and experience the madness and torture all over again.

I want to pity these tortured souls, Vinyl, but a part of me can't help but feel... I don't know. I stand here on a hill overlooking the bloody melee, and I can't see myself trotting down. It's as if I feel more secure being positioned so high above them. What's more, I feel as though I am safe... and that my cello is safe.

I clutch the large instrument and its case to me. I don't know why, but I keep shivering. I have a hard time writing, because I keep breaking off to hug the cello even closer. My heart throbs with the thought that these cretins might look up and see me. I'm horrified to think of what would happen then. They might try to grab this cello. They might even bash it to bits and devour it with their bloody little mouths and—

I don't like this, Vinyl. Something is happening to me. I feel too close to the fringe of emptiness, like a giant whirlpool is threatening to suck me in. I know I have to go deeper—that I have to descend to a place far enough so that the next time I play your symphony, it may evolve even more... perhaps even completing itself. And yet, I'm too afraid to take another step. I don't want to lose...

I don't want to lose...

Blessed Celestia, what is happening to me?

I need to rest. I can't go forward right now, not with this battle happening in my midst. I simply can't. Goddesses help me, Vinyl, but I need to find another way in.

Sincerely,
-Octavia











My Dear Vinyl,

I did rest just as I decided to at the end of the last entry. However, I almost wished that I didn't.

It's not like I didn't have this moment coming, Vinyl. I just didn't expect to meditate on it so soon or so heavily. But, as always, it helps when I write to you about it. After all, when everything is said and done, it is my true ardent desire for you to know everything. I just hope you won't hold it against me for having bequeathed you with such knowledge, no matter how disturbing.

When I removed my cloak to rest and cool off, I felt as though a second robe had materialized above my head. In a high-pitched gasp, I flung two hooves up to my skull. As it so happens, my mane has grown back, Vinyl. What's more, it's softer, longer, and fuller than ever before.

Well, no, not quite. My mane was like this once before. Time and time again, you used to compliment me on how beautiful my hair was, and on each occasion I would assure you that there was a moment when my mane was even more resplendent—more specifically when I was a young filly just starting her symphonic legacy in the concert halls of Canterlot. I swear, the braids that my caretakers made of it were masterpieces of their own. It was styled absolutely perfectly for the early years when I was presented as an Equestrian prodigy for the spotlight.

Now, my hair is just as rich and vibrant again. There's a reason for that, my dear Vinyl. I am a filly once more.

I suppose there's been no use in hiding this fact. Ever since I dove past the cliff where Cerberus guards, I've been overwhelmed by a startling transformation. Truth is, I wasn't entirely startled by it. Starswirl wrote of such a circumstance during his first venture into Tartarus. However, because he was a unicorn sorceror, and a damn legendary one to boot, he was more than capable of creating a counterspell to the rejuvenation effect.

That, of course, is not the case for me. Ever since my cutie mark left, I knew that my body was to undergo a change that would mimic that of the souls who gravitate to this shadowy plane. For my entire journey down Pandemonium and my descent here through the first chamber, I have found myself veritably shrinking. Right now, my legs are as stout as a common foal's. Whenever my panting breath produces a voice, I hear a tone that is hauntingly reminiscent of the little filly that used to weep by her mother's side.

I am not alone in this, Vinyl. From here, I can still see the undead spirits of the damned, fighting over the fire-lit mountains of junk. They are such tiny, petite things, that it is a crime for their limbs to be bleeding over the sharp, jutting edges of this hellscape to begin with. Their high-pitched voices resemble a haunted schoolyard full of squabbling bullies, and in between the angry shouts I hear sobs like that of lost children.

I suppose it is only fitting. When we are stripped of flesh and reduced to our core, our innate nature, Vinyl, we are just as fragile, vulnerable, and lonely as the infants that were first foaled into the world. It is mortal existence's length of time that coccoons us, that clothes us with layers upon layers of abstract debris—much like the fallen detritus of this place—until we give into the artifice of adult pretense and imagine that we are far more grown up than the frightened toddlers that first ever sobbed for love and understanding at an early age.

There is no rose-colored lens in Tartarus, though. Everypony is naked; everypony is true. In a place like this chambered vacuum, there is no room to hide the shivering, skeletal essences of ourselves that have so much to lose and so much more that stands to be corrupted. There is nothing that protects us, nothing that supports us, and nothing that loves us—so long as the entropy of the universe sucks the marrow from our ever-dwindling life energy.

No, my dearest Vinyl, the endless ending has no mercy and no shame. We are all foals in Hell.
-Octavia













Dear Vinyl,

There is no use in sleeping; I don't know why I've tried. What would I even dream of? I have passed into the realm of eternal ending. Slumber in the real world was only ever practice for Hell, a place where there is no up or down, only energy going inward—and all of it negative.

I've dreamt a lot about you over the past five years.

Even now, it's all that I can think about. I've played your symphony several times in an attempt to get my bearings, but—despite the extra bars it has miraculously grown—it has not evolved any more since. All I can do now is wander aimlessly in this gray and desolate wasteland, stumbling over all of existence's discarded toys.

I am not alone. Dear Goddess, I wish I was. Ponies shout out obscenities left and right on either side of me. It's made all the more grating because each angry voice belongs to a foal. I glance through my peripheral vision to spot fillies and colts—the spirits of all ponydom—fighting and squabbling over whatever junk they have the nerve to pick up. It doesn't matter if something appears to belong to them or not. If they see it and they want it, they're willing to fight for it.

I've been keeping my distance. I don't know what I'll do if they see me. I may be a living soul with her wits about her, but I possess so many vulnerable things that I can't stand to give up. The Tome of Ending. These letters. This cloak.

It is a very good cloak. I don't want to lose it. I don't want to lose...

Blessed Vinyl, I feel so angry. I feel so angry and I don't know why. I detest these ponies. I hate hearing them argue and squabble. I know that this is the prison of Tartarus, but don't they have any better way to bide eternity? At this rate, they will never burn out their energy and enter into endless sleep and peace. What business do they have to hold onto such energy? They might as well give it to me. I need the energy to keep searching for you... to keep playing this song... to recover from the wounds I inflict upon myself with each of Starswirl's spells.

They have no right to hog all of that vitality to themselves. It should belong to ponies who have a reason to use it. It should belong to souls who still possess the faculty to make something useful out of their existence. A pony like myself would do well with that energy. I want it. I wish that they would just give it to me.

What's keeping them? Such detestable ruffians—they would have made much better use as the playthings of the trolls and ogres up above. But the orcs didn't deserve Pandemonium. I took it from them. I'm glad I did. I'd take everything from these ponies too. I would. I would...

Vinyl. Vinyl, please forgive me. My head is swimming in circles. I'm so mad. I'm so mad and I don't know why.

I just want to give you these words. No, I need to give you these words. I need to give something to you. I need to give something.

I need to give,
-Octavia

















Dear Vinyl,

I don't understand. Why was my mother so poor? Was it all father's doing? I only know that he was a despicable miscreant from what she told me. Had she fabricated every detestable fact about him? And to what end? She killed herself with the poison of our destitution. She could have given herself so much more. She could have given me so much more.

I mean, how could she have died on me? She gave me a cello, but that wasn't enough. She gave me music lessons and fancy mane conditioners so that I might sound good and look presentable in public, but that wasn't enough.

She should have looked after herself. She should have eaten more, taken more medicine, used her money to give us a better house... in a better neighborhood... with a better future. We could have lived a long life together. We could have been healthy and made friends. I could have become popular, social, and loved among all my peers.

Why didn't she aim for that? Why did she give me a childhood full of stressful music lessons and dying cats and cold moon-lit nights full of tears? How could a mother like that be so selfish? So narrow-minded? She could have given me more. She should have given me more.

Don't I deserve the best? Haven't I suffered enough? I'm a simple pony and I don't ask for much, but the surface world has always seen it fit to take away what's most precious from me. I don't understand it—and I hate it. I hate it so much.

I want more. I want so much more. I deserve it—not just the spotlight and the cheers and the applause—but everything that's beautiful. Everything that shows true craft and attention. Everything that is wholesome and good and exceptional. I deserve it and need it.

I wish...

I just wish...

Oh Vinyl, I just wish I knew why I was feeling this way. I love my mother—I always have. Why am I so mad at her? Writing it down doesn't make me feel any better, but somehow it feels right. It feels right to give all of the sudden, just for giving's sake.

But it hurts. It hurts to do anything but sit here and wallow. Each word I enscribe is like tearing a lock of hair out of the little filly that once stood at her mother's side... and the little filly I've become once again.

I'm sorry, Vinyl. I've read some of the paragraphs that I've written just now, and I'm sorry. I think I know why I've put those words down, and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.

I have to descend. I know that the second chamber is even worse than this one, but I can't stay here. I have to find a way beyond. I have to get past the ancient prisoner and carry my way through Tartarus. If I stick to any one spot, then it will consume me. Like the dead alicorns of old, I'll become one with the walls of this prison, and the only way the anguished souls will ever know that I was here will be from the useless detritus my anguished flesh will have left behind.

Please bear with me, Vinyl. You're the greatest gift I could ever have asked for,
-Octavia
















Dear Vinyl,

I wish I could say it was my lucid thoughts towards the end of my last letter that woke me out of my spell, but it wasn't. Instead, it was a glinting sight, along with a throng of angry voices that snapped me out of my muddied stupor.

I woke up, and I found my hooves drenched in jewelry and expensive linens. I was stuffing as much of the glittery rubbish into my saddlebag, and I hadn't even realized it. Horrified, I tossed the materials away, examining myself to make sure that I still had my true valuables. To my joy, the Tome, the violin, the cello, and my letters were still on me. I adjusted the folds of my cloak and spun around as the angry voices snapped through the cold air of the chamber once more.

In my stupor, I had stumbled deep into a crowd of ponies. Everything felt cold, claustrophobic, and tenser than steel. Just a few meters away from me, the foals had drawn themselves into a vicious scuffle. I watched as four stallions—colts, all of them—fought violently over a rattling chain of horseshoes tied to a string. In the center of the group, both of his hooves clasping desperately to the articles, was a platinum-furred colt who obviously had been holding onto the horseshoes from the beginning.

A sharp breath left me, for there was something bitterly striking about the shoes. The items were studded with golden familiarity, and they greatly contrasted with the pale, silver hues of the mountains of junk all around us. I had a flashback to a few days ago (a few weeks ago?) in the realm of the living, while I was still on the road to Masada. I had stumbled into a village where they were having a funeral, and the deceased elder in question was lying in an open casket, surrounded by mourning family members. As beautiful violin strings lit the somber air, I had eyed the gold-studded horseshoes that were looped about the old stallion's forelimbs.

They looked like the same horseshoes.

Goddess Celestia, they were the same horseshoes...

The frenzied colt broke briefly out of the fight, lunging forward from an angry pony's blow to the back of his skull. When he fell chest-first into the hillside of junk, the spirit's eyes fell on mine. We made contact—a dead heart and a living one—and for the briefest of moments there was no anger, no sorrow, no pity. There was only abject terror, for we both knew what this was about, as well as what it would be about for the next few unfathomable eons.

So involved was I in sharing this colt's stare that I was unaware of the angier ponies' shifting attention. The souls who had fought so ardently for his horseshoes were now pivoting to face me. Sure enough, beloved Vinyl, they saw my cloak and music cases, and the jaded glaze to their eyes melted under a forest green spark of covetousness.

And then they charged me.

I stumbled back, hyperventilating. I heard shouts—not just from the throng of bullies ahead—but from all around me. My living essence shone forth like a beacon, and I didn't even need to be bleeding. I was suddenly very real and very rich: two things that are more delectable than honey in the pits of Hell.

I spun and dashed downhill, hoping that gravity would still work in my favor. It mattered little, for the crowd of purgatorial ponies was closing in from all angles. Unless I sprouted wings all of the sudden, there would be no way of escaping them.

I thought for a brief moment of whipping out Starswirl's Tome and finding a spell that might help me evade them. But no sooner had that contemplation passed when they were upon me. A vicious blow struck me in the ribs. Then a filly charged in, head-butting me in the skull. My vision flashed with bright light, and when I came to I was lying on my back with dozens upon dozens of forelimbs clambering all over me. They pulled and yanked at the cloak, trying to get at my saddlebag and music cases below. The stale air was filled with the shrieking sounds of angry children, as if a riot had broken out at a purgatorial schoolyard and I was the brunt of every horrible prank imaginable.

Their punches and kicks were no joke, however. I was coughing up glowing blood before I could even sit up. By then, I heard the tearing of fabric. In a fitless shriek, I spun about, fearing that my letters to you had been shred apart. Instead, I saw that my good cloak had been torn down the middle. Two colts were already yanking at my saddlebag while a filly was biting on the edge of my violin case with her teeth. By the time two foals were grabbing for the Tome of Ending, I had lost all composure.

I yelled back at them, flinging my dainty hooves in a vain attempt to knock them back. It was a foolish thing to do. They were pure spirits—and infinitely more capable of damaging my flesh and blood than I was of harming them. I was reminded of this by a violent shove that a colt gave to my flank. I rolled over twice and felt my cello case slipping free. I protested, hearing the voice of my childhood ringing out through the darkness. The ringing in the air intensified. If a dumpster had fallen into the belly of Tartarus, I had no doubt these lifeless wretches would have ripped Chocolate's body apart for his whiskers.

I saw equine shadows galloping away in the light of pyres. The shape of a cello case dangled behind them. I felt like sobbing. A desperate part of me almost prayed to the alicorns. Almost...

But just then...

With a shout that could frighten the ghosts out of veteran soldiers, an immense thunder roared through the shuddering piles of refuse. Everypony froze in their tracks, shrieking together as if replying to the noise with one falsetto note. I saw the mountains of debris shift and bulge beneath us, as if a gigantic torpedo was rippling through the heterogenous rubble.

My heart stopped. When I stood on my feet, it was in a cold sweat, for I had read enough of Starswirl's tome to know what—and who this was.

When the chaos lord emerged from the messy ground, it was like a whale leaping majestically with a bursting spray of pale garbage. The first thing that lit the stale air was his spreading antlers, across each branch of which hung glittering necklaces and rings and rubies. His bearded maw hung open with a grinning hiss, as if he wasn't even remotely afflicted with despair from his eternal imprisonment, and instead he was exhaling the same frozen laughter that had begun at the Dawn of Harmony. I watched as the serpentine creature surged higher and higher into the air, wondering when the length of the leviathan's body would end.

But it didn't, and with each second that surged by, so did his flesh, and every few feet there was another mouth—just as gaping and hungry and ravenous as the one previous. Hundreds of mouths with tens of thousands of teeth glinted in the pale air, their vaporous breaths hissing into the pyres as they spat on the scrambling ponies below. His shrieks fed on their fear, and they gave into his gluttonous demand just as faithfully as they had given into their own.

The alicorns gave the First of the Five a name: "M'rhysahylennem," the Wyrm God of Avarice.

Starswirl claims that he is as terrifying as he is absurd—a creature with no wings to fly but with selfishness so great that he scoffs at gravity. I didn't take his words seriously until I saw the chaos lord for myself, and if I had urine to spare I would have christened the first chamber with the humility of a convert.

M'rhysahylennem was so long and so terrifying that his swirling bulk eventually filled the air like the contrail of a Wonderbolt. The many mouths dribbled the chewed-up detritus that they had carried with them through miles upon miles of shifting debris. I winced and shielded myself with my forelimbs as many chunks of sundered treasures fell down on top of me. In my stumbling, I found my cello case. It was discarded the very moment that M'rhysahylennem had appeared and frightened the souls into scampering.

To my immeasurable joy, the thing was still in one piece. I snatched it up immediately and ran towards the top of a burning hill. I found that none of the hapless souls were around me, and that was my first clue that things were about to become terribly complicated.

With a thosuand-fold shrieks, the Avarice Wyrm spun about in the air. I felt his shadow upon me. Soon, I would be the subject of his greed, and I feared that I was far too small to feed his many, many jaws. I stopped once I was besides a burning pyre and stared up at his descending form. Like a giant serpent, the chaos lord dove towards me, his bejeweled antlers shimmering in the pale light.

I understood then, Vinyl, what I couldn't understand before I had descended into Tartarus. The mind of pure greed knows no relief, only constant hunger. You have made me full in life, dearest Vinyl. Our days together fed me with greater nourishment than any mare could ask for. My hunger for you now is a matter above greed—of this I am certain. If it was something so base, I would have given up as soon as I read the truth in the Tome of Ending.

And the truth is that what I have brought myself here for, the one reason for why I came to Tartarus to begin with, was to bestow a gift, and no single creature—neither god or mortal—will get in the way of my generosity.

For this reason, I brought the cello, the remnant of my past life, the single sliver of my dying adulthood. With the limbs of a foal, I opened the case. Remembering the words of Starswirl, I brought a blade to my hoof and spilt blood. The pain was brief—as is the nature of all righteous wounds. I leaked my glowing essence onto the strings of the violin, the musical chords of my jpast, sprinkling the gift of song with something M'rhysahylennem hadn't fed on for millennia.

It was too scrumptious and harmonious a thing for the harbinger of chaos to give up. With a thousand ravenous shrieks, he dove upon it. M'rhysahylennem snatched the cello in the first of many jaws, his massive body burrowing back into the ground just a few rumbling feet ahead of me. My mane and cloak billowed from the frictious force of his serpentine body soaring into the fresh tunnel made in the mountainous refuse. After two minutes, when his descent was fully commited, I stood upon the echoing fringes of thunder, listening to the high pitch of my labored breaths.

There was something cleansing about the deaffening silence, as if I had emerged from a baptism with my ears cleaned by the riverwater. After hours, days, even weeks of wandering the wastelands of trash, my body had shrunk so much, and it was only then that I felt as if such a huge weight had been given off.

I'm not ashamed to say that I smiled, Vinyl. I was glad—yes—I was quite happy to be rid of that ridiculous cello. It was too unbearably heavy by then anyways. With ease, I tucked my violin and saddlebag beneath what was left of my cloak and climbed down the fresh tunnel. In M'rhysahylennem's swift departure, the chaos lord had unwittingly carved me a path towards the base of the chamber.

What a generous gift,
-Octavia






















Beloved Vinyl,

I may feel weightless, but that doesn't make this descent any less perilous. Unlike M'rhysahylennem, I am not a gravity defying Wyrm of Chaos, so following his path towards the base of the first chamber has been a troublesome task, to say the least.

Thankfully, though, the tunnel that he has carved has many detours—undoubtedly capillaries that the chaos lord had carved in the past when he had gorged a lot less and was decidedly more slender. I see the teeth-marks of his thousand-fold mouths carved into the wood, metal, linen, and cork of the bric-a-brac all around me.

This most certainly is not any usual form of spelunking. The horn of Wh'lynsehaym lights the tunnels ahead of me in a pale glow, illuminating every dangling piece of junk, every ramshackled piece of furniture, every heap of glittering odds and ends that can be found.

It's not a very easy thing to describe, Vinyl. Imagine—if you will—that some cosmic being had managed to scoop up all of the most valuable possessions ponydom has ever had. And then said deity tossed such items into a giant rusted waste bin and stomped on it until the material was densely packed together. Then, a gigantic serpentine creature of dragonequine essence had proceeded to bore its way through the path like some titanic earthworm, easily melting through the rattling clutter of toys and trinkets as if having vomited a froth of acid straight through the densest core of the mountain.

So, as you can imagine, venturing downward through this mess is a journey beset with falling debris and precipitous rubbish. I've been bombarded with mildew-stained suitcases, threadbare suits, worn saddles, piles of mangled silverware, jaded porcelain beads, old Hearth's Warming ornaments, pocketwatches, purses, and all manners of diamond studded heirlooms.

As I pass through these unearthly chambers, I hear the faint hints of angry shouts echoing up towards me. Even right now—as I pause to rest in an alcove formed by a silver-varnished upside-down stagecoach, I hear the tell-tale noise of furious squabbles above, below, and to the sides of me. Through the bulging walls of this subterranean junkyard antfarm, ponies are still fighting, struggling, and feuding for every square inch of the mess, as if there's a single true trinket of value to be found amongst the whole lot.

It is now that I realize that when I first landed on the cluttered summit of this chamber's ramshackled landscape, I had quite literally graced the barest surface of this portion of Tartarus. The true heart of this purgatory is far deeper, and the spirits trapped here live in a three-dimensional limbo, constantly battling their way upwards and downwards through the mess in an endless cycle of absurd competition.

Much like with M'rhysahylennem, the pull of gravity has no effect on them. Much rather, they are driven by their greed. It sucks the energy from them, stripping all meaning out from beneath what's left of their beleaguered mind. I greatly suspect that their stay in Hell will be the longest, for they know not the source of their misery, only that they want more of it.

If there's anything that I've learned in life, Vinyl, it's that the more one fixates on misery, the more one will be drowned in nothing but that.

All the more reason why I'm elated to have found you. The best gifts one receives are the ones that are least expected... or even requested. I'm so glad that I was a humble pony when I was awarded you, my love. I am also glad that the thought of you—and the act of writing these letters—has allowed me to find that core of myself that was once so precious, so that I might find my center and allow righteous gravity to pull me back along the course.

For I was so very close to becoming one of them. It was a very frightening exercise, albeit a necessary one. I know now that while my flesh and blood may very well be a major part of me, my spirit stands to be as vulnerable and frail as the prisoners of this place.

I must guard myself well. Thank you, my darling, for being my faithful steward all this time.
-Octavia








Dearest Vinyl,

Just when I thought that I had gotten used to once again having the limbs and muscles of a foal, I come upon the first of many impasses, and it made my petite knees shake upon the sheer sight.

About a dozen hours into my sojourn, the tunnel that I was navigating opened up into a monumental chasm. This was no simple cavern, Vinyl, but a colossal, all-encompassing void that appeared out of nowhere.

It was in here, and not atop the spacious surface of the chamber, that I finally came to terms with the true enormity of Tartarus. From my position upon the cliff of precariously hanging junk, I gazed forth and saw large, continental plateaus of layered scrap, stretching for hundreds of miles in every direction. In the glow of randomly lit pyres along the alabaster walls, I saw looming mountains of purgatorial waste. From a distance, the squirming dots of ponies waged ceaseless battles over hills of silver treasure. Tug-of-war duels populated the far-off, looming cliff-faces, and it was not uncommon to see dozens upon hundreds of ponies fall off the edges, screaming to their plummeting fate. Their spiritual effluence disappeared into the shadows below, where they would undoubtedly splash apart in glowing ribbons before coalescing and repeating the violent melee once and twice again.

To think that all of this spacious grandeur of horror exists within a singular compartment of a revolving machine utterly astounds me. I struggle to comprehend the unfathomable number of alicorns who had died to construct this prison.

As I stumbled down the winding cliffface in search of another tunnel, I had to keep careful guard of my balance. Unlike the souls across the chasm, or Starswirl himself for that matter, if I were to fall, there would be no coming back.

The journey became even more hectic as I came upon a bridge of sorts. I do not speak of a series of wooden planks with a concrete foundation, but rather a haphazard isthmus of land formed by an upside down collapsed house and several stagecoaches. I crawled through a bathroom window and trotted my way across a lopsided shower stall. By the light of the Tome's horn, I navigated a wall full of shattered picture frames and squeezed through a kitchen door to find that the body of a royal zeppelin had crashed through the building frame. I walked the deck—careful not to slip on a spilled trunk full of rusted bits—and walked along the precarious side of what I would later discover to be the remnants of a bank vault.

Beyond this, I found a steep hill made out of oaken furniture and queen-sized bed mattresses. At the base of this incline, I was startled to see a group of colts and fillies looting a lopsided confectionary full of spilled candy jars. I snuck past the riotous lot with relative ease and snuck my way into a steep ravine formed by twin ridges of piled up silken dresses. From then, the journey became a deliciously lonesome one yet again. I discovered another tunnel made by M'rhysahylennem and his many mouths, and my descent went on with a great deal less mishap.

My dear Vinyl, I have yet to fully ascertain the truth length of my journey. I should have expected that there would be several obstacles ahead, but there's only been so much that the words of Starswirl the Bearded could give me. He and Feathermane must not have truly expected that a soul like mine would venture so far and so willingly into the bowels of this dreadful place.

But, then again, neither of those righteous souls ever had the good grace of loving somepony.
-Octavia


> Person Mare (incomplete) pt 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





So, just like In the Darkness Where I Seek You, here is yet another epic that I started and simply couldn't finish.  All things considered, I haven't done an epic story to match Background Pony (that wasn't a Daily fic).  My two biggest attempts (save for Funeral of Derpy Hooves) were ultimately failures.  I still believe in both story ideas, and I think this one has an awesome hook.  As always with Skirtsian stuff, however, it's the execution that fell flat.

I was first inspired to do this by an awesome fanart I had seen by the insanely talented artist sharpieboss at the tail-end of 2013.  It's based loosely on an AMV done by IMMATOONLINK Reverie which was also based on a They Might Be Giants song.  The pic hooked my imagination immediately, and I suppose if I had followed through with the inspiration at the time, then I could have gotten something uploaded much... much sooner.  Instead, I floundered about for weeks... months.  Then I hit a weird spot at a tangled plot hole and... just never looked back.  Even after talking to friends of mine online and getting inspiration.

The biggest fault of this story is in the protagonist.  Yes, her life is supposed to suck.  But the issue here is that both the story and the character's dialogue go out of their way to emphasize and reemphasize how much everything sucks.  A little pointer: if you want the audience to sympathize with a character, don't tell them to.  Ultimately, Persephone--the protagonist--just came off as way too angsty to me.  She's a Pony for Nietzsche's sake.  If anything, her joyful qualities should make her stand out more.  Because of this, I realized that if I truly wanted this story to work, I'd have to start over from the first page and make her cheerful and optimistic in spite of her troubles.  You know where that worked before?  Fucking Background Pony.  While Lyra may have come across as "emo" in the way she philosophized, she was ultimately a pleasant helper, doer, and optimist.  That worked insanely well in the first chapter of Background Pony.  But here?  Persephone belongs in the lead role of a Square Enix Game.  FFX not included.  Ugh...

So, here you have it.  The skeleton of another unborn giant.  I got about halfway through the contents of the fic before I ran out of steam.  So, no, it's not complete.  And don't worry about "spoilers" or nothing.  If I do repeat this, it'll be dramatically different, with a far more appealing protagonist (hopefully).  And I do want to salvage this one day.  I think the concept is super awesome, and I really like the roommates that I have bunking with Persephone.  There was a general theme to this work-in-progress, and I think Persephone's best friends in the fic serve to support the moral far more than she does.  Which could have been the whole point, but who knows.  Me?  You?  Panties?





Persephone's legs were limping by the time she reached the alleyway.  Night had fallen over the sprawling city, and with it came a light drizzle of freezing rain.  Fresh moisture softened the crusty sweat still clinging to the earth pony's mud brown coat.  Persephone sighed, her breath spitting vapors into the cold yellow glow of a dying streetlamp above.

The pony paused, shivering, turning to gaze down the dark crevice between looming apartment buildings.  She sensed something familiar down that bricklaid ravine, something dark and murky that beckoned her.  After all she had been through over the past ten hours, it was almost a welcoming gesture.

She didn't notice the wandering couple until she heard their gasps.  A man and a woman scraped to a stop on the sidewalk, their boots splashing into a dirtied puddle.  Clinging their umbrellas tighter, they gave Persephone a wide berth, staring in disgust the entire time that they spent walking around her.

"For Christ's sake, will you look at that?"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Pffft.  I thought the mayor had cleaned up all the crack whores from this city."

"Can't she at least afford some rags?"

"Shhh... Let's keep moving before she starts begging for—"  Their voices were swallowed by the roar of a semi-truck speeding by, splashing mud and moisture all across the sidewalk.

Persephone flinched, her mane and tail thoroughly doused.  She shivered, sighed, and gladly shuffled her way into the blacker-than-black alleyway before her.

Her trot was uneven, on account of sore limbs.  The pony felt as if she had sprinted a marathon up hill, only without the mercy of a runner's high.  Her muscles were drained, numb, and stretched raw, and every other step punished her hooves like a sea of needles.  For a brief moment, the blackness of the cold alleyway soothed her, until she came to a junction where a lofty lamp besides a fire escape cast a sheen across the drenched place, highlighting the squalor of soiled cardboard boxes and overflowing garbage dumpsters.

All was silent, save for the trickle of rain and the buzz of flies.  Persephone sniffed, and she was startled to see another pony wrinkling her muzzle.  Gasping, she looked straight down, and her ears instantly folded.  It was a puddle's reflection, cast at the precise angle to haunt her.  She saw a disheveled brown mane framing a miserable brown face, with amber eyes leeched of all their brightness and luster.  Persephone's foreleg stretched towards the pony until the reflection's hoof made contact.  When it did, it felt cold, yet it didn't chill her.  She hadn't expected anything else, really.

Just then, the pool of water shattered—as did everything else—from a glass bottle that had been thrown at a distance.  With a gasp, Persephone hobbled backwards.  Her eyes jerked up in time to spot a skeletal waif in rags waving his hairy arms dramatically.

"Screw off!" hissed the man through three layers of a dusty beard.  "Go strut your body somewhere else!  Mmmnnghh—This is my alley, ya dumpster slut!"  He hoisted another bottle out from a rusted shopping cart.

But Persephone was already galloping away before the glass container flew.  Panting in high-pitched little squeaks, she scampered around the corner of two adjacent apartment buildings and sprinted down a black abyss of masonry.  She slammed blindly into something, filling the air with the clatter of garbage and broken glass.  Not a second later, she slipped, rolling over something sharp.  Her head bumped hard into alley wall, knocking loose the air from her lungs before she could yelp in pain.

When the blood settled in her head, she felt a stinging pain throbbing through her flank.  Wincing, she hobbled up onto her hooves and limped into the penumbra of a flickering lamp.  The shadows of moths flitted by as she brought her body into the light, squinting worriedly at the fresh wound.  A long, thin cut had formed just above her cutie mark, trickling blood over the emblem of a large, crooked horseshoe.  Persephone blinked, bu the horseshoe was still there, along with the blood.  She reached her hoof back and grazed the wet wound, instantly grimacing.

The mare groaned.  She tilted her head straight up, staring at the stone gray sliver of overcast night raining down on her.  When her eyes fell back down, she spotted a splash of graffiti along the wall.  Three obscene words orbited a series of hand prints that had been stenciled across the building's cement foundation.

A soreness overwhelmed the pony's throat.  She trotted to the wall, tilting her tiny body up until her muzzle was level with the hand prints.  Without thinking, Persephone raised a hoof and pressed it within the center of one print.  When she leaned back, she found that she had left a blood-stained curve within the graffiti's palm, like a miniature omega symbol, colored in crimson, that was utterly devoured by the spreading fingers.

A tiny whimper escaped her lips.  She didn't know where the sound was leading her until she spotted a dark shape in her peripheral vision.  Turning aside, she trotted straight down a dead end, heading towards a lone garbage can propped up against the rain-slick wall.  She paused, staring thoughtfully at the empty canister, at the bent metal frame of the thing and the lid that teetered off the very top.

Her vision fogged, and through the spreading mists she felt many memories surfacing, and all of them colder than the air of that very moment.  So she closed her eyes, haunted by the sounds of her own sobs.  Crawling like an infant, Persephone slithered to the wall, sat down, and curled up besides the garbage can.  She hugged herself, shaking into the night, listening dazedly as her cries blended with the trickle of rainwater, and soon she was one with the garbage.

A fitting bookend, she thought, and then Persephone fell unconscious.






Person Mare






Three days earlier...

BREEP!  BREEP!  BREEP!

A pair of bright amber eyes flashed open... then immediately clenched shut.  With a groan, Persephone curled up in bed, dragging a clumped wad of warm bedsheets over her muzzle.  The armored shell of layered duvets did little to silence the room, and she could still hear the persistent shrieks of the alarm clock punishing her fuzzy ears.

So, hissing like an angered cobra, she threw her hoof out through the layers of blankets and swatted blindly at the alarm clock.  The plastic thing rattled from her touch and pivoted on its end, which aimed the blaring speakers directly at the mare, increasing the volume of its skull-shattering siren.

Persephone groaned again, finally bursting from her bed like some parasitic larva.  With a flounce of her nightie, she clapped both hooves over the top of the bedside alarm, but she still couldn't get the snooze button to press all the way.  At last, she reached forward with her muzzle and used her nimble teeth to do the task.  She succeeded, but had lost control of her weight in doing so.

"Gaah!"  Thud!  Persephone's tiny body formed a reverse capital "L," with her bent neck on the carpet and her rear legs sticking straight up against the bed.  Instead of trying to upright herself, she simply lay there, staring lethargically at the sideways "6:02" flickering in the center of her apartment with crimson digits.

Her eyes swam across the bedroom, studying every dark shape and shadow: the mess of clothes hanging over her computer chair, the poster on the wall advertising a three-year-old track meet, a backpack overflowing with sheets, folders, and scribbled notes.  A white envelope lay in the center of the mess, stabbing her eyes from afar.

Persephone closed her eyes, giving into the relief of utter darkness, feeling the soothing hands of sleep lulling her frustrated mind once again—

Knock knock knock!  "Up'n at'em, filly girl!"  A muffled voice loudly chirped from beyond the pony's door.  "Today is shrink day!  I hope you scrubbed the inside of your head all nice and sparkly clean!"

"Nnnnghhh..."  Persephone inched her body the rest of the way out of bed and sat up, rubbing her tired eyes with a fuzzy forelimb.  "I'm going to murder you, Trisha."

"That's fine!"  The voice sing-songed.  "Bury me in something pink, will ya?  Come on, Percy!  You know we gotta skedaddle early today!"  Footsteps stomped towards the other end of the apartment.  "You too, Cae!  Stop counting ceiling popcorn and have yourself some breakfast already!"

Persephone was standing up at this point.  She shuffled across her room and teetered above her backpack, glaring thinly at the white envelope beneath her.  The thing was open, and a letter spilled out.  She tilted the edge of the paper up with her hoof, once again reading the hastily scribbled note beneath a printed address.

"Go see Dr. Sharp, then come have a talk with me.  Despite what the Company thinks, I'm certain that we can rectify this situation.  I need you, Miss Ceres.  Do not disappoint me."
~Pluto

The pony's amber eyes narrowed.  With a sigh, she turned and trotted towards the closet... only to trip on her nightie.  "Gaaugh!"  She flew like a missile into a pile of laundry, then groaned.





Five minutes later, Persephone emerged from her room and lurched across the apartment.  She carried a wad of clothes over her flank as she shuffled towards a brightly lit bathroom door.  The thing was cracked open when she knocked on it, teetering blearily.  "You'd better not be taking forever in there this morning, Trisha."

"Beauty is as beauty does."  A hand with painted fingernails pulled the rest of the door open with a creak.  A young woman stood in khaki ankle pants and a lavender cardigan.  She leaned forward, applying the finishing touches on her eyeshadow before the mirror.  "I'm like the God Damn Forest Gump of divas just waiting to find her Bubba."  Trisha smirked, tilting her head from side to side.  "You think they have casual Mondays in the shrimping business?"

"There are no runways in the telemarketing department," Persephone grumbled as she hobbled past the woman's knees and slapped her folded clothes onto the toilet's seat.  "Besides, it's not like any of the angry people on the receiving end can see your glitter."

"I like to look pretty when I'm called an asshole."  Trisha turned her attention to her eyelashes.  "In this city, there's no better philosophy.  Wouldn't you agree?"

"Meh."  Persephone reached for the hem of her nightie with her teeth.  She paused, glaring up at the mirror.  "You mind looking away?"

"Oh, please.  Nothing you've got that I haven't earned."

"You're funny when you're predictable," Persephone said.  "Now scram."

"Hmmm..."  Trisha smirked, scooped half her makeup into a purse, and sashayed out of the room.  "I'll keep the barn door open for you."

"Cute."  Persephone watched as the door was left open just a tiny crack.  She waited for a few seconds, then briskly shimmied out of her nightgown.  A pair of pink briefs hugged her flank, with a tiny hole in the back that allowed her brown tail-hairs to poke through.

Going through the motions, Persephone unfolded a petite pair of pants—child-sized—and slid her rear legs down, one at a time.  It was an extremely awkward affair, but Persephone's body was ritualistically programmed for it.  At one point she had to lie down on the bathroom's tile floor, wriggling her entire figure until the ends of her hooves finally poked out beyond the pant legs.

Catching her breath, she stood up and then unfolded her blouse, fighting with it as if it was a giant python.  It took another three minutes, but—at last—she had the article fitted about her torso.  Using a combination of her muzzle and forelimbs, she tucked the thing into her pants, then stood up, her face grimacing as her hind quarters wriggled and wriggled.  Finally, her tail found its way through the tiny, matching hole formed in the seat of her pants, and it flicked freely in the air.

Persephone took a deep breath.  She dabbed at her forehead, feeling for perspiration.  Having composed herself, she stood up on her hind quarters until she could glance into the mirror.  Ignoring the lethargic face in the reflection, she reached her forelimb—stretching—and grasped her faithful brush.  The thing had a custom handle duct-taped to the back, curved at just the right angle to allow her petite hoof to slip through.  She gave her brown mane several long swipes with the brush, smoothing out the tangles and cowlicks of a restless night.

When she was done, she lingered before the mirror, staring at everything and nothing in particular.  Her tired eyes wandered down, spotting her blouse's left sleeve.  The cuff had become unbuttoned.  She reached down and fiddled with it, cursing inwardly as her blunt hooves failed to get a good grip of the button and the cuff.

"Persephone."

She instantly looked up, ears twitching.  The mirror had blurred, as if rattling to a stop.  She found herself blinking dazedly at her blank expression.  After a few seconds, Persephone tilted her muzzle towards the cracked door.  "Trisha?"  Silence.  "Cae?"  More silence.

She exhaled heavily.

"Maybe I do need this appointment..."

With defeatedly slumping hooves, the clothed pony gathered her belongings and trudged out of the bathroom door, leaving the mirror behind.





A young man with a buzz-cut sat at the kitchen table.  He stood in a blue hoodie and even bluer jeans, staring through a nightmarishly thick pair of glasses at an outstretched newspaper before him.  A piece of buttered toast laid on a plate before him with only the crust eaten.

"Heya, Cae," Persephone spoke in a neutral tone, dragging her backpack with her as she approached the table.  "Did you sleep well?"

"There are three thousand two hundred and twenty seven words on the front page today," he said in a wavering tone, his eyes bright and bulbous behind his lenses.  "That makes an average of twelve thousand characters.  Twelve thousand degrees is enough for sixty-six point six infinitely repeating polygons.  To span the Straight of Gibraltar, a bridge would need two and twelve hundred times as many triangular reinforcement struts to support the necessary weight."

"Uh huh.  That's nice, Cae."  Persephone reached for one of the stools, her legs straining in her blouse and pants.  "Nnnghh... darn it..."  She tilted her head up.  "Where's Trisha?"

"Saving the day, as usual."  The roommate in question waltzed into the kitchen, shoving a phone book across the tile floor with her foot.  "Y'know, it wouldn't kill ya to ask Cae one of these mornings."

"Thanks."  Persephone used the phone book as a stepboard and hopped up onto the stool.  "And nuts to that idea.  I'm afraid that he'll try to build me a catapult or something."

"Who, Cae?!  Pfft."  Trisha rolled her glittery eyes.  "He's mostly harmless."

Cae looked up at Trisha with a quivering lip.  "Patricia, this newspaper doesn't have enough words to span the Mediterranean Sea."

"Ya hear that?"  Trisha shrugged with a smirk before ruffling the man's hair.  "Handsome here is saving Europe from getting their feet wet!  What have you done with your morning?"

Persephone exhaled with a shudder, struggling to sit upright on the kitchen stool.  "Resisted the urge to paint the walls of the apartment with my roommates' organs."

"Easy there, Mrs. Ed.  I'm sure Jeffrey Dahmer slept with his landlord to afford a place furnished for three people.  So what's your excuse?"  She winked before slapping a bowl full of apple slices before the pony.  "There ya go, sunshine.  Maybe you'll murder me softly for it."

Persephone stared into the bowl, her mouth watering.  Suddenly, she winced, and she spoke quietly with folded ears.  "Thank you, Trisha.  Really.  I mean it."

"Awwwww come on..."  Trisha slid into a chair across from the two, digging a spoon into a bowl of oatmeal.  "Think nothing of it.  Besides, I'm not the hormonally imbalanced freakazoid you used to bunk with at night school."  She took a dainty bite, swallowed, and pointed.  "Besides, the torch has passed onto you."

Persephone swallowed three apple slices in one bite and threw a weird look across the table.  "The Hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, y'know..."  Trisha shrugged through her breakfast, spoon clanking.  "Figured I might be next on your hit list.  From the way you talk about this 'Roger' punk, he sounds like someone almost as annoying as me."

"Please, Trisha, don't ever compare me to Roger."  Persephone took another bite... then nearly choked.  She frowned across the table.  "And I most certainly do not have a hit list!"

Trisha smirked.  "Well, you didn't exactly give the guy flowers last week, Percy, or is it a gardening session that you've been asked to attend this morning?"

Persephone sighed, glancing over at Cae and his newspaper.  "Please, Trisha, the less we talk about my situation at the office, the better."

"Why?  It sounds juicy!"  Trisha leaned forward with a devilish smirk.  "I heard he got five stitches!  And that's just for his head!  The jury's still out on the number you did on his ass crack!"

"Trishhhh..." Persephone growled through her muzzle.

Trisha giggled.  "Lighten up, silly filly!"  She pointed with her spoon.  "Don't get me wrong!  I'm proud of you!  For once in your crazy life, you're growing some balls!"

"Heh... you're one to talk."

"Don't push it."

"What time is it, anyway?" Persephone asked, fiddling with her cuff again.  "You know how I am with watches..."

"One thousand five hundred and twenty-seven seconds until we need to be at the Uptown Metro," Cae suddenly blurted.  "Venus will be low on the morning horizon, thirty-five degrees east of the summit of the Central Bank building on Kennedy Street, which is thirty-two stories above the point that the subway would be if it ran continuously north from the station at a length of zero point eighty two kilometers."

"Mister Universe here has a point," Trisha said.  "Better give a move on.  Bah!"  Her face scrunched as she tossed the spoon into the bowl.  "Goddess, I hate oatmeal." She scooted out of her chair with a smirk.  "Let's bounce."






Persephone hated this part.  It was a ten minute trek from their apartment to the nearest subway station, and it took five and a half blocks and at least one crosswalk through a sea of people to scale.  The pony weathered it as she did every other day, with her head hung low and her ears twitching against the scuffles and thuds of boots, shoes, sandles, and heels on all sides of her.  She stuck close to Trisha and Cael—or at least to the shadows of them, which was all she could ever make out from where her eyes hovered two feet off the ground.

"Jeebus," Trisha hissed, hooking an arm around Cael's elbow as she dragged the stiff-legged fellow down the sidewalk along with her.  "It always freaks me out how he just... clams up everytime we step out of the house."

"You know he can't help it, Trisha," Persephone murmured.

"Huh?  You gotta speak up, Percy."

Persephone winced.  "Ahem.  He doesn't like crowds, is all I mean!"  She shuddered, nearly being plowed over by a dangling suitcase.  "Quite frankly, he's not alone."

"Save the moping for the tunnels."  Trisha smirked and tilted Cael's chin up as the three came upon the crosswalk.  "Ya hear that, bright-eyes?  We're going underground!  Like a nineties band!"

"Kurt Donald Cobain died on the Fifth of April, ninety ninety-four," Cael quietly stammered, clinging to Trisha as he stared a million miles away.  "That's nineteen years, three months, one week—"

"For once, could you recite us Courtney Love's cup size in centimeters or some shit?"  Trisha turned to smile at a passing woman's grimacing face.  "Good morning!  How're the birdies singing today?"

Persephone sighed.  She tightened the straps of the backpack clinging to her figure and reluctantly tilted her head up.  Her eyes squinted from the morning sunlight glinting off row after row of glass-laden skyscrapers.  The sky beyond the building summits waxed yellow with the crisp infancy of dawn.  As her head tilted back down, she felt herself dazed by the scrambling sea of faces looming high above her.  Engines roared as yellow taxi after yellow taxi rumbled by, spitting exhaust onto the sidewalk so that it mixed with the foul smell of sewage wafting up from random grates.

Just then, Persephone's whole body jerked.  She stumbled awkwardly, teetering twice as much thanks to the four sneakers goofily ensnared about her fetlocks.  She glared back at a gentleman's dress-shoe that was standing over her spasming tail.  "Uhh... excuse me!"

The man stopped squawking into his cell phone long enough to glare back down at her with a vexxed expression.  "Excuse yourself!  What's your problem, lady?!"

Persephone opened her mouth, but froze.  She glanced at his shoe pressing onto her tail, then back up at the man.  With a sigh, she avoided his gaze.  "Nothing."

The man blew out the side of his mouth, then inched aside to return to his phone conversation while waiting for the crosswalk signal in private.  His shoe finally lifted from her tail, and Persephone flicked the limb with relief.

Something flashed in the peripheral of her vision.  Persephone tilted her head with a dull expression, gazing at a row of plasma TVs positioned behind a glass store front stretching adjacent to the sidewalk.  A political advertisement was showing on all monitors, featuring a broad-smiling Republican candidate in a montage of idyllic scenes overlaid with a rippling American flag.  At one point, he walked with his family towards a barn, leading a well-groomed horse by the reins.

Persephone's ears perked up.  For the first time that morning, she smiled, and her tail flicked in the misty city air.

Without warning, the advertisement ended, and a baby food commercial switched on.  A loving caucasian mother cradled her infant, making happy faces while spoon feeding it.

Persephone instantly blanched, tilting her head forward with a frown.  By then, the crosswalk signal had flashed green.  Trisha and Cael were already two steps ahead, and Persephone had to gallop briskly or else risk being stepped on by everybody around her.





The city populace poured down the subway stairwell like a deluge of flesh.  Persephone clung to the wall, wincing with each hop and leap she took to scale the steep steps.  When at last she and her roommates had evened out, it was a mad dash towards the turnstiles.  Cael and Trisha passed through first.  Persephone fumbled, gritted her teeth, and raised her body so that her petite forelimbs gripped the topmost handle.  It took several jerking motions with her torso, but she finally got the thing to rotate.  She slumped forward, but came to a rigid stop, pulling and writhing at the length of her tail.

"Oh, come the frig on!"  She grunted, yanking and fussing with her tail after it was caught in the rotary mechanism.

Trisha and Cael spun about.  "Ya need help there, girl?"

"I got it!" Persephone scuffed at the ground with all four hooves.  "Nnnnnghh!"

Somebody passed through the turnstile behind her, loosening the machine's grip on her tail-hairs.

"Gaaah!" Persephone fell flat on her face.  The click-clack of high-heels trickled past her ears.

"Some of us have places to be, lady!" a disgruntled woman in a business dress stormed off towards the loading area.

"Grghhhh..."  Persephone struggled under the weight of her backpack.  Trisha shuffled over and helped her up.

"Want me to strip her and crucify her to the tracks for ya?" Trisha smirked, brushing her golden bangs aside as she looked past the crown.  "I kind of want her skirt, actually."

"Forget it."  Persephone shook the cobwebs loose and trudged ahead.  "Let's get on the damn train before we're too late."

"Niagra Falls has a flow rate of one thousand eight hundred and thirty-four square meters of water per second," Cael nervously spat.

"Wuh oh!"  Trisha stood up staight, gazing all around the brightly-lit Metro.  "Sounds like Cael's gotta visit the little genius' room.  Come to think of it, I could use with a tinkle myself."

"Don't you—like—normally get your morning energy drink at this point?" Persephone asked.

"Dammit, you're right!"  Trisha hissed through her teeth.  "Can't risk taking too much time, what with you scheduled appointment to the witch doctor n'all."

"For Christ's sake, Trisha..."  Persephone rolled her eyes.

"Ah!  There they are!"  Trisha pointed excitedly towards the men's and women's restrooms across the sea of people.  "Percy, would you be a dear and drop by the mini-mart super quick and grab a Monster for me?"

"Uhhhh—"

"That way we won't be late for the train!  I-I'll pay you back!"  Trisha waved wildly from a distance, then said a few words into Cael's ear before splitting up into separate restrooms.

Persephone sighed long and hard.  Slumped over, she spun about and trudged towards a line of shops built into the underground infrastructure of the station.  It took her the better part of a minute just to cross the lumbering crowd of workgoers.  When at last she reached the stocked shelves of the tiny vendor, she fumbled for a can of energy drink, grunted, and finally lifted the rattling thing onto the counter-top with a pair of blunt forelimbs.  Panting from the effort, she looked up, then froze.

The sales associate was squinting at her with dull, studying eyes.

Persephone gulped, tossed her mane, and cleared her throat.  "Ahem.  How much?"

The man looked at her, at the still-spinning can, then back at her.  He twirled a half-chewed toothpick towards the far end of his mouth and muttered, "Two twenty-five."

"R-right."  Taking a deep breath, Persephone reached back, unzipped her backpack with her teeth, then stabbed a hoof deep into the satchel, fishing around until she pulled out a wad of money.  Someone rushed by, bumping into her from behing.  "Ungh!"  She gritted her teeth, staring hideously at the two bills and two quarters that had fallen to the tile floor.  She glanced up.

The sales associate was looking away for the time being, adjusting a series of magazines in a countertop stand.

Persephone fumbled and scraped at the bills with her hooves, cursing under her teeth.  As hard as she tried, she couldn't get the flimsy paper and metal bits off the tile floor with her hoof-ends.  So, glancing up once more, she tilted her muzzle forward, pursed her lips, and gripped onto the money with her mouth.  In a gesture of incredible ease, she propped her body up and deposited the bills and quarters onto the counter.

"Muah..."  She grinned victoriously at the rattling coins, then glanced up.  Her ears drooped.

The man was staring awkardly at her.  The toothpick had fallen out of his mouth.  He glanced from her lips to the money and back.  "You sick in the head or something, lady?"

Persephone exhaled through her nostrils.  "Just take it, will ya?"  She pivoted aside and scooped the can into her open backpack with the inner edge of her hoof.  "And keep the change."

"Errrrr... yeah..."  The man grimaced, picking one of the saliva-stained Washingtons by the flimsy corner.  "I'll do that."

Trotting about, Persephone gladly hurried towards the middle of the station.  She froze in her tracks at the sound of a woman's angry voice in the distance.

"Go get some help, ya freak!"  Persephone spotted Trisha and Caelus walking swiftly towards her.  Trisha looked over her shoulder, and the enraged woman in the distance shook her fist.  "Yeah!  That's right, you!  There are normal people trying to do their business, you know!"  She stormed back into the bathroom.

"Yeah, whatever!"  Trisha hollered back over turning heads.  "Nice silicone, by the way, lady!"  She smirked.  "Do the flight attendants make you turn those things off everytime you reach five thousand feet?!"

Persephone winced, hoofing her roommate the Monster drink.  "What was that all about?"

"Ohhhhh, you know..."  Trisha rolled her eyes, caught her breath, and popped the can open.  "The usual."

"Have you ever thought of just... y'know..."  Persephone shrugged.  "Settling for one of the family changing rooms?  They're clearly marked."

"Pffft!" Trisha took a swig and wiped her smirking chin.  "And just who do you take me for?!  The moment I do that, they'll have won!"

"Trisha..."  Persephone's eyes were thin as they trotted towards the loading area.  "There is no 'they.'"

"Says you."

"The thermal stability of silicone maintains a physical constancy between negative one hundred and positive two hundred and fifty degrees celsius," Cael muttered, shivering.

"Hah!  Oh yeahhhh..."  Trisha grinned like Lucifer.  "I can already tell this is gonna be a killer day."  Her voice was masked over by the hiss of a subway train screeching to a stop at the platform.





Persephone sat on folded hooves in her seat as the subway train jostled and shook all around her.  To her left, Cael sat, staring dead at his watch and counting downwards from a number in the five decimals.  Trisha sat to Persephone's right, gripping a metal pole with one hand and swishing her energy drink in the other while humming an old Janis Joplin tune.

In the meantime, the lone pony folded and unfolded the paper contents of her white envelope, reading and re-reading the note that had been scribbled to her days before.  She took a deep breath, whinnying slightly out her nostrils.  She heard a coughing breath and glanced across the subway train.

A latino man with a thick beard glanced down into his newspaper.  Beside him, a woman's eyes flickered past Persephone, then stared at the tunnel lights blurring outside the train car's windows.

Persephone bit her lip.  She noticed a stirring out the corner of her eyes and glanced down the car.  Three hooded figures shuffled, turning away as they re-engaged in a muddled conversation.

The pony began to squirm, adjusting the sleeves of her blouse with a nervous gesture.

"Where'd the friggin' Mormons go?"  Trisha randomly sputtered, eyeing a two-month old faded advertisement in a placard overhead.  "Usually, there'd be two of the little bible-thumpers waddling their way through this place like white sardines lost in a foreign can."  Her lips curved.  "I'm telling you, this ride gets drearier by the day.  Friggin' tunnels are practically screaming for Donny Osmond to do 'em."

"Trisha, have you noticed... erm... that is..."  Persephone fidgeted.

"Hmmm?"  Her roommate glanced over with glittery eyelids.  "What, him and Marie?  Pffft!  Totally!"  She took a final swig of her cup.  "Mmmf... The way those two dance together?  They've done the tango after dark, I swear to Goddess."

"Not that."  Persephone gulped and glanced out the corner of her eyes.  "Are... are people staring at me?"

"Not any more than usual.  What, did you forget your annual streaking session?"

"Trishaaaaaa..."

"Seriously, Persephone!  Why so paranoid android?"

The pony sighed, staring at Cael's watch as it reflected both the young man's blank face and hers.  "I dunno.  I guess I'm just on edge today."

"You're not having a relapse, are ya?"  Trisha squinted.  "Cuz you're kind of reminding me of the freaked-out chick from middle school."

"Hell, no!"  Persephone frowned.  "I've gotten a lot better since then!  You know that..."

"Then what's up with the whole shrinkventure today?"

"The appointment was not my idea," Persephone grunted.  "It was—"

"Your boss'.  Right."  Trisha nodded.  "I dunno if he's head over heels for you or just desperate."

"I'd feel better if it was neither," Persephone grunted, leaning her muzzle down on folded hooves.

"What'd I tell you about slouching on the train?"

"Grrrr..."  Flames burned in Persephone's amber eyes.  "Trish—!"

"Shhhhh..."  The woman had reached over to tilt the pony's chin up.  "Hey..."  She smiled softly, eyes glittering with the tunnel lights whizzing by.  "It's gonna be okay, ya hear?  No moping."

Persephone exhaled heavily.  "'Because moping is for mules.'"

Trisha winked.  "Damn straight."

The pony's lips curved ever so slightly.  Just then, the train lurched a bit as a screeching noise rattled beyond the windows.

"Hey, this is your stop, r-right?"  Trisha sat up, glancing down the train.  "Two stops before the usual routine?"

"Unnngh... right..."

"Don't sulk so hard."  Trisha scooted over to give Persephone room to slip her backpack on.  "Me and Brother Galactus here got up early so we could walk with you most of the way, didn't we?"

Persephone mumbled under her muzzle.

"I said, did we or didn't we?"

"You did, and th-thanks, guys."  Persephone stepped down from her seat.  As the train came to a stop, she glanced up at her roommates.  "Meet you at the usual place for lunch?"

"Assuming I get Cael to his math apartment in time.  Goddess, those pencil pushing study buddies of his freak me out something awful.  It's like they all wanna jump into my pants, drooling retainers and all."

"Heh..."  Persephone rolled her eyes.  "You wish."

"Oh go sit on an umbrella and unfold it."  Trisha reached over and gripped Cael's shoulder.  "Say good luck to Percy, Cael!"

"Mmmm... 'good luck to Percy, Cael!'" he muttered, face full of watch.

"Hah!  Instant classic!"  Trisha winked and waved.

Persephone smirked weakly.  The train car doors opened, and she was gone.





The little pony could swear she was going to be late.  It took her five minutes to climb the stairs on her lonesome.  At last, she reached street level, and scampered briskly under morning sunlight for two and a half blocks.  At last, she reached a tall, tall granite building marked with the names of two dozen different medical firms.  Persephone stopped there, waiting patiently until another person walked through the front entrance, pulling at the door handle that she couldn't reach.  She then dashed forward, squeezing her way into the front lobby before the thing could close on her tail.

After galloping across the lobby with echoing clops, she reached the elevators, exhaling with relief when one of them loomed open with nobody inside.  She hopped in and stripped of her backpack, opening the inner satchel while the doors automatically closed.  Using her teeth, she folded the note open, eyes scanning for the floor and room number of her destination.  When she saw that it was on the twentieth floor, she groaned inwardly, then glanced up at the elevator controls looming high above her mane.

Scooting her backpack over, she planted it against the wall of the elevator compartment and hopped up onto the thing.  Squeaking through a tightly gritting muzzle, Persephone reached up... up... up... and finally slapped the small of her hoof over the button marked '20.'  She almost fell back from the force of her victorious exhale.

The elevator ride was long, giving her time to slip her backpack on.  At last, with a chiming ding, the doors opened and she trotted down an air-conditioned hallway with lush carpet.  She could smell shampoo off the fibrous material beneath her, giving her little comfort as she hurried to her destination.  At last, she reached a door marked "Dr. Ike Sharp, M.D. - Psychiatrist."  It took some fussing, but the door handle was low enough for her to pull the thing open.  She peaked her head in, her ears twitching to the sound of an artificial water fountain trickling in the corner of the dimly-lit waiting room.  A lone receptionist with olive skin and curly hair sat at the front desk, plinking away at a keyboard.

Pensively, Persephone shuffled inside, careful to flick her tail forward before the door could close on it.  She made for the desk, glancing left and right at alternating potted plants and marble busts of Skinner and Freud.  When she reached the receptionist counter, she leaned up on her rear legs, clearing her throat.

The lady typed and typed.

Persephone rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat louder before giving the counter's edge a light clippity-clop.

The woman's eyes darted up.  She adjusted the headset around her curls and leaned forward.  "Yes?  May I help you?"

"I'm... uhm..."  Persephone gulped, eyeing a vase of flowers looming directly in front of her.  The pony's stomach growled, and she did her best to hide it by speaking up.  "I-I'm here for my eight o'clock appointment."

"Eight o'clock appointment..."

"With... uh... Doctor Sharp?"

"But of course.  Give me one second."  The receptionist pulled out a binder and scanned down a series of hours and names.  "Hmmmm... Persephone Elizabeth Ceres?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hmmm... Company-Appointed, I see."  The woman's eyes squinted at her.  "In Step?"

Persephone nod-nodded.

"Right."  She planted the binder down and sped her fingernails over the keyboard behind the counter.  The only thing that clicked faster than the keystrokes was her tongue.  "As you well know, In Step has agreed to pay for the sessions, presuming that you don't go over five visits, in which case terms of payment will be pending based on a written signature from Mr. Pluto Hayton himself..."

"Yes... I've... uh... I've been briefed on the whole thing," Persephone said with a shuddering sigh.  "I don't plan on taking too much of the doctor's time."

"Uh huh..."  The receptionist plinked a few more keystrokes, then slid the binder and a pen right in front of Persephone's face.  "Just sign right here in the eight o'clock slot, then go take a seat.  The Doctor will be with you shortly."

"Right... uhm..."  Persephone tapped the pen a few times with the small of her hoof, causing the instrument to spin from her blunt limb.  She bit her lip, growing more and more antsy.

The woman stared at her from behind the counter.  "Is something the matter?"

"No.  Not really.  It's just that... that..."  At last, Persephone sighed.  No longer hesitating, she reached forward, grasped the pen neatly between her teeth, and very daintily scribbled her signature with impeccable grace.  Once done, her eyes darted up, catching the receptionist's face gawing at her.  "Ptooie!"  She spat the pen out and trotted backwards, smiling nervously.  "I'm perfectly healthy."

The lady gave a dazed nod.  "Yeah, I'm sure of it."

Persephone spun around, making a face to the wall as she trotted towards a line of chairs.  For several minutes, she sat there, twiddling her hooves, staring dully at a stack of decade-old boots decorated with pastel covers and emblazoned with copious amounts of motivational rhetoric.  At last, a door at the end of the office's hallway opened, and a handsome man in a gray suit stepped out, patting an elder woman on the shoulder.

"Just keep my advice in mind, Mrs. Kramer, and you'll be flying in no time."

"'It's not the plane moving, but the earth beneath me.'"  The woman smiled nervously.  "'Bless you, Dr. Sharp.  My son's been begging to fly me to Fargo on his own plane for years.  He'll be overjoyed to hear about my progress.'"

"You'll be snowboarding with him in no time."  The man pointed with a glinting smile.  "I promise."

"Right..."  She shuddered as she shuffled up to the receptionist's desk.  "Now just to fix my fear of snow..."

"Doctor?"  The lady behind the counter raised her hand.  "Your eight o'clock is here."

"Oh?"  Sharp tilted his head to look into the ready room.  "Miss Ceres?"

"Yeah, uhm."  Persephone waved and leaned forward from the chair.  "I'm h-here because of the—"  Thud!  "Darn it!" She collapsed on her chest.

"Whoahhhhh nelly!"  Dr. Sharp winced as she walked over and helped her up to her hooves.  "Careful, I'm not that kind of doctor!"  He chuckled.  "The physical therapist is two stories down."

"Mmmffnngh..."  She looked up, briefly frowning.  "'Whoah nelly?!'  Just wo've you been talking to?!"

"I'm sorry?"  His face scrunched up in confusion.  "What do you mean?"

Persephone sighed, glaring off into the corner.  "It's nothing.  Forget I said anything."

"Hmmmm... I do hope we can do better than that."  He patted her shoulder, stood up, and pointed towards his open door.  "How about we get started, shall we?"

"You... y-you sure you don't need a minute to prep after—?"

"Nonsense.  A therapist my age is always on his toes."  He smiled calmly, smoothed back his slick black hair, and gestured again towards the office.  "Come on in.  There's a nice, comfortable couch to lie on.  Yes... heh... it's just as cliche as it sounds."

"Right..."  Persephone trotted over the carpet and made her way inside.  The office had several windows that looked out onto the noisy city, but it was nice, quiet, and insulated inside.  She actually breathed with slight relief when her hoof made contact with the black couch's cushions.

"You look beat from trucking that bag around."  The Doctor said as he shut the door behind them and shuffled over to a desk chair.  "Why not give your shoulders some relief?  I'd like you to be at your most comfortable."

"I'm making no guarantees, Doc... erm... Doctor Sharp."

"Heh... Just 'doc' will do, Miss Ceres."  He sat down, folding his hands together.  "If it makes you feel better, of course."

"Thanks.  I can never really tell at times."  She fussed and fidgeted with the backpack, finally shrugging it off as she sat on the couch with folded legs.  "Every doctor is different."

"So..."  He raised an eyebrow and crossed his legs.  "You've seen a psychiatrist before?"

"Oh, pffft.  Several.  My life is a moldy old textbook filled to the brim with every bit of psychoanalytical adventure imaginable."  Persephone rolled her eyes.  "But I'm sure you don't need me telling you that.  My boss at In Step most likely supplied you with a detail record."

"It might help the both of us for you to tell me on your own."

"It's..."  Persephone gulped, shivering slightly as she gazed out the distant window.  "It's not something I-I like reliving often."

"Still, it could help.  If you don't mind my saying so, Miss Ceres, but you seem rather nervous today."

"Heh, yeah..."  The pony sighed.  "I'm always nervous at visits like this..."

"Or perhaps it's something else."  He leaned his chin against his fingers.  "Perhaps it has to do with the same frayed nerves that brought you here today."

"Unnngh..."  Persephone's ears folded above a rock-hard scowl.  "Are we going straight into the crap that happened at work?"

"Do you think that we should?"

"I..."  Persephone's nostrils flared as she kneaded the couch with her hooves.  "I-I didn't mean to hurt Roger that badly.  At least... I'm sure of it."

"Roger isn't my concern right now," Dr. Sharp said calmly, shaking his head.  "Right now, I'm concerned about Miss Persephone Elizabeth Ceres' health.  It's what we're both here for, after all.  Perhaps we can root out the issue at hand together."

"The issue at hand..."  Persephone chuckled, shaking her head with a light flounce of her mane.  "I've lived twenty-four long years on this stinkin' planet, and still that bothers me to no end."

"What?  Issues?"

"No... hands..." She grunted.  "And the off-the-cuff expressions people have that reference hands."

Dr. Sharp merely raised an eyebrow.

At last, Persephone turned towards him, absorbing his puzzled expression.  She sighed and swiveled about.  "You know what?  Enough beating around the bush with this whole therapy business.  After all, this isn't my first rodeo.  Erm..."  She blushed.  "No pun intended."

"Pun... Miss Ceres?"  He folded his arms, giving her a quizzical glance.  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Heh.  No, you wouldn't, would you?"  Persephone gulped hard.  "Ahem..."  At last, her body stopped trembling, and she glanced up with vulnerable eyes.  "Uhm, Doc?  I'm a tiny colorful horse, and nobody seems to notice it but me."

Dr. Sharp was silent.

"Well... I-I mean... my roommates do... or one of them does."  She smiled slightly, but the gesture was passing.  "But that's only because I've asked her to, and over the years... she's been a nice person about it.  The nicest person.  The only one..."  Her gaze fell to the floor.  "But every other damn person on this planet—from the people I work with to the strangers I run into and even to the people I call 'family'..."  She winced.  "They... they just don't get it.  Only I do.  I'm... just... not... one of them..."  She looked up with darting eyes.  "I'm not.  I'm... this... little itty bitty horse thingy.  With... y'know..."  She waved her forelimbs in front of her.  "With hooves and fetlocks and fuzzy ears and a tail.  The whole nine yards.  And some days are harder than others—cuz I just get sick of people pretending like I'm not different... like I'm not me.  And... and it drives me absolutely batty at times."  She bit her lip.  "Because I've come to believe that they're not really pretending, and that it's all in my head... s-somehow."

Dr. Sharp slowly, calmly nodded.  "And so..."  He scooted forward on his wheeled chair.  "Uhm... how long have you... been a horse?"

Persephone looked up, lips quivering.  "All my life."
> Person Mare pt 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	"And I'm not just any normal horse, either.  No no."  Persephone sprawled back on the couch, sighing towards the ceiling as she curled her forelimbs to her chest.  "And, believe you me, I know my horses.  Half of my elementary school days were filled with studying as much as I could on all sorts of equines.  I mean, since nobody else believed in what I was, then I might as well have educated myself, r-right?"

"Certainly," Dr. Sharp said with a nod.  He continued listening to her as she went on.

And go on, Persephone did.  "Horses... are different than me.  I mean, they have to be.  They're larger.  Heavier.  Taller.  They've got hairy fetlocks and yucky nostrils.  Their eyes are waaaaaay more spaced apart, and they got every frickin' gastrointestinal problem that you can imagine."

"But, by and large, you're not the same kind of horse as them?" Dr. Sharp asked.

"Right!  And that's the part that kills me!"  She clenched her teeth for a moment and proceeded.  "My coat is—like—super short!  And although it's brown, it's—like—a bright brown, y'know?  It's damn near shiny as plastic bedsheets all the time, regardless of which way I brush it.  And my mane is pretty pastel-colored too.  And my eyes?  Pffft... Don't get me started on those babies.  They're huuuuuuuge!  It's like looking into a Disney flick everytime I gaze at the mirror.  It used to creep me out, until I got used to it, at least."

"And yet, nobody around you ever seems to notice but you?"

Persephone tilted her head aside.  "Well, how about it, Doc?"  She pointed at herself.  "What do you see lying on this couch before you?"

Sharp blinked a few times.  After an awkward five-second pause, he sat up straight, cleared his throat, and smiled as he said, "Well, I see an anxious young woman, well-kempt, perhaps about age twenty-four..."  He chuckled.  "Though, to be honest, I got the age from your file, so I suppose that counts as cheating—"

"Be more specific, Doc."  Persephone's jaw clenched.  "What do I look like?"

He scratched the back of his neck and shrugged.  "Well, like I said:  grown woman, aged twenty four."  He waved a hand.  "Caucasian.  Long brown hair; bright brown eyes.  Slight bags on her face, probably from lack of sleep."

"And what am I wearing?"

"A white button-up blouse with a pair of khaki pants and a stylish belt!" he finished with a smile.

She leaned forward and stretched her hoof out.  "Do me a favor."

"By all means."

"Feel my hand with your hand."  She bit her lip.  "Unless, of course, this is breaking psychiatric etiquette or some jazz."

He scooted towards the couch in his chair.  "I don't see the harm in it, really."  He palmed her hoof and wrapped his fingers around it.  "There.  How's that?"

She leaned forward, squinting.  "What do you feel?"

He paused slightly, then space his words apart with care.  "I... feel a warm palm.  A human palm.  And your fingers are intertwined with mine."  He waved their joined limbs slightly.  "Like that.  See?"

Persephone leaned back, sighing.  "That's just it, Doc."  She gazed up at him with sad amber eyes.  "I don't have any fingers.  What you felt were phantoms.  But I'm not calling you crazy, ya hear?  Because it's not just you.  It's you and everybody else on this damned planet."  She waved her limb up.  "This... is a hoof.  A very round, flat, smoothe hoof—not like the ones you find on normal horses either.  And yet, everytime I touch another person, they feel fingers.  It just... boggles my mind, and after nearly a quarter of a century of floundering around, I'm desperate to get to the bottom of it!"

"I believe you," the doctor said.

She squinted at him, grimacing.  "Do ya?  Do ya really, doc?"  With a slight frown, she pivoted about and pointed at her flank.  "What if I told you that—beneath these khaki pants that, to you, probably look like they actually fit me—is the image of a horseshoe?"

"I... I don't believe I understand."

"Think of a brand, doc.  As if someone burned the image of a horseshoe on me at birth with a red-hot iron.  And not just one side, but on both sides.  But that isn't the half of it!"  She chuckled bitterly.  "The horseshoe is bright purple, as if it came out of a Valentine's Day candy box!  That, combined with how bright my coat is and the flatness of my hooves and—I swear!"  She sighed and tossed her mane, lying back straight on the couch again.  "I feel like I'm some sort of MacDonald's Happy Meal playtoy."

Silence reined across the room and its morning-lit windows.

The Doctor leaned back in his chair.  "Miss Ceres, you said that you've encountered this sensation all of your life."

"That's correct."

"Do you mean all of your adult life?"

"Heh..."  She smirked over at him.  "Is this the part where you ask me to talk about my mother?"  She winced and waved her hoof.  "No offense, Doc.  But I've kind of been through a lot of these talks before.  I apologize."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Miss Ceres.  I know a little bit about your prior—shall we say—medical ventures."  He pulled out a folder, flipped it open, and ruffled through a couple of sheets.  "Let's see here... 'extensive child psychiatric care, ages seven through ten.'"

Persephone's ears drooped and her face grew more and more melancholic as the man read through each detail.

"'Home Schooled with a psychiatric tutor between ages ten and eleven.'  'Had a reported psychotic breakdown at age fourteen while on the campus of Stone Creek Elementary School.' 'Four recommended medical sabbaticals.'  'Diagnosed with symptoms of bipolar disorder and dissociative personality disorder at age nineteen.'"  He took a deep breath and murmured forth, "'And was Baker Acted while traveling across country at the age of twenty-one.'"

"Yeahhhhh..."  Persephone gulped.  "That's my life in a nutshell."

"And in all of these instances, it begs the question."  Dr. Sharp glanced up at her.  "Did you share with your therapists the same information that you're sharing with me?"

She slowly, slowly nodded.

He rubbed his chin, then flipped back to the first page.  "It states here that you were adopted at the age of two, Miss Ceres."

She rubbed a hoof over her tired eyes.  "Nnnngh... what's that have to do with anything?"

"Well, to be frank, it may hold a great deal of importance!  If this perception of yours is something you've dealt with all your life, perhaps it would be good for us to try and endeavor the source of the matter."

"I'm telling you, doc," she growled briefly.  "I don't just think that I'm a tiny, colorful horse... I am a tiny, colorful horse."  She tilted her head up.  "I've come to realize that the reason I kept going in and out of nuthouses like a revolving door is because all they ever did was put me through the same motions!  But you know what?  I'm fine with all of that!  If the last three and a half years have proven anything, I can live just fine with people not believing what I am!"

Dr. Sharp took a deep breath.  "And yet, just recently at your workplace, you've done something to threaten your entire career."

Persephone was silent.

"If I recall the report, I do believe this 'Roger Clemens' fellow received five stitches following the altercation."

"It wasn't an altercation, Doc," Persephone grumbled.  "The bastard got what he deserved."

"And what of all the other people in your life who treat you like you're a person and not a horse?"  He asked with a gentle smile.  "Do they deserve the same treatment?"

She bit her jaw tightly shut.

He slapped the folder shut and leaned forward.  "I really, really believe we should look at your life as a whole."

Her nostrils flared.  "Fine.  You wanna go over my life?  Let's start at the beginning."  She leaned over and faced him on the couch.  "Here's something for you to scribble about in your medical journal, Doc.  What better a way to start a screwed-up life than I did... inside a garbage can lying in the friggin' street!"





Covered in grime and rain-water, an infant foal curled head-to-tail, sobbing into the plastic detritus upon which she lay, shivering.  Her wailing sobs rattled the metal lid careening off the top of the can.  As droplets of water splattered over her tear-stained face, her shrieks echoed dully off the steep bricklaid walls of the dark alley enveloping her.

"You hear about this sort of crud in the papers or on the Internet.  As horrible and melodramatic as it all sounds, it does happen.  Some kids... simply aren't wanted.  Maybe their moms and dads are too poor or too sick or too scared to do anything else.  Doesn't matter.  Infants get abandoned by the truckload—a lot of them right under our very noses.  We only hear about the really, really tough cases when it's convenient for the public to know... or at least for the seven o'clock news to use it as some sort of sappy ratings grab.  Whatever.  Turns out I was one such super tough case.

Several basonets and cribs stretched in a row beneath dim electric lights.  Every tiny bed contained a young infant—clad in pastel blues or pinks—save for one, which instead held a tiny foal.  The timid thing stared through the plastic bars, its amber eyes wide as it stared at all of the figures squirming in the adjacent cribs.

She gazed up at a dangling assortment of twirling plastic figurines directly above her bed.  There was a teddy bear, a shooting star, a bird with wings spread, and finally a prancing creature with four rearing limbs.  Gurgling, the foal reached a stubby hoof towards it—but gasped as a nurse gently scooped her out of the crib and carried her across the room.

"It must have all been crazy overwhelming from the start, but I was far too dang young to remember most of it.  Truth is, I was super lucky.  Some people found me in the street and took me to a foster care center before I could come down with anything serious.  I was barely there for two months, recuperating, before a pair of decently rich folks found me and went all gung-ho over adopting my little poopy butt.  No doubt their hearts were won over by the sob story that the foster center had prepared about my discovery.

The nurse layed the foal into the arms of a middle-aged woman seated in a chair against the wall.  A sharp breath left the would-be mother's lips as she held the infant pony gently, cradling her in loving arms.  The woman's eyes watered, and she tilted her head up to murmur something towards a man standing at her side.  He leaned over her, smiling at his reflection in the foal's eyes.  The baby merely blinked at them, the tip of her hoof tapping the woman's index finger.

"It's a dang miracle if you're adopted while still in your infancy.  I've known kids six times as old as I was who desperately needed adoption at age ten or eleven or twelve, but never got it.  Guess they're past the adoracute stage and wanting parents just... aren't sold on 'em, y'know?  That wasn't the case with me.  Apparently I was cute as a button, or so that's what my mom and dad swore left and right.  Poor saps.  Must be easy to adopt a kid when you can't see her scrunchy muzzle, her cloppy hooves, or her big fuzzy ears.

Inside a high-story apartment building, a series of baby's toys were laid out across the carpet.  Little Persephone sat in a circle of rubber plastic doughnuts, knocking the items all around and giggling.  In the background, her mother shuffled towards the closet, pulling out the feeding chair and dragging it towards the kitchen.  As her footsteps came and went, the foal's eyes flicked across the carpet, then narrowed on an object at the far end of the room.

A wooding rocking horse lay besides the TV set.  With melodic gasps, Persephone leaned forward in her little pink jumper.  Her legs wobbled, but she soon found her balance, trotting eagerly towards the figure in her sight.  Barely five seconds later, the mother rushed over, scooping the baby up in strong hands.  Persephone fussed and whimpered, her hooves kicking at the air as she was carried away from the rocking horse and into the kitchen where her high chair waited with a bowl of porridge.

"They treated me nicely n'all.  At least... at f-first.  Ahem.  But it wasn't long before I started noticing... weird stuff as I grew up.  I mean, I was just as healthy, intelligent, and bouncy as any other baby girl.  Pretty soon, I could tell that something was fishy... that something wasn't right.  Stuff that my mom and dad said.  Stuff that I saw on t.v.  The ways my clothes just never seemed to fit right.  And then there were the mirrors.  Egads, I hate mirrors.

"Mommy?" A three-and-a-half old Persephone blinked, looking over her shoulder from where she sat on the bathroom counter.  "Whose horsie is that?"

"Hmmm?"  The mother struggled and struggled to straighten Persephone's bangs before turning her attention to the puffy sleeves of her Sunday morning dress.  "What horsie, Percy?"

"The one right there!"  Persephone stretched her hoof out and a hoof stretched back.  The foal's face fell blank.

"Hmmm..."  The mother smiled before fixing the child's bangs.  "You silly girl!  That's you!"

Persephone blinked, her muzzle hanging agape.  "But I'm not a horsie, Mommy?"  Her tongue curled at the last word, turning the exhale into a question.

"Come on, baby."  The mother helped her down to the floor and grabbed her right front hoof.  "Daddy's got the car waiting for us!"

"Nnngh!"  Persephone winced, struggling to hobble straight on her remaining three legs.  "Mommmmmmy?  Not so faaaast!"  She leaned her head back, struggling to look at the reflection again, but it was gone.

"My confusion was just the tip of the ice berg.  You thought I was getting weirded out?  Imagine those around me.  Soon, people started noticing some... behavioral quirks about me.  In other words, I was doing stuff that just wasn't typical of a normal little girl.

"Percyyyy?"  A pudgy little girl in a red jumper pouted.  "Pass the shovellll!"

Persephone blushed.  "Sorry..."  Squatting on her end of the playground's sandbox, she leaned forward and pushed the shovel towards the girl using her nose.

"Heeeheeeheee!"  The girl giggled and pointed.  "You're so silly!  What are you, a bull?"

"No, I'm—"  Persephone stopped in mid-sentence, blinking.  While her playmate started shoveling a long trench out of the dense sand, she gazed down at herself, then at her forelimbs.  Her amber eyes squinted and unsquinted.  At last, she chanced upon another kid's handprint in the sand.  She brought her hoof over—hesitated slightly—then pressed it firmly into a white patch right next to it.  When she brought it back, her lips parted, for the shape made was altogether different—almost a perfect circle, except for a spot at the bottom that refused to connect.

"I'm gonna build the moat!" Her friend hummed.  "And then you can help me build the stables!"

"St-stables...?"  Persephone looked up with glistening eyes.

"Yeah!"  The girl smiled.  "For the princesses' prized horses!"

Persephone's face scrunched up.  "You... really like horses?"

"Mmmmhmmm.  But my Mommy says I'm too old to ride one."

Persephone brushed her hoof through the sand again.  After half a minute, she grinned.  "Hey Kimmy?"

"Yeah, Percy?"

"What if it was a really, really small horse?"

Several feet away, Persephone's adopted mom sat on a bench, chatting enthusiastically with an elegant woman sitting next to her.  "And so I said, 'Sure, Ayn Rand is no Faulkner!  But if she's not on the reading list, then this Book Club is officially bulls—'"

"Weeeeeee!  High-ho, Percyyyy!"

Both ladies glanced over... then gasped in horror.  An ebook fell to the ground between them, its screen shattering.

"P-Persephone...?!"

"Kimberly!  Get off her this instant!"

Both jolted up to their heels and dashed towards the sandbox where the five-year old was riding Persephone in a prancing little circle.  Several children watched, throwing forth a giggle-fit.  Parents wandered up, their faces mixed with amusement and awkward curiosity.

All the while, Persephone laughed and reared her front limbs, causing the hair of the girl on top of her to flounce around her laughing, rosy dimples.  She made little whinnying sounds and kicked up sand—at least until the two mothers dragged the two girls apart.

"Kimberly!  What's gotten into you?"

"But... b-but Percy said I could ride her!"

"It's okay, Mommy!"  Percy giggled and smiled in her mother's arms.  "We were just playing Castle Stables!"

"I don't care what you were playing!  Don't let other kids ride you!"

Kim's mother dusted the sand off her child.  "You could have hurt little Percy's back, darling!"

"Yeah, with all the pop-tarts you've been feeding her," Percy's said.

"Excuse me?" The other woman flashed a snarling face.

"It was a little bit amusing at first, as are all things in the days of youth and innocence.  But soon, all of that went south.  Because things started getting sillier...

"Whoops!"  Persephone winced in the middle of class.  She reached out too late to grab a pair of scissors from falling off the edge of her arts and crafts table.  Biting her lip, the uniformed filly glanced around at the rest of the kindergarteners.

They chattered briefly with one another, their bodies collectively hunched over their ends of the table as they created landscapes, bunny rabbits, robots, and shooting stars.

Persephone sighed heavily, gazing lethargically down at her sheet of paper.  All she had was an elaborate mosaic of curved lines, all made in multicolored fingerpaint.  She glanced at her untouched bottle of glue and similarly neglected container of glitter.

"Percy?"

The little foal looked up with a start.

An elderly woman in a long skirt leaned over the table, her expression hung between neutral and stern.  "Pick up your scissors, please, dear.  You dropped them a moment ago."

"Oh... uhm... sorry."

The teacher shuffled on.  "It's not good to leave things lying randomly about."

With legs fumbling beneath her skirt, Persephone winced and pushed her chair in reverse.  Hobbling on stiff hooves, she leaned down and reached for the bulky, plastic scissors.  "Mmmff... nngh..."  Her hoof knocked the scissors around loosely, incapable of gripping the bright handles.  "Gnnnnghhh..."  Persephone licked her lips and bit down on her muzzle, sweating.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get a grip.

A pair of girlish voices giggled from behind.  "What's the hole there for?"

"Maybe she has trouble pooping!"

"Teeheehee!"

Persephone blanched.  She glanced behind to see her skirt flaring up and her tail flickering up in open view.  Stifling a whimper, she slouched tightly to the tile floor of the classroom.  After a few deep breaths, she gulped, leaned forward, and clasped onto the edge of the scissors with her teeth—

"Miss Ceres!"

"Mmmffff-Ptooie!"  Persephone sat up straight in the shadow of her teacher.  She gazed aside, fumbling nervously with her mane.

The teacher leaned over with a sigh.  Glancing aside at the bright eyes of everyone watching, she whispered hoarsely, "Miss Ceres, we talked about this.  What did I tell you about putting stuff in your mouth?"

"I-I'm sorry, Ms. Rice!"  Persephone gulped, clutching her mane tighter.  "I j-just wanted to pick it up like you asked m-me too!"

"Then use your hands, young lady!"

"But... b-but I can't!"

"Sure you can!  It's simple!"  The lady grabbed the scissors and stretched one of Persephone's hooves out, planting the handles of the instrument against it.  "See?" She let go.

The scissors clattered to the floor.  Students giggled mischievously.

The teacher tried to contain her fuming breath.  "Persephone Elizabeth Ceres..."

"I'm so sorry!" Persephone sniffled.  "I couldn't grab them!"

"Just use your fingers."

"But... but..."  A tear rolled down Persephone's cheek.  "I don't have any fingers."

More giggles.  The room was roaring at this point.

"Miss Ceres..."  The teacher's eyes had become rigid stones.  "I'm tired of you playing these little games with me."

"But I-I'm not playing games!"  Persephone shivered and cried.  "Honest!"  She stretched her forelimbs out.  "I've got hooves!  See?"

"What I see is a little girl who needs time out."

Persephone hung her head, whimpering with folded ears as the class reeled around her.

"And then they started getting even sillier...

"This is the fifth pair I've found this week, young lady!" Persephone's mom squawked, frowning viciously from where she stood in the doorway to the foal's room.  She held a pair of panties in her hands and fished her finger through a gaping hole in the back.  "All ruined!  And I know who's been doing it!  So why lie to me?!"

"But I'm n-not lying, Mommy!"  Eight year old Persephone stood by her bedside on wobbly hooves.  She bit her lip and fought tears.  "It hurts whenever I wear then like normal!"

"And just why is that?"

"Because..."  Persephone winced, then looked aside as she mumbled beneath her breath.

"Speak up!"

With a shudder the mare said, "Because there's no room for my tail to go through!"

With a heavy, heavy sigh, the mother dropped the colorful article and facepalmed.  Lungs heaving, she grumbled, "I am sick to death of these games you keep playing, Persephone!"

"But Mommy—"

"Don't 'but Mommy' me!"  She leaned over, shaking her finger.  "You know how much money I've had to spend on your clothes the last month alone?!  Grownups don't pluck dollars from trees, honey!  If you keep ruining your things like this, soon I'm gonna run out of clothes to give you!"

"But... wh-why do I even wear clothes, Mommy?"

The woman recoiled as if she was stabbed with a bayonet.  "Excuse me?!"

Persephone gulped and bravely said, "They always feel stiff and uncomfortable against my coat and—"

"Your skin, Percy!  Your skin!"  She leaned forward with a snarl.  "Is it your father who's encouraging you to play make believe all the time?!  Because if so, I'm going to have a long talk with him!  This 'horsie' stuff is just not funny anymore!"

"No, Mommy, please don't take this out on Dad!"  Persephone backtrotted, shivering.  "It's me!  It's just me!  I'll stop it!  I promise!"

"But you've said that before, Percy!" the woman stamped her foot.

"And then things would get downright... well... frightening...

"Dammit, Larry!  Call the god-forsaken ambulance already!" the mother shrieked, pacing about with Persephone curled up in her arms.

"I am, darling!  I am!" the man stammered as his fingers blurred over the numberpad.  "But you still haven't told me what's going on!  I need to know what to tell them!"

"She ate the apple!" the mother cried hysterically from across the kitchen.

"What do you mean, she ate the apple?!" His face twisted in confusion.

She sniffled and pointed at the empty plate.  "I mean that she ate the whole goddamn apple, Larry!"  She hiccuped and rocked Persephone's body.  "Core and all!"

"She swallowed the core?!" The husband gaped, nearly dropped the phone.  "Jesus!"

"Daddy!  Mommy!  I'm f-fine!" Persephone gasped.

"Breathe evenly, sweetie!"  The mother kissed the foal's forehead and stroked her mane.  "Everything's going to be okay—Larry!  911, dammit!"

"I'm calling them!  I'm calling them!"  He shivered, holding the phone up to his ear.  "How is the thing not lodged in her throat?!"

"I-I don't know, but we gotta get her to a doctor so they can take it out of her stomach or s-something!"  The mother seethed, her face streaming with tears as she ran a hand through her tousled hair.  "Dear God in heaven, I can't take this anymore..."

"I'm all right, Mommy!"  Persephone stammered.  "My teeth crunched through the whole thing!  I don't need a doctor—"

"Oh, yes you do, Percy.  Yes you d-do.  Larry!"

"Yes!  Yes—9-11?  Thank god!  Look, I need paramedics over to my apartment asap.  Our nine year old just ate something that she wasn't supposed to—"

"Looking back, I can't fault my parents for reacting so dramatically.  The situation couldn't be helped, really.  At least, that's what I learned to accept in those early, early years.  People just couldn't see or feel what I was... not even the ones who wanted to take care of me.  It didn't change the fact that I was really, really confused, and when everything started falling apart at the seams, I felt as if I had nobody else to blame but me...

"...because I'm sick and tired of it, Fran!  Our little girl is not a little experiment to be poked and prodded by these money-grabbing shrinks!  She is young, she is energetic, and she is beautiful!  There is nothing wrong with her!"

"Oh, you are in such denial, Larry!  Will you open your god damn eyes for once?!  She's getting worse and worse every year!  It's come to the point that it's alienating her from her classmates—"

"I'll tell you what's alienating her!  Being made to look like some pyschotic freak with all of these needless therapy sessions and sick days—"

"It's alienating her from her classmates and I'm scared that—very soon—she's going to lose it completely and start hurting herself!  Is that what you want for our daughter, Larry?!"

With a creaking sound, Persephone cracked the door to her bedroom open.  A tiny amber pupil peered out from the shadows.

Two shapes heaved and shook in the kitchen towards the far end of the dimly-lit apartment.

"What I want is for our daughter to feel loved in this household!  But all I hear when I come home from work every day is you bitching at her for one tiny thing or another—"

"Screw you, Larry!  You don't have to keep a close eye on her every waking minute of the day!  You don't have to help her pick things up off the floor like she's suffering from paralysis—or-or-or pretend that she's somehow incapable of reaching the friggin' door handle to her own bathroom!  Shit, I accidentally stumbled in on Percy the other day and she was squatting on the toilet seat with her palms and the soles of her feet!  Like she was a cat taking a shit in the litter box!  She swears that it was just a one-time thing, but how much do you wanna bet she's been doing stuff like this behind our back?!  Our daughter!  Acting like a friggin' animal?!"

"She's a child, Fran!  She's going through a phase!  Every kid goes through it—"

"But for their whole life?!  For teir whole frickin' life, Larry?!  For the love of God, face it!  She's warped!  She's warped and she needs help and I-I am... s-sick and t-tired of cleaning up after her all the time—"

"Dammit, Fran—"

"And if you're not going to help me, then I'm going to look for something professionally!  I did... nnngh-n-not give up my nine-to-five job to become a stay at home stable-hand for some... snkkt-sick little brat's warped fantasy!  Neither of us signed up for a telethon girl living under our very roof!"

"For the last time, don't—"

"And don't pr-pretend you haven't regretted it either, you selfish, close-minded sonuvabitch!  I hate having to deal with all th-this heaviness all on my lonesome!  This is your household t-too and she's your daughter!  So start acting like it and admit that she's... not... normal!"

Silence.  At last, the husband sighed and tossed his arms.  "I don't know what to say, Fran."

"Oh!  Well, what a big stinkin' surprise!  Why don't you go off to your friends' place and play more 'cardddd games with the guysssss' like you so love pretending to be actually doing when you'd rather not be at home dealing with all this bullshit!"

"Now don't you get started—"

"And why shouldn't I?!  You think I haven't noticed how—?"

By this point, Persephone had long retreated to the far end of her bedroom.  She dragged something along with her, fumbled with her nightgown, and ultimately climbed into bed, pulling the tiny wooden rocking horse with her.  She hugged the antique toy to her chest, gazing into the shadows, her fuzzy ears twitching every now and then when the walls shook from the continued argument.  Tears trickled down her cheek, staining the pillow cover.  She sniffled, keeping a straight face as she hugged the rockinghorse tighter, nuzzling its wooden mane.

"So, as time went on, I learned to withdraw into myself.  I tried to play the game by the world's rules, pretending that I was just like everyone else, pretending that I wasn't a problem child or some Freudian poster girl waiting to be documented in medical journals cross-country.  For the most part, it worked at home, and I got by reasonably well.  At school and in public—well—that was another story altogether.

"Hey!  Percy!"

"Yeah, what?!"  A teenage filly turned to look over her shoulder.  A wad of rotten carrots ricocheted off her face.  "Gaaaugh!"  She hissed and rubbed her muzzle clean.  "Derek, you friggin' turd monkey!"

"I thought that was supposed to make ya run faster, thoroughbitch!"  A pimply-faced punk smirked, surrounded by laughing middle schoolers.  He spread his arms wide as he faced off from Persephone and her friend in the center of an urban school courtyard.  "What's the matter?!  Not enough running space for you to charge me?!"

Persephone fumed and fumed, her hooves grinding into the bottom of her sneakers.

A boy stood beside her, rolling his soft green eyes as he carried Persephone's books.  "Just ignore 'em, Percy.  Don't let those creeps get to you."

"Oh, I never do..."  Persephone straightened her mane and smirked up at him.  "It's just a terrible waste of carrots, is all."  She and the boy chuckled.

"Hey!  I'm talking to you, horse girl!"  Derek stomped his foot.  "You remember all those funny noises you used to make years back at recess, right?"  He nudged his buddies and chuckled.  "How about two clomps for 'yes' and three clomps for 'no?'"

"How 'bout you guys just buzz off?!" her friend barked in a cracking voice.

The boys just laughed.

He shuddered and turned around.  "I suck at being intimidating."

"Then don't try," Persephone said.  Then, clearing her throat, she turned around.  "Oh Derekkkk?"

"Yeah, what is it, Mrs. Ed?"

She grinned from one side of her muzzle to the other.  "Nice jokes'n all, but in case you haven't noticed, none of us are really all that into watching reruns of Rugrats anymore."

"Heheheheh—"  Derek stopped, blinked, and then his face sunk in confusion.  "The Hell are you talking about?

"Only that the horse jokes were soooooo elementary school!"  Persephone rolled her eyes and grinned.  "Just because you can't grow balls doesn't mean you can't try a new comedy act!"

"Ohhhhhhhhhh!" The boys around him jumped and chuckled, slapping his shoulder.

Derek merely fumed.

Persephone and her pal shuffled forward.  "Okay, so maybe that wasn't intimidating, but it sure felt good."

"Heeheehee... y-yeah."

"Where you runnin' off to, Flicka?"  Derek suddenly dashed in, shoved the boy aside, and jumped—straddling Persephone's backside.

"Gaaaaie!" Persephone went bow-legged, almost tripping over her friend and spilled books.  "Gnngh!  Derek?!  What the f—"  She snarled.  "Get the Hell off of me!"

"Yippy-kay-yi-yaaaay!"  Derek thrashed and wormed on top of her shoulders.  "What's the matter?!  You thought you could ride me!  Well, it works the other way, bitch!"  He slapped her rear-end and tossed an invisible hat.  "Kiyaaa!  Off to the gold mine, Silver!"

Boys laughed.  Girls in the distance gasped and murmured to one another.

"Get... your sweaty crotch off me!"  Persephone snarled, her hard teeth flashing in the daylight.  "I mean it!"  Her left rear hoof slipped out of its pink sneaker and slammed over his ankle.

A nasty crack lit the air.  Derek yelped like a wounded puppy and hobbled off her, jumping on one leg.  "Chr-Christ!"

"What's wrong, Derek?!" one student squawked from afar.

"Grrrghhh!"  Derek's eyes teared.  "Her foot's made out of friggin' oak!"

"Yeah, well, so's your head, dickmuncher!"  With snorting nostrils, Persephone spun and with both legs aimed high, bucking him hard.

Derek instantly ragdolled, toppeled for six feet, and struck a set of metal bleachers head-first.  He slumped to the ground, muttering something unintelligible as blood trickled down his forehead.  Several students flocked over, gasping in thick commotion.  Soon, two chaperones were running in from the doors to the school cafeteria.  They knelt by Derek's side, examining his head and shrinking pupils.  As the seconds oozed by in stunned silence, several gaping faces turned Persephone's way.

The young mare stood, panting, her ears pulled sharply back as she slowly, slowly backtrotted from the scene and tore off down the far side of the courtyard.

"Some... erm... 'accidents' were more unavoidable than other.  You think that would have made me extra cautious—paranoid, even.  Truth is—especially in recent years—I sort of... let loose.  I threw wild abandon to the wind, as if a part of me accepted the fact that I was completely and utterly screwed in life.  For a while, this turned out to be incredibly therapeutic.  Ultimately, however, the past came back to bite me in the flank.  And over the last three and a half years, I've been every bit the model citizen.  Ever since... ever s-since... well...

"Get your stinkin' hands off her!" Trisha hissed, squirming her way through a huddle of police officers.  Her hair hung like a loose blonde rag as she fought her way towards a white van parked along the edge of a crowded motel parking lot at night.  "She's done nothing wrong!  Were were partying, for Christ's sake!  Haven't you ever heard of spring break?!"

"That's far enough!"  A heavy-set man in uniform pushed her back.  "Sir, I'm going to need you to stay calm or else I'll have to—"

"Who're you calling 'sir,' you pig?!" Trisha spat.  "Take your nightsticks out of your—HIC—eye-sockets and shove 'em up your candied asses!  Can't you see she was just havin' herself a little tr-trot?!  Heheh!"

"Your friend was found running naked across a junkyard at midnight," another officer said in a firm, calm tone.  He held his hand up before Trisha's heaving face.  "I'm sorry, but according to her mental records, it's for her safety that she be taken to—"

"Does this look like friggin' Florida to you?!"  Trisha growled and thrashed forward again like she was in a mosh pit.  "How 'bout—HIC—I try my h-hand at the 'stand your ground law' you dougnut huffing—"

"Trisha, just drop it," Persephone muttered, trotting a serpentine path towards the van while wearing a brown towel over her shivering shoulders.  Two strong men in medical scrubs kept within a hair's breadth of both her flanks.  "It's going to be okay."  She fought the urge to vomit and lurched ahead, leaning on one of the men with a bleary expression.  "I promise.  Just head back to the motel room—"

"Like Hell, I will!  They have no right to—"

"Trisha, you're drunk and you're upset.  Always a bad combination for you!  Don't make it worse than it already is."  The van doors were opened and she was given a boost inside.  "Hopefully, I'll only be inside for a few weeks."

Trisha's green eyes bulged.  "A few w-weeks?!  Goddammit, girl—"

"No use tellin' them my hooves can't be hurt by a simple streak through the junkyard."  Persephone hiccuped as she sat down.  "I swear, Trisha."  She managed a smile, wrapping the blanket tighter around her as she stared out into the parking lot.  "You and your friggin' dares."

Trisha sniffled.  "Ah Hell, Percy.  I'm so sorry..."

"Pssst!  None of that, now."  Persephone slurred.  "Remember?  No moping."  She pointed.  "Because moping is for m—"  The van door slammed shut.  One orderly got in the far side while the other took to the driver's seat.  The vehicle drove away from the motel, escorted by a single cop car.  Various half-dressed party-goers craned their necks to see better, giggling into plastic cups full of beer and suds.

Trisha sighed, shuffling around, bobbing and weaving her lonesome way back to the motel.  She stumbled about halfway, squatted down onto a parking barrier, and broke down sobbing, covering her face with her hands.

"It's when I realized that I was actually hurting people close to me that I decided... y'know... to stop fighting.  And I don't mean my parents, but people that I've gotten to know because they've grown to accept me for who I am—as a soul—regardless of... what really lies underneath..."





Persephone stared thoughtfully across the sun-lit interior of the lofty office, her adult ears twitching to the sound of Dr. Sharp's continuous clock ticks.  She took a deep breath through her nostrils, exhaled out her muzzle, and said, "So long as I tell myself that it's what I do that matters and not what I am... then... well..." Persephone shrugged.  "I'm pretty darn close to 'sane.'"  She produced a gentle smile.

Silence.

"And did this work with Roger Clemens?" Dr. Sharp asked.

Persephone's smile faded.  She looked up from the couch.

The Doctor was leaning his chin against his joint knuckles.  He poked a finger out from the forest of digits.  "Or could it be that something your co-worker did... something he said or acted upon... triggered one of the many unfortunate memories of your past?"

"What do you want from me, Doc?"  Persephone shrugged wildly.  "I've layed myself bare enough as it is.  And besides, you're no horse doctor."  A beat, and she rolled her eyes, giggling.  "Heeheehee—See?"  She hugged herself and leaned her head towards the edge of the couch.  "I'm so healthy, I can even laugh at myself."

"And it's good to know that it works now," Sharp said.  "But obviously this... structure that you've built for yourself can crumble.  Otherwise, how can you explain the incident at In Step Incorporated's central offices?"

Persephone's nostrils flared.  She shrugged again.  "Look, to be perfectly candid—"

Sharp chuckled.  "I would certainly hope that you have been so far."

She continued.  "I didn't ask to be here, okay?"  She tossed a hoof towards the ceiling, shaking her head.  "My boss—Mr. Hayton—he's simply cutting me a break by not firing my flank—erm... ass.  I'm just doing this visit to make him happy."

"I can respect that," Sharp said, nodding.  "And I am performing this visit because I want you to be happy."  He folded his legs.  "And healthy."

"Heh.  Get in line, Doc."  Persephone gazed up at the ceiling with a sigh.  "Cuz there are tons of poor saps who have tried to sit in that very same chair before you, and all of them have crashed and burned."

"Hmmmm..."  He smiled gently.  "Perhaps they simply haven't asked the right questions."

"Yeah?  Like what?"

"Is there was one moment from your entire life—either joyful or traumatizing—that you would wish another soul on this earth could experience, just so that they could understand your plight better?"

Persephone opened her mouth, but lingered.  She tilted her head away from the Doctor, gazing at the reflection of a pained mare in the distant windows.  Her breath sucked in tightly.





She trembled in the darkness.

Chains rattled.

A sliver of sunlight flickered up and down across the room.

A whimper escaped her lips.

Bare hooves scraped against concrete.

She shifted, and the chains rattled again.

Just as she was about to fall into the fourth round of uncontrollable sobs...

The doors rattled, and the sliver of sunlight widened.





Persephone's ears drooped. When she opened her breath, it was with a wavering voice that she said, "M-maybe..."

Dr. Sharp leaned forward in his chair.  He took a few seconds before asking, "If you could have shared this moment with Roger Clemens... then would that have prevented what happened the other day in the office?"

Persephone bit her lip.

Seconds passed.

A full minute.

Dr. Sharp raised his eyebrow.  "Miss Ceres?"

She gulped.  Holding her breath, she tilted, stared over the edge of the couch, and droned, "How are we on time...?"





A little later, the door to Dr. Sharp's office opened gently.  Persephone trotted out, stretching her legs in the middle of the hallway.

"Ahhhh..."  Persephone tilted her head from left to right, cracking the joints before adjusting the weight of the backpack against her spine.  "That wasn't so bad, was it?"  She turned and grinned up at the well-suited man.  "I think I feel better already, Doc!  Thanks for the chat!"

"Miss Ceres..."  He stood over her, hands in his pockets as he gazed with a calm smile.  "I'm certain you and I both know that there is still a lot of ground that needs to be covered."

Persephone's gaze fell.  She sniffed and muttered bluntly towards the plush carpet.  "I'm going to have to come for another visit, aren't I?"

He nodded.  "I would think that it's in your best interest.  And, as I'm sure it's no surprise, Mr. Hayton would believe that it's in his company's as well."

"Uh huh..."

His eyes lit up above his smile.  "Same time tomorrow, then?"

She took a deep breath.  "Yeah."  She looked up with a weary smirk.  "Yeah.  Same time tomorrow."

"I very much look forward to exploring what we talked about further, Miss Ceres," he said with a wave.

"Right..."  She waved back with her hoof, turned tail, and trotted towards the front waiting room with a glaring expression.  "Abso-clopping-lutely thrilled."

She went to the receptionist's desk, scribbled her name in the sign-out sheet, ignored the woman's curious glares as she spat the pen out of her mouth, and then made her way towards the entrance of the office.  As she fumbled over the lock, standing up on her rear hooves, she felt a vibration running through her forelimbs, and then rattling her ear drums.

"Nnngh... what...?"  Persephone grimaced.

She blinked into her reflection.  The backwards name of Dr. Sharp—soaped blackly across the glass door—blurred and unblurred.  With it came a flutter to her ear hairs, like a breath being carried along some unnatural wind.  And it carried her name, "Persephone..."

The pony looked over her shoulder.

The curly-haired receptionist was minding her own business, plinking away at the keyboard behind her counter.

Persephone blinked.  At last, nostrils flaring, she yanked the handle down and pushed her bumbling way out into the hallway.

"I friggin' hate psychiatrists..."
> Person Mare pt 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Trisha bounced into in her seat, smirking devilishly across the diner's table.

"Okay, so here's my favorite shrink joke."  She licked her pink lips.  "I hope you guys don't mind if I stole it."  The young woman waved her painted nails through the air.  "This dude goes to visit the psychiatrist, ya see?  And the psychiatrist asks him, ahem, 'So when did you first start crossdressing?'  And the guy goes, 'Well, when I was little, my mom and dad put me in boy clothes and I was super, super uncomfortable.  But then I turned thirteen and started wearing women's dresses, and I've been cured ever since, Doc!'"  She slapped the table and squinted left and right.

Persephone grumbled, fussing and fidgeting in the booth cushion next to Trisha.  Caelus sat across from her, using a pen to draw a dazzling array of geometric triangles within triangles that somehow brought out the font and images of the bustling restaurant's paper menu in a whole new light.

"Nothing?"  Trisha wagged her eyebrows.  "Not even a titter?"  Silence.  She reached forward and rustled the menu beneath Caelus' thick glasses.  "Come on, Cosmic Boy!  Give me something to work with!"

Jolting in his seat, the man looked up and barked:  "Haah haah haah haa—"!

Both Trisha and Persephone winced wildly.  "Gaaah!"

"Christ, Cael!  No reason to go Eddie Donky Murphy on us!"

"—haah haah haah...!"  Caelus stopped on a dime, his face deadpan again.  His eyes blinked bulbously.  "I'm sorry.  Is the joke over, Trisha?"

"'Fraid so, handsome."

"Oh."  He gulped and returned to his pen-drawned lines.  "It was a good joke."

"Pfft.  You're just saying that."

"I am forty-five figures away from a perfect fractal curve," he muttered.  "I saw this food in a coffee cup at the laboratory today.  I saw it in the chalk dust on the board as well.  I didn't have a pen to prove it though..."  He licked his lips as he leaned further and further towards the defaced menu.  "But I do now."

"Yup."  Trisha waved at the man and turned towards Persephone.  "He's just saying it."  She smirked at the fiddling, squirming pony.  "Percy, what'd I tell you about taking horse laxatives mid-day?"

"I'm in less of a joking mood than Cael is, Trisha, if you d-don't mind," Persephone grunted.

"From the looks of it, you're in a friggin' square dance mood.  Stop doing the tango with the seat cushions and order yourself some food already, silly filly."

"I'd love to, it's just—."

Trisha giggled.  "Do you need the lil' child's butt-seat again?"

"No."  Persephone frowned.  "I've just been trotting—er... walking a lot more than usual this morning and I can't... nnngh... s-seem to get my legs comfortable!"

"I'd say we order you the onion rings and let the propulsive flatulence push you upright."  Trisha winked across the table.  "Eh?  What do you think of that one, Cael?"

Cael opened his mouth wide.

"No.  No no no..."  Trisha waved her hand.  "No need to laugh.  Keep making love to your Atari vectors.  Besides, from the looks of Pat Benatar here, we're gonna be stuck shimmying in hunger for a while, eh, girl?"

Persephone slumped back with a pronounced sigh.  She glared daggers into the tabletop.  "...I'm gonna need the little child's butt-seat."

"Heehee... sure thing, Percy."  Trisha raised a snapping finger high, trying to gather a wandering waitress' attention.  "Gawwwwwd... the stories I could tell you 'bout the yokels I had to haggle today."

"Please tell me this isn't another one of your jokes coming up."

"Only jokes are the dudes with the Oklahoma accent, thinkin' they can intimidate me over the phoneline," Trisha said, smirking victoriously as she successfully flagged a waitress over.  She spoke jubilantly over the sound of yellow cabs whizzing past the diner windows.  "'Now listen here, Missy!  I dun cotton to ya liberal smartmouths callin' us all hours of the day, peddlin' yer bullshit insurance deals!'  Pffft.  Man, are all Oklahomans born fat?  Cuz they sound fat.  Swear to Goddess, they come out of their Mommas' wombs with Jim Ross shoved up their butts."

"Trissssssssh..." Persephone shaded her eyes with a pair of criss-crossing hooves.  "Diners can hearrrrrr youuuuu."

"Pffft.  What?  You a Thunder fan?"  The waitress waltzed up and Trisha leaned over Persephone with a Doris Day smile.  "Helllllllo!  Before we order, would you be so kind as to give us a little child's seat for our booth here?  That'd be swelllll, thankies."

The middle-aged waitress' mahogany brow furrowed as she squinted at the party of three.  "A child's seat?"

"You know."  Trisha opened her mouth, hesitated, glanced at Persephone, then smiled up at the waitress.  "Just to hide my purse from the random riff-raff."  She waved the straps of her satchel in question, eyes fluttering.  "It is a big, scary city, after all.  Thanks, darling."

"I'll grab one right away..."  The woman's eyebrow raised.  "...'sugah.'"  And she waddled away.

"Unnnnnnnngh..."  Persephone moaned into the tabletop.  "I should just carry a phone book with me at all times.  I swear."

"Less swearing and more gabbing."  Trisha scooted deeper into the booth and whipped out a compact mirror, examining her face and putting finishing touches on her eyelashes.  "So how did it go today at the shrink?  Did you go Unibomber on the place or what?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not talk about it."

"But you never want to talk about it."

"There's a reason why I don't want you guys knowing about how bad I used to be," Persephone said.  She sighed as she stretched a paper menu out before her with the flats of her hooves, straining to peer over the table's edge.  "Hell, Trisha, you were there when I was at my worst, quite frankly.  Why would you wanna know more?"

"You talkin' about that one weekend where you got Baker Acted?"

"What else would I be talking about?"

"Percy, that was spring break!"  Trisha slapped the compact close and smirked aside.  "Life's short and disastorously unsexy.  It'd be criminal not to party so hard that you get arrested at least once!"

"It's different and you know it, Trisha."  Persephone's nostrils flared.  "It seems like every single time in my life that I actually try to be myself, it all just friggin' explodes in my face.  Spring break or not, I really wish that you weren't around to witness that shit hit the fan."

"March Twenty-First is two hundred seventy nine and a half days from—" Caelus began in mid penstroke.

"Yeah, we got it, Aasimov.  Keep to your triangles on this one, 'kay?"  Trisha turned to face Persephone again.  "Girl, has it occurred to you that you can share this kind of crap with more than just the occasional shrink every now and then?"

"Mmmmm..."  Persephone shivered slightly, hugging herself and gazing out the window into traffic.  "It's a whole 'nother world, Trish.  A dark and scary world."

"Only cuz you let it be."  Trisha leaned her head aside with a smile.  "Let some light in, gurrrrl, and let us map it out along with you!  You and I?  We've been through thick and thin!"  She then pointed across the table.  "And Cael here's good with straight lines!  Isn't that right, handsome?"

He glanced up briefly.  "Mercator favors Greenland unfairly."

"Sorry.  But I just want to sit here, eat, relax, and talk about anything but my screwed-up life," said Persephone.

"Pffft.  Fine."  Trisha folded her arms.  "But sooner than later, you've gotta 'fess up about what went down with Mark Twat at the workplace."

"Huh?"  Persephone squinted.  "You mean Roger Clemens?"

"Yeah, old Huckleberry Fishtard himself.  What'd ya do?" Trisha grinned devilishly.  "Shove staplers down his gills?"

"Ungh!  For the last time, Trisha, just let it drop!"

"I heard you punted him for a field goal!"  Trisha leaned her rosy chin against her palm and smiled.  "Seeing that Hayton didn't fire your fine ass, I'm guessing the score went in your favor!"

"Seeing as how I have to show up for a meeting this afternoon, I really don't want an excuse to get my blood boiling over it, thank you very much."

"Ewww..."  Trisha wretched.  "You gotta go in later?"

"Yes.  Yes I do."

"Isn't that a little—I dunno—sick?"

"Yeah, well, for me?"  Persephone leaned back against her seat and sighed out her nostrils.  "...it's par for the course."





In Step Incorporated held its offices on three stories of a sixty-foot skyscraper located six blocks from the center of downtown.  At around three o'clock in the afternoon, it was bustling as ever, with people pacing back and forth from room to room, filling the hallways with the rattle of mugs, the chatter of desk phones, and the humming of copier machines.

Persephone trotted pensively through it all, having to scuffle to a stop every now and then when a hurried pair of legs blurred by, just inches from running her over.  Holding her breath, the little pony navigated a long hallway, took a right, and entered a large chamber filled to the brim with cubicles and the stressed organisms inside.

Along the path to her desk, a water cooler rested, and three bitterly familiar figures stood around it—as predicted.  Persephone shivered, gritting her teeth as she tilted her head down, desperate not to make eye contact.

"I'm telling you, something big is going down!" stammered a waif of a Caucasian man, his bald head brandishing a slender white bandage as he leaned against the wall and murmured towards the other two.  "All these memos flying left and right?  It ain't downsizing!  Pluto's planning something big to get the edge over the competition."

"You sure about that, Roger?" another hoarsely replied.  "I mean, you've got a lot of reasons to be on edge after last week.  Maybe you dreamt up something from your concussion."

"I mean it!  Philip over in human resources heard something about Pluto planning a 'silver bullet' to be delivered sometime in the next few days to our manufacturing department!"  He suddenly frowned.  "And I did not have a concussion!  I just got a few stitches... is... all..."  His eyes wandered down, narrowing.  The other office workers turned and blinked.

Persephone gulped.  She aimed her muzzle ahead and quickened her pace.  The office grew dreadfully quiet in a tight pocket around the mare as she shuffled her way by, then slipped around the corner and practically threw herself into her cubicle.  Planting her flank against the inner surface of the felt partition, Persephone caught her breath, shuddering like an escaped P.O.W.  At last, finding her strength, she stripped of her backpack and approached her computer desk.

Rolling the chair aside, she caught first glimpse of a piece of paper taped to the top frame of her flatscreen monitor.  Squinting, she tried to make the stuff out on the tiny surface, but failed.  Holding her breath, she hopped up like a cat and landed in the center of the chair.  The thing spun, and she timed herself perfectly, lashing her head out and biting onto the edge of the table.  Using her teeth, she pulled herself closer and leaned up towards the monitor to see.

It was black and white clipart, undeniably illustrating a bipedal Hanna-Barbera horse with a mask and cape, swinging a guitar while shouting "EL KABONG!" in a cartoonish speech balloon.

Persephone blew out the side of her muzzle.  She glared over her shoulder.  Her ears twitched, hearing distant snickers and a hint or two of a chuckling breath.  She couldn't tell if she was imagining it or not, but she didn't care.  Snapping the clipart off her monitor with her mouth, she crumpled it up and prepared to toss it into the trash.  Just then, her phone rang—chirping with the intercom signal.

Startled, she stuck the wadded up cartoon into her blouse parket and squinted down at the phone.  She was being paged by someone in the foreign marketing department.  Fussing over her desk, Persephone finally snatched up a headset and used the edges of her hooves to slide it over her head and muzzle.  Then, grabbing a pen with multiple chew-marks in her mouth, she stuck the thing against the flashing button on her phone and rotated the instrument to the corner of her teeth.

"Mmmmf... Yes, Mable?"

"Persephone?  Are you actually here at work today?"

"Yes, Mable."

"Good.  I thought you'd be called in, what with the meeting and all.  Anyways, keep an eye out.  Roger was called in too.  No need for you two running into each other again so soon, right?"

"Thanks, Mable."  Sighing out her nostrils, Persephone swung the pen back to her incisors and bent over, tapping the red button on the corner of the phone's receiver with a click to hang up.

Swiveling about in her chair, she faced the computer and jerked her neck forward multiple times, like an ostrich.  In so doing, she performed an elaborate, well-practiced keystroke with the tip of the pen, bringing up her corporate e-mail and scanning down the highlighted list of items in her inbox.  At last, she tabbed over to a message marked '4 o'clock Meeting' and selected it.  Her amber eyes darted back and forth, reading along each bracket of the memo.  When her gaze finally fell upon the chosen "presenter," she opened her mouth.

The pen rattled to a stop, dead-center in the keyboard.

"Nnnnghhh..."  Persephone slumped back into her chair with her forelimbs curled up.  "...poop."





Click.

The Powerpoint projection flashed to the cross-section of a length of blue sole-gel, its multiple ribbed lines highlighted by various arrows and bullet points.  Persephone sat atop a stool positioned at the end of the conference table.  Pivoting, she cleared her throat and pointed a hoof at the image in question.

"Here, you can see In Step's leading model three years ago.  This sold through about forty-five percent of the market, which is the best our company has ever done to date.  Notice the slender width engineered for the middle?  Now, when we look at last year's model in comparison..."

A room of about forty people watched quietly as she reached down and tapped the mouse key of a laptop.  The projection flashed to a similar strip of gel, almost identical looking, albeit with a few key differences.  Everyone was quiet, save for an errant cough or two.

"The center portion is wider," Persephone said, pointing at the middle part once more.  "The reason for this is because our statiticians in the field are reporting a greater area of average surface contact for men's feet, in a sampling taken from over five hundred random New England adults between the ages of twenty-five and fifty."  She pivoted once more towards the conference room.  "The reason for this is simple.  Over the past decade, the arch in the average foot is lessening.  Men's feet are basically getting flatter.  To compensate for this, our manufacturing division has endeavored to engineer a more form-fitting gel, but this acts as a two-edged sword."

She reached forward and clicked the laptop again, showing off a series of complicated graphs along the dimly-lit room's wall.  A few people shifted in their seats for a better view.  One person—a slightly portly fellow with thick glasses and thinning gray hair—crossed his hands together and listened intently.

"By broadening the gel and thickening the material, we've inadvertently made our products resemble that of Achilles.  Achilles, as you well know, is one of our competitors—however on the lower end of the spectrum.  Ever since their disastorous recall of '08, they've fallen by about fifteen percent, having lost several shareholders in the process.  We, ladies and gentlemen, do not want to appear like the black sheep of our market, but—according to over ten surveys taken in the last six months alone—most consumers are confusing our materials with the products that Achilles is still pushing.  In essence, our products are looking cheap... mmm... dollar store material, at best."

A few breaths chuckled in the room.

"Yes, well, we would very much like to maintain an air of sophistication.  However, this doesn't rule out the possibility that we have appealed to the same consumer base that has had no choice but to buy Achilles products over the last three years.  That is why the marketing division is now proposing that we begin a new advertising campaign that focuses on the blue collar populace.  Will we cite the facts of America's flattening feet earlier than our competitors?  Yes, but the aim here is to gloss it over with an appeal to pathos, to show that we care and feel for the working man, and that we acknowledge that service and mantenance jobs are on the rise.  And who'll be there to sooth their aching feet in and out of the work place?  Why, In Step, of course.  By coaxing the consumers to spend a few cents more, we'll be showing them that we can and will give them better quality product.  In the end, we won't be cheap, but cherishing."

Persephone clicked the laptop one final time, and the projection flickered to the company symbol.  The mare turned to face the group, sitting on folded hooves.

"With this aim now dominating our focus, we will proceed to put extra funding into the advertising division.  The next meeting will discuss the different types of slogans that our idea department has pitched forth, and together we'll vote on the appropriate script for the commercial that they've written to life.  That concludes this presentation."

Several people murmured in approval.  As one worker hit the lights, the old man at the end of the conference table cleared his throat, leaned forward, and said, "Thank you for an expert and professional presentation, Miss Ceres."  He turned towards the rest of the meeting.  "We will begin addressing this new leg of operations at the start of the following week.  I want you all well-rested over the weekend so that we can rack our brains over how to keep from sinking any further than the competition.  In Step has supplied millions of happy customers for over three decades, and I intend to keep it going, just like my father before me.  You're all dismissed."

Bodies shuffled out of their chairs, conjoining in dense conversations as they shuffled out of the room, one by one.

In the meantime, Persephone hopped down from her stool, shuddering slightly as her four hooves made contact with the floor.  Shifting her weight in her clumsy sneakers, she closed the laptop, unhooked it, and slid it into her backpack.  As she was closing the satchel—fussing with a loose zipper—she felt a shadow cascade over her.  She glanced up, blinking.  "Oh... uhm... hello, s-sir."

"Hello, yourself."  The portly man with graying hair smiled calmly.  "That was quite remarkably done, Ms. Ceres.  You do have quite the gift in capturing the attention of the whole office."

"Oh... eheh..."  Persephone tried not to wince.  "Hopefully only when it matters, Mr. Hayton."

"Please..."  The executive waved his hand calmly.  "Call me Pluto.  It's not like we haven't spoken dozens of times before, Percy."

"Erm... right, Mr. Hayton—er, I mean Pluto."  Persephone took a deep breath.  "I'm sorry if I seem a little bit on edge.  I've been... doing a lot of exercise today."

"Physically or otherwise?"

Persephone blinked.  "Sir?"

Her boss glanced towards the rest of the thinning conference room, and then he leaned in with a breathy tone, "I presume you did follow through with company orders today."

Persephone's eyes twitched... then twitched again.  "Oh!  Oh yes, sir—I mean, yes, Pluto.  I've... eheh... I'm sure they'll send an e-mail confirmation of Dr. Sharp's signature soon, if they haven't already—"

"I just wanted to hear it from your own lips, Percy," the man said, sitting a piece of his plump rear over the edge of the conference table as he folded his hands.  "I'm not sure if I tell you this enough, but I greatly admire your honesty."  He smiled while his eyes narrowed.  "It adds a great deal of integrity to this company that I fear is greatly lacking."

"Lacking... sir?"

His eyes darted around again.  "You've undoubtedly heard a great bit of rumor circling around since you arrived on site today.  The reason for this gossip is part of the problem at hand, but that's not exactly what I'm wishing to talk to you about."

"Oh?"  Persephone saw movement out the corner of her eye.  She glanced out the door to the conference room, just in time to catch the trailing face of Roger as he drifted past the entrance, glaring suspiciously inside before vanishing.  "Uhm..."  She looked back at Mr. Hayton.  "What's on your mind, Pluto?"

"This new advertising campaign..."  The executive shrugged.  "It's going to help us tread water a little bit longer, but nothing more."  His lips grew tight.  "Truth is, it's not the edge we need to trample our competition.  There's a great deal more oomph that's required, so to speak.  But that's for the engineering department to solve, and solve it they have."  His eyes lit up with hunger.  "And when we're ready to introduce their new design a few months from now, it's going to kill the competition.  Like a silver bullet."

Persephone blinked.  "Silver bullet?"  She smiled, playing dumb.  "What kind of silver bullet, sir?"

"Shhhh... it's a company secret," Hayton said.  "A new design that will revolutionize footwear entirely.  The thing is, it's so precious to In Step, that I can't even risk the lower departments seeing it.  You see, Percy, I'm convinced that we have a mole somewhere in our department."

"A mole?"  She squinted.  "You mean... a spy?"

"Someone is being slid money under the table to spoil our secrets and ruin our image."  Pluto pointed.  "That is why we're slipping behind the competition, being compared to those makers of ghetto-fodder, Achilles.  I don't know who it is or how they won my confidence, but I have no doubt that they're working very close to the executive levels—possibly even in this very own office."

"That... sounds absolutely horrible," Persephone said with a scrunched-up face.

"Thing is, I don't have the strength nor the resources to embark upon some sort of massive witch hunt.  And why should I?"  He stood up, shrugging his shoulders.  "Too many innocent workers would only suffer in the process, and I'm no monster, Percy.  At least... not when I have to be," he added in a grave tone.

"Erm... right..." Persephone fidgeted.  "May I ask you a question, Mr. Hayt—erm... Pluto?"

"By all means."

"Why are you telling me all of this?  I mean... just me and not the rest of the office?"

"In truth, a few others already know.  But as for you?"  Hayton pointed.  "I trust you.  You have a humility about you... not to mention a sincerity and a diligent steadfastness that makes everyone else pale in comparison.  I'd say you believe in this company more than most workers believe in their own families."

"Eheh..."  Persephone glanced down at her backpack as her sneaker'd hooves kneaded the edge of her satchel.  "I will admit.  Working my way up the corporate ladder has been a real help in... uhm... getting my mind off of a lot of other issues in my life."

"Issues that can jeopardize one's career?"

Persephone flashed a look up, blinking.

"I had to pull a lot of strings to keep you with the company, Percy," Hayton said, his eyes hardening and melting within the span of a single sentence.  He leaned forward, causing the lines in his face to darken.  "After what happened last week, it's rather... fortunate for both of us that we are having this conversation right now."

Persephone gulped, then gently nodded.  "Yes, Pluto.  And I'm very... very grateful for that, sir."

He smiled slightly.  "It's not so much your gratitude that I desire, but rather your commitment towards a healthy and viable solution."  His face grew hard again as he stood up from the edge of the table and adjusted his business suit.  "Now, please tell me, how did your first meeting with the prescribed psychiatrist go?"

The mare opened her mouth, hesitated, but ultimately said with a limp smile, "Swimmingly, sir."

"Are you going in for more than one session?"

She nodded.  "It looks that way, sir."

"Good.  It'd be rather unrealistic if that wasn't the case," Hayton said with a slight chuckle.  "My younger sister once had a frightening, uphill battle with claustrophobia that made the life of a stewardess rather difficult, to say the least.  It took her almost an entire year of therapy—much less a few visits—to set things right."

"I... uh... I promise you, sir."  Persephone cleared her throat.  "I'm on the road to recovery.  What happened last week will never tanspire again."

"And yet we both know that's only the half of it.  Tell me."  He squinted.  "Has anybody bothered you since?  Antagonized you in your department over the whole deal?"

"I... I..."  Persephone winced.

"Hmm?  Speak up, Percy.  I certainly don't tolerate a hostile working environment."

The pony took a deep breath.  She raised a hoof to her blouse.  Her hoof felt the crumpled paper cartoon and... shoved it deeper down the pocket.

"No, sir."  Persephone slowly shook her head.  "Nobody's been giving me any trouble."  She smiled cutely.  "Everyone's been perfectly understanding."

Hayton stared at her for a few seconds.  Then he smiled.  "Well, that's wonderful news."  He reached down and patted her shoulder before standing up straight.  "You're a very resourceful lady, and I intend to see that you make it far in this company."  He smiled.  "Who knows?  Someday, there could be an executive chair waiting for you to fill in the not-to-distant future."

Persephone grinned from ear to ear, her tail flicking.  "That... is a nice prospect indeed!"

"Just remember."  He fidgeted with his sleeves and shuffled out the door in a waddling gait.  "The company is making big moves in the future, and only the most honest... and the most trustworthy will bask in the profit that's to come."  He lingered at the door, casting a murky glance over his shoulder.  "I do... have your trust, of course, Percy?"

Her smile left, and she very swiftly uttered, "Absolutely, Pluto.  One hundred percent."

"Good."  He nodded.  "I'll remember that."  He he left the room.

Persephone sat down on her haunches, gazing dully at her backpack, her ears drooped in thought.





"If you ask me, it's borderline harrassment.  The dude's trying to intimidate you by playing Reverend Sweet Uncle Santa MacDonald!  I'd say drop him like a bad habit and have him pull this 'silver bullet' bullshit on another weak-legged female employee!"

"It's not that simple, Trisha!"  Persephone grumbled into her headset.  She spaced her words out so that her tongue could flick the pen into the center of her teeth and tap another keystroke into the e-mail she was preparing on the computer before her.  "Mmmmf—He's gone out on a limb for me, and he's basically preparing me to go out on a limb for him."

"Well, what the Hell for?!" Trisha's voice squawked through the headphone in the pony's left ear.

"Beats the stuffing out of me, but I'm already being pressured to do these stupid little therapy sessions to cover up for last week's disaster with Roger.  The last thing I wanna do is ruffle the feathers of my executives by appearing as a stick in the mud!"

"What I can't for the life of me understand is why you're bending over backwards to make all of these fat cats happy?  For one thing, Roger deserved what happened to him—"

"Mmmmf!"  Trisha shoved the pen to the corner of her jaws and frowned.  "Trisha, you don't even know what happened with Roger."

"Only because you won't tell me, silly filly!  And for another, these guys should put more money into paying you for all of your grief instead of channeling it into these stupid, burueacrtic medical appointments!  I mean... for Goddess' sake!  There's nothing friggin' wrong with you!"

"Do you even forget who you're talking to?"

"No, but I have forgotten what time it is."

"Mmmf... It's seven o'clock."

"Jesus Christ on a bicycle!  What the Hell are you even doing over there this late?!"

"Making up for lost time.  I had a week of sick leave, after all."  Persephone typed, typed, typed, and returned to mumbling into the phone.  "Well, okay, maybe just a few days.  But still, I'm behind on wrapping up the notes from today's meeting and—"

"Percy, I swear, your workaholism is gonna be the end of you."

"Or the beginning of a beautiful executive career."

"Is that what Mickey's dog told you?"

"Maybe."

"Girl, if I were you, I'd give them all one big swift kick in the keister and wake them the Hell up."

"Unnnngh..."  Persephone ran a hoof over her face.  "Trisha, please, this isn't what I called you for..."

"Sure it was!  Now listen, you want a real prescription for good meantal health?  Jump out of that cubicle and shout 'screw everyone and their rotten ideas of what is or isn't right!'  And then strip naked, gallop into the boss' office, jump on his desk and scream 'I'm a horse and you're an asshole and I want my raise and I want it now, dammit!'"

"Dammit, Trisha, I'm being serious here!"

"So am I, ya apple-chucker!"

"Trisha..."  Persephone growled into her headset.  "When are you gonna realize that not everyone can afford to be as self-confident and free as you?"

"Well, maybe everyone should just try harder!  Ya ever think of that?"

Persephone frowned, her nostrils flaring.  She shrugged into the air of her cubicle.  "Okay, look, I'm really not in the mood to talk anymore.  I'll be home later, but not before I go do something to clear my friggin' head."

"Yeah?  Like what?"

"What the Hell do you think?"  And Persephone spat the pen against the phone receiver's red button.

Cl-clack!





Night had fallen over the city by the time Persephone walked up the steps to the sixth story gymnasium on the edge of downtown.  Dazzling lights flickered outside the windows, rivaling the stars in yellow and gold brilliance.  Far from the noisy streets and grimy alleyways, Persephone trotted her way through a large open room lit by fluorescent bulbs.  Several mats were layed out, upon which a smattering of atlhetic night owls stretched and performed cardio exercises.

A stout woman with bushy blonde hair and glasses smiled and waved as Persephone trotted by.  "Good evenin', Percy," she said in an English accent.  "Fancy yourself some calory burnin'?"

"Only thing I'm burning is a candle at both ends, Irma," Persephone said, panting.  She motioned with her head past her backpack.  "You might wanna consider renting those stairs and having people run laps up and down them, for that's half the workout right there!"

Imra chuckled, waving back.  "Track's all yours, gorgeous.  Just try not to make us all look bad, ya endurance prodigy you."

"Ohhhhh..."  Persephone trotted towards the lockers, exhaling once she was out of earshot.  "You have no idea."

For the next fifteen minutes, Persephone fought a long, fumbling battle with her clothes inside the lockerroom.  Despite the blunt nature of her hooves, she was finally able to peel off her blouse and pants and instead slip into a pair of blue running shorts with a matching spandex top.  Slumped on the changing bench, she leaned back, catching her breath.  Not long later, another young woman shuffled in, sat down, and opened her gym bag.  She caught Persephone's breathless figure out the corner of her eye and spoke with a smirk.

"Coming out of it or going in?"

Persephone gulped and bent over her backpack.  "Going in."

"Heh.  More power to ya, sister.  This is my third week here."

"Oh really?"  Persephone pulled her shoes out.  "I lot count at about one hundred."

"Veteran, huh?"  The lady blushed.  "Who am I to speak, then?"  She giggled inwardly, then flashed a look at the pony's shoes.  "Hey!  That's a good idea!"

"Hmmm?"  Persephone glanced aside while fitting the first two hooves into the sneakers.  "What is?"

"Packing two pairs of running sneakers!"  The lady winked.  "In case the first ones wear out, you got a pair to quickly replace them!"

Persephone stared, blinking.  "Yeah..."  She shuddered slightly, staring into one of her shoes.  "Good th-thinking on my part, I guess."  A beat.  She groaned, stuck her head in deep, and pulled out a flapping piece of blue sole gel.  "Nnnngh... God, I hate these damn things."  She then stuck her front hooves into the shoes, unimpeded.





Persephone stretched towards her left side, then towards her right.  She hopped and ran in place, limbering up her legs.  All the while, her eyes remained locked on the gymnasium's brightly lit track, much like an infant might long for the presents beneath a Christmas Tree.

Taking a deep breath, Persephone pressed forward.  It was an awkward trot at first, on account of the floppy sneakers encasing her hooves.  However, as soon as she built up speed and threw herself into a steady canter, she more than compensated for the imbalance.

Persephone's breaths came and went in a steady, practiced rhythm.  When she rounded the bend along the edge of the track, she passed by Irma—who was speaking with another gym specialist.  The woman looked over, adjusted her glasses, and gave the pony a thumb's up.

Persephone flashed a meager grin.  Her tail flicked as she nodded, breezing past Imra and a few exercising clients on the side.  At last, she came upon her favorite part, the first straightaway of the evening.  Being that it was late at night, there were few other people using the track, and that gave Persephone a straight path to gallop.

And gallop she did—not too quickly and not too slow.  Her speed built up, her hoofsteps masking over the thumps of her heartbeat.  Once she reached a speed that sent her mane billowing behind her, she closed her eyes, reveling in the movement, in the flouncing motions that swept her body away.  Her legs dissolved into the adrenaline of the moment, and it was as though she was gliding, soaring, coasting over green field after green field in her mind.  She forgot all about the hard lines on Pluto Hayton's face.  She forgot about the bandage across Roger's balding head.  She forgot about Mable's page and Trisha's barking voice and Caelus' mumbling numbers.

At last, she forgot about Dr. Sharp's words and all of the copiously tangled memories attached to them, like parasites leeching off her pained spirit.  Everything melted away except for the naked now—the blood rush and the clops of her hooves through the masking soles of her shoes.  They had always felt like anchors to her—much like her clothes—but she couldn't tell that they existed anymore, not with the heat and the sweat and the wind in her mane.  It was an artificial wind, true, but she had learned to accept it for what it was.  That was what gave her energy to return to this endurance run every day, every night, every afternoon that presented itself.

And before she knew it, Persephone's left brain had finished counting up to forty-five, and she forced her eyes open.  As predicted, she had reached the far bend of the track.  Slowing her movement slightly, she navigated the turn, aligned herself with the next straightaway, and closed her eyes to repeat the euphoric experience again.

She smiled for the first genuine time since staring at a television set on the street corner that morning.  Her ears twitched, her tail flicked, and Peresphone was gone.





An hour and a half of trotting, subway sitting, and elevator riding later—and Persephone arrived at her apartment.  She fumbled with the keys for sixty seconds longer than her grumbling self had hoped to.  At last, opening the front entrance, she shuffled inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it.

Her ears rang from the insufferable silence... from the hulking gravity of the day cascading all over her sweaty, aching shoulders all at once.

With a dull groan, she trotted towards the bathroom, dragging her backpack like a comfort blanket across the dimly-lit room along with her.

She took a long, delicious lavender bath, but it didn't even remotely comfort her, not like the exhausting run at the gymnasium had.  So, as she soaked, she leaned her water-slicked mane back and imagined she was running again instead.  Her muzzle pronounced a few unintelligible words, and she started rearing her hooves slowly and quietly above her, tossing a few loose bubbles into the humid air.  Her eyes opened thinly, but all she saw was eggshell white tile, and she sighed.

After a thorough rinse, she emptied the bathtub, dried herself, and wrapped two towels around both her body and her mane.  She pushed a tiny stool over so that she could stand high enough above the edge of the sink to see herself in the mirror.  Once there, she slid her hoof through a custom-made loop attached to a toothbrush and assaulted her mouth with paste.  About two minutes into the hygenic affair, she spat into the sink—then froze in place, hunched over.  She tilted her foamy muzzle up, squinting into the mirror.

All was silent.  There was no rattling sound.  No hushed breath.  And most certainly no whispery pronunciation of her name.

Persephone stared, squinted, then groaned inwardly.  With a splash of muzzle, she wiped both her mouth and the sink clean and retired for the night.

She didn't freeze again until she stood at the edge of her bed, fumbling with her nightgown and underpants.  She paused, staring at her dangling hooves, mentally comparing the uselessness of shoes to the uselessness of garments altogether.  Suddenly, the words Trisha had said over the phone came back to haunt her.  The hairs on the edge of the pony's neck rose up, and she glanced over her shoulder, facing the general direction where both of her roommates slept.

With a sigh, she slid the rest of her front forelimbs through the nightgown's sleeves and climbed into bed.  She sat there for a good ten minutes, brushing her mane and staring into space.  Her amber eyes glazed over from the exhaustion of the day, from the many thoughts mingling together, and all of them growing more dark and lonesome by the minute.  So, to mask it all over, she put the brush away and switched the light off.

Rolling over under the covers, she swiftly hugged a body pillow to her chest and sighed, murmuing into the covers over and over.

"I am a person... I am a person..."

Somewhere, a little filly cried, lying in the same position, hugging a rocking horse to her chest instead.

Persephone blocked it out by clenching her eyes shut, continuing her mantra to the shadows.  "I am a person... I am a person... I am... a p-person..."

It did little to calm her breaths, nor did it prevent the moisture lining the edges of her eyes.  Nevertheless, tiredness lulled her into the night, and with a final flick of her slender tail, like an interrobang to a torturous day, she lay still.

> Person Mare pt 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Persephone trembled in the darkness.

Chains rattled.

A sliver of sunlight flickered across the room, causing a whimper to escape her lips.

Bare hooves scraped against concrete as she shifted against the rattling chains.

Just as she was about to fall into even more uncontrollable sobs...

The doors rattled, and the sliver of sunlight widened.

Persephone looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.

Something shrieked from the brightness, like a ghostly whinny.

Her ears twitched.

Once more... twice more... in succession, the whinnying repeated.

Her ears twitched again and again...





Wrii—Wrii—Wrii—Wrii—Wrii—Wrii!

Persephone's amber eyes flew open in the darkness.  Her fuzzy nose twitched.  She smelled smoke.

"Crap!" she hissed, kicking against her bed.  As always, she fell, and as always, it hurt.  "Ooomph!  Dammit!"  Her world spun, the universe throbbing against her skull with underwater reverberations of panic.  The smoke alarm kept blaring, piercing her eadrums with each undulating shriek.  "Guhhh—Tr-Trish!  Cael!  The alarm!  Friggin'... Unngh!"

She galloped towards the bedroom door, tripping on the trailing length of her nightgown more times than she dared to count.  After a floundering puppet act with her forelimbs, she turned the knob and flung her door open.  Lamplight stabbed her eyes as she chased a cloud of smoke across the apartment ceiling, around the bend, and straight into the kitchen.

She came to a stunned stop, watching as Caelus spun like a half-naked top in his pajama buttons, paddling across the counter and kitchen table in search for his glasses.  All the while, a skillet on the stove top blazed brightly, licking at the air with orange tongues of undeniably real indoor flame.

"V-v-vegetable oil sh-shouldn't reach two hundred and th-thirty two degrees celsius!" Cael stammered, his hands twitching in deep, deep panic.  He flinched from the flames and pulled at his hair.  "Mmmmm... fifty point two percent that of Venus on an average day—!"

"Cael!  For heaven's sake!  Move over!"  Persephone rushed into the room.  She nearly slid into the base of the inferno, her amber eyes reflecting the bright plume of heat.  "How in the Hell did this happen?!"

"I-I-I was just wanting to have some eggs for breakfast because Rene Descartes invented the Cartesian Oval in 1637 when Fermat's Theorem was postulated and Andrew Wiles supported the proof when he tackled modularity for semistable elliptic c-curves in 1995 a-a-and while trying to retrace the equations I-I remembered the menu full of triangles from the diner yesterday and th-thought of a simpler systematic postulation and... and... and..."

"Awww hell's bells, stand back!"  Persephone winced as she nervously reached for the edge of the stove.  The heat from the fire licked at her hooves, but she nevertheless succeeded in grasping the dial beneath the skillet and turning the heat off.  Exhaling with relief, she stepped back from the blaze, her heart beating a mile-per-second.

Through the cacophonous shrieks of the smoke detector, Persephone heard the rush of faucet water, followed by Caelus' stammering voice.  "Two hydrogen atoms for every oxygen atom!  Rapid expansion of m-molecules and—"

"No, Caelus, no!"  Persephone stretched a hoof out, stopping him in mid-lunge of a coffee mug full of water.  "It's a grease fire!  I dunno how burning shit works on Mars or Mercury or whatever, but that's only going to make things worse!"

He dropped the container into the sink with a splash and hugged himself, rocking back and forth.  "But... b-but Pythagorus and the isoceceles..."

"Gotta put it out.  Gotta put it out."  Persephone danced on her hooves, then finally flashed a look behind herself with a gasp.  "The closet!"  She dashed out of the kitchen, just in time to breeze by Trisha—half awake—who was hopping her way into a pair of loose pants.

"What in the Chicken McChristnuggets is going on?!"  The woman almost pratfalled at the edge of the kitchen.  "Holy ballsacks, Cael!  What'd you do?!  Wage war on chickens?!"

"It's okay!  I got it!"  Persephone flung the sliding closet door open and pulled at a dusty red fire extinguisher.  The weight of the thing fell over her flank, shooting the breath out of her lungs.  Wincing, she nevertheless limped back towards the kitchen, dragging the heavy canister with her.  "Trisha!  I-I could use a little help with the nozzel here!"

"Don't worry!  I got it!"

"No, I got it!"  Persephone grunted, wrenching the tube loose from its restraints and pulling at the stopper with her teeth.  "Gnnnnnrrrghhh!  Cael nearly—mmmf—burned the whole apartment down like Dustin Hoffman on valium!  Just gimme a secon and I'll—"

"It's okay!"  The refrigerator door opened and shut with a hiss.  "I've got this!  I read up on this on the Internet!"

"Dammit, Trish!  Hold up!"  Persephone yanked the pin out of the chemical sprayer and pulled it into the kitchen.  "I said I got this—"  Her blunt hoof slapped over the trigger.  The nozzel sprayed a burst of white powder straight into her face, instantly blinding her and sending the pony reeling.  She coughed and sputtered, rolling helplessly across the floor as the fire extinguisher vomited its contents all over her.  "Glrllgggh—bleachkkk—Hauckkkt—Dammit!"

Suddenly, the heat in the room dissipated.  Persephone felt a wave of dust coating her already-drenched coat from afar.  When she finally disentangled herself from the contraption, she opened her eyes and glanced thinly at the hazy scene.

Trisha stood victorious besides the stove, holding upside down an empty orange box of Arm and Hammer.  "Haaaah!  I knew it!  Baking soda to the rescue!"  She waved fumes away from her nose and stepped back from the thoroughly doused skillet.  "Whew!  And who said the Internet was only good for watching Brazillian chicks go to town on a street cone?"

"Sao Paulo..."  Caelus sniffled, hugging himself as his lips quivered.  "...was f-founded in 1554, same year that a gr-great fire consumed the Dutch city of Eindhoven..."

"Awwwwww..."  Trisha smiled tiredly.  She tossed the box behind her and crossed the tile floor, pulling Caelus into a gentle hug.  "Don't stress it, Cael.  You just gotta remember what we said about you cooking stuff on your own, especially in the middle of the night when neither Percy or me is up!"  She rubbed his shoulder and leaned back to smile in his face.  "You're a smart, handsome guy, but you kiiiiiinda have a hard time concentrating on kitchen stuff."  She giggled slightly.  "Next time you wanna make love to scrambled eggs, try waking one of us up, okay?"

"But... you and... Percy have had long days..."  He winced.  "Growing longer and longer n-now that we have passed the vernal equinox... and..."

"Hey!  I'd rather be tired and cranky than burnt to a crisp!"  Trisha gazed up at the smoke alarm that had now gone mute.  She crossed the room and turned on an electric fan before opening the windows of the apartment.  "The same goes for our fellow tenants!  Isn't that right, Percy?"  She stopped dead in her tracks, staring down at the pony.

Persephone sat in a slump, covered from head to hoof in fire retardant powder and baking soda.

Trisha blinked.  She snorted, giggle-snorted, then fell into an incurable wave of laughter.  Hugging her chest, she slumped against the kitchen counter and slid down to her fanny, seated across from Persephone on the thoroughly stained floor.  "Oh jeez... oh Percy, just look at yoooouuu!  Snkkkkt—Ha ha ha!  You look like Stevie Nicks and the Patron God of Cocaine spat out a love child in the middle of the floor!  Hahahaha!"

"Mmmmnnnghhh..."  Persephone folded her forelimbs, pouting.

"Ah... ah come on, brighten up..."  Trisha chuckled and chuckled.  "Face it.  Living around me so long, you've been woken up by worse!"

"Don't remind me."

"Here."  Grunting, Trisha scampered back onto her feet.  "Lemme take care of you."  She came back half a minute later with an old towel and proceeded to wipe and dab Persephone's shoulders and muzzle.  "Brave Percy."  The woman smiled.  "Trying to be a superhero."

"That dayum alarm woke me up in a heartbeat," Persephone grunted, wincing slightly under Trisha's ministrations.  "Why didn't it startle you out of bed?"

"I was already dreaming that I was Ripley saving Newt from James Cameron's ravenous asshole.  The siren just... y'know... blended in."

"Trishaaaaaa..."

"Percyyyyyy..."  Trisha chuckled again, then—once she was done wiping the muck off Persephone's coat—draped the towel over her head and sat across from her, cross-legged.  "Come on!  We're both alive and nothing burned down!  You should be happy!"

"I'm not," Persephone grumbled, gazing lethargically at her stubby hooves.  "I'm not anything."  She winced.  "I'm not even useful..."

"You kidding?"  Trisha smirked.  "You turned the oven off!  That was like half of the day-saving right there!"

"That's barely anything.  What if you weren't here?  What if it was just me and Cael?  What then?"

"Pfffft!  You would have gotten the fire out!"

"Heh..."  Persephone kicked the heavy red canister away from her with a lower leg.  "Yeah right."

"Come on.  You're being too hard on yourself."

"Am I?"  Persephone took a deep, shuddering breath.  "Trisha, face it.  I'm a total friggin' klutz."

"No..."  Trisha winked and leaned in for a side-hug.  "You're our total friggin' klutz—"

"Gnnngh!"  Persephone shoved her away.  "It's not funny!  It's downright pathetic!"

Trisha leaned back, squinting.  "Only if you want it to be, girl."

"Well obviously it's more than a matter of choice for me!"  Persephone waved her forelimbs out in front of her.  "Why can't I use these right?!  Why can't I... I-I handle things like you and Cael and the rest of the world?!  Why can't I..."  She gritted her teeth, sighed, and hugged herself once more.  "Why do I gotta act like my fingers aren't even there?"

"Hey.  You'll get around to it someday."  Trisha smiled gently.  "And until then..."  She shrugged.  "Cael and I like you just the way you are.  You don't have to impress us any."

"'Someday' just isn't soon enough, Trisha," Persephone grumbled.  "How many times do I have to convince you that something's wrong with me?  I'm sick.  I'm damaged.  And until I get myself worked out, all I am to you and Cael is a burden."

Trisha was still smirking.

Persephone squinted at that.  "What?"

"Hate to brake it to ya, silly filly, but it hasn't been all that easy for you living with the two of us either."  Trisha winked.  "Between Mister Universe here nearly making the apartment go nova and me driving you batty left and right, it's a wonder that you haven't imploded by now."

"Oh please."  Persephone rolled her eyes.  "Face it.  You guys have it all together."

"Hah!"  Trisha pointed at herself.  "You th-think that I have it all together?"  She panted slightly, gulped, and grunted, "At least you get to lay on a couch when you need to have your therapy sessions.  Me?  I'm lucky I don't get crucified at every family reunion!"  She pointed into the center of the kitchen.  "If Cael didn't have his watch to stare at or an abicus to make love to, he'd never leave the house to buy groceries and avoid starving to death!"

"Well at least you know what you friggin' are!" Persephone snapped, teeth gritting.  "Or at least you get to choose it, no problem!  Me?  I can't even decide what I wanna be without the world stepping all over my tail, regardless!"

Trisha mouthed the word "decide" multiple times.  She nodded her head, tearing her gaze away from Persephone as she fought a monsterous scowl.  At last, she composed herself, although the words that poured out of her lips were blunt.  "Good.  Wonderful.  Great to know that Cael and I have the luxury of choice.  That just makes this whole stinkin' ride easier, Percy."  She got up, almost slipping on the slick tile.

"Pffft..."  Persephone's brow furrowed in frustrated confusion.  "Please.  Stop dramatizing."

"Only once you—" Trisha jabbed a finger towards the collapsed mared.  "—stop acting like the whole dayum universe revolves around you and you alone.  We all struggle to find ourselves, sister.  Some of us longer than others.  Would it kill ya to stop lookin' so dayum hard?  Worst off, don't bite at our tails just cuz yours keeps being stepped on."  She grabbed the burnt skillet and tossed it into the sink with a clatter.  "You know, you may be sick, but that doesn't mean you gotta be contagious!"

And then she stormed off across the apartment.  Seconds later, her bedroom door slammed shut.

Persephone rolled her eyes, and yet she sighed.  Depressingly.  She gazed at the floor that was stained with powdery residue.  Quietly, she stretched her forelimb down and pressed it against the tile, rubbing it until it was tight against the cold surface.  She closed her eyes, took a breath, and released her grip.  Reopening her eyes, she was disappointed to see a round shape—the image of a hoofprint.

With bored eyes, she gazed across the still-hazy apartment in thought.





"I've been thinking all morning about the last time in my life that I tried defending what I am—or at least, what I've always perceived myself as being," Persephone calmly said.  "And I think it finally came to me when I approached the front doors to this building.  You see, my mother was always a working woman.  That is, she was until she had to raise me up like the problem child that she had inadvertently adopted.  Dad kept his job as a disgruntled American salesman while mother became a stay-at-home disgruntled American former-saleswoman.  Being around her all the time, I felt really, really self-conscious.  I don't think she ever meant to be bitter to me, but she was, and more and more so with each passing day.  Looking back, I don't blame her.  It's gotta be tough to give up what you believe in—as well as the money involved with it—for a little brat who doesn't even know how to fix herself much less think she even needs to."

Dr. Sharp nodded from across his office.  "Did she ever call you that?"

"Hmmm?" Persephone looked up from the couch.

"A 'brat.'"

"Oh, n-no..."  Persephone smirked, but it barely lasted two seconds.  "At least not to my face.  I really don't understand where parents get the false assumption that the walls of a home are made of some sort of insulated steel.  I could hear every nasty thing she ever felt about me to my dad.  It made it all the harder to be alone around her everyday, because I could tell in every little fake smile and every little fake laugh that she was doing her damnedest not to wring my neck."

Persephone sighed, leaning back until she was staring at the ceiling with her forelimbs folded at her chest.

"So, I soon realized—if she could fake it, then I could fake it too."  Her lips curved.  "Heh..."  She glanced aside at him.  "Maybe that's the first step in realizing I'm a woman and not a pony.  'I know how to fake it.'  Eh?  Ehhh?"

Dr. Sharp continued staring at her.

"Erm... right..."  She cleared her throat and gazed upwards again.  "So, I started... just..."  She shrugged.  "...pretending that everything was alright.  I started acting as if I didn't have stubby hooves or a short height or a scruncy muzzle for a face.  And, if I practiced well enough, it wasn't all that hard to keep others from noticing how clumsy I was.  I figured it would work on my mother.  And for a few years, it did work."  She gulped.  "But not forever."

"What changed?" the doctor asked.

"I did.  Well..."  She winced.  "That is—I was supposed to.  I turned fourteen.  My mother had given me the talk.  My father had... pretended to give me his 'version' of the talk.  I didn't really have much to say—because, even though I'm pretty sure I knew what both of them expected—or my mother at least—I couldn't really be square with them.  I mean, I couldn't tell them about how broad my flank had grown or the fuzz in my ears or the fact that this godawfully bright horseshoe brand had appeared on my butt overnight."

"You mean you weren't born with it?" Sharp asked.

"Heh... I almost wish I was," Persephone said with a groan.  "Truth is, I was sprinting at P.E one day, and it so happened that I outraced all the other students.  I actually got a few kids to cheer me on.  I felt so... proud of myself that day."  She exhaled long, her features growing soft.  "It's like I wanted nothing better than to run and run as fast as I could."  She gulped.  "When I came back to the gym and changed, I noticed that something had... uhm... changed about my coat."

She paused, allowing silence to reign.

Sighing, she turned over on the couch and faced him in the bright morning light.  "It's not exactly easy to brag to your parents or your marefriends: 'Oh look!  I have a horseshoe on my butt!  I've become a woman now!'  Every other girl my age was going through the whole afterschool special magic.  Slipping into training bras.  Waking up to Mother Nature's blessing in their underwear."  She shrugged.  "I didn't think much of it... until I realized my parents were thinking much of it."

Dr. Sharp pointed with a finger or two.  "Your parents or..."

Persephone was already nodding.  "Mom."  Her brow furrowed.  "She was super creepy about it too.  I swear, she camped outside my bedroom and bathroom just to see if there was anything different about me.  One summer, just before eighth grade was about to start, she bought me a whole bunch of stuff from the store.  By about halfway through the semester, I hadn't used any of them, and she started to get... mad."

"Mad?"

"Yeah..."  Persephone nodded.  "As if I was somehow trying to hide something from her.  As if I was still... like... stuck in the form of the same petulant child that had forced her to give up her job and watch over me several years before.  She called me out on it week after week, until finally it was becoming some... big nasty thing, and I just couldn't slip by and pr-pretend that everything was all hunky-dory anymore.  I mean, how was I supposed to tell her that a box of tampons was just about as useful to me as a feather duster is to an ostrich?  So, finally, I figured... 'What the hell?'  So long as I lived with her, I was gonna be myself, and there was no point in hiding that.  After all, she was only going to get angrier and angrier."

"And did you do something different?"

"If you can call it that."  Persephone looked up.  "I told her that there was no point in her buying me all that stuff.  I told her that I'll never be the woman that she was, because the estrus cycle of a horse is different from the menstrual cycle of a human, and for all she cared, I was going to live with clean pants for the rest of my life—as if I even needed pants."  She chuckled slightly.

Sharp helplessly smiled along with her.

Persephone exhaled, then stopped smiling.  "And then she slapped me."

The ticking of Dr. Sharp's clock reverberated across the office.

"That's not the part that hurt," Persephone said.  "What hurt was that it was late in the evening and Dad was across the apartment.  And when she hit me, it was loud.  He totally heard it.  Hell, I'm surprised the whole complex didn't hear it.  And yet—even as Mom stormed off to her bedroom in a huff—he did nothing."  She gulped.  "As a matter of fact, he never did.  He never defended me, never came to my rescue, never... even talked to me really.  That winter and on, I sort of... became strangers with my foster parents.  We only ever hugged or cried together when shit hit the fan with my psychiatric evaluations, and then it was back to your regularly scheduled apathy."

She stirred on the couch, fidgeting with the sleeves of her blouse.

"That's when I finally realized that—no matter what—I would always be alone with what I knew and what I felt.  Even if I made close friends, they could never be a fully functioning part of my life, because I would always have this... this lonesome corner where only I would sit, and to expect anyone to relate to me would be like expecting the rain to fall upwards."

"And..."  Sharp leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands together.  "...did this ring true with the companions you did ultimately make?"

"Hmmm?"  She glanced over at him.  "What companions?"

He stared in silence.

She blinked.  "You mean my roommates?"  A dry chuckle, and she stared up at the ceiling with a bitter smirk.  "Oh, I could go on and on and on about them.  Not like they have anything to do with hooves and horse-hockey, mind you.  But—for better or for worse—I couldn't land myself with any other kind of people to share an apartment with.  We're the quintessential motley crew, and I think the only reason we ever found each other is because the rest of the world threw us out."

"I'm guessing they have their own fair share of quirks."

"Oh, Doc, I'm tellin' ya!"  Persephone chuckled.  "Between Trisha's crazy streak and Caelus' Mr. Wizarding, we're a regular side show.  And yet... even with them..."  She sighed.  "I'm different."

"We're all different, in a way, wouldn't you agree?" Dr. Sharp asked.

"Well, sure, Doc.  I just... sometimes wish I had their 'different' more," Persephone said.  "Take Caelus, for example.  He can just sit dead-still, staring into space for hours, not moving a single muscle.  And I look at him and I think: 'Jee, it's like he's not feeling anything at all.  Just thinking a mile a minute while the whole universe spins around him.'  Ahem.  It's gotta be very powerful to not have to feel.  But, then again..."  She shrugged with a sigh.  "It's not like he tries.  Any social situation he gets himself into, he clams up, drenching his head in numbers and theorems instead, as if it's his only recourse for finding structure in his life."

"And yet, you would prefer to be like him than to be like yourself?" Dr. Sharp asked.

"Well... I dunno.  Do we even have choices?  I mean—"  Persephone suddenly winced.  Her ears drooped as she sighed towards the floor beneath the couch.

Sharp tilted his head curiously at that.

Eventually, Persephone spoke up.  "I had... uhm... something of an argument with Trisha, this morning."

"Your other roommate?"

The mare nodded.  "Though it wasn't an argument really.  Whatever the case, I made her mad.  I'm used to seeing her mad, but not at me.  I was too proud to show it at the time, but it really hurts... coming from her."

"Do you know what triggered it?"

"Yeah.  Me."  Persephone grumbled.  "I told her that she was what she was because she chose to be that way.  I should have known Trisha better than to say that."  She rubbed her hooves over her face, grimacing for half-a-minute, before slumping loosely against the couch with a sigh.  She spoke more towards the ceiling than towards the doctor.  "It can't be easy, feeling like you gotta choose to be what the rest of the world expects you to be.  For all my life, I've felt as if I was the one pony—er... person for whom this choice wasn't possible.  No matter what I've always done, it all comes blowing up in my face, just like my mother's slap."

"And when things turned dramatic with Mr. Clemens, was this one such explosion?" Dr. Sharp asked.

Persephone tilted her head towards him.  She smirked bitterly.  "You're nothing if not persistent, Doc."

"An apt diagnosis," he said with a slight nod and an even slighter smile.

"I had a choice with Roger," Persephone mumbled.  "To kick his ass or not to kick his ass."

"Do you think the choice you made was the right one?"

Persephone gave him a weird look.  "What... it... huh?"  She blinked off into space, shrugging, "I mean... was spontaneously hurting a co-worker in such a way that threatened my job and landed me once again in psychiatric therapy a right choice?"

"Perhaps a more proper question is..."  Dr. Sharp leaned forward.  "...was it the better choice?"

"I suppose I could have just ignored what he said," Persephone remarked.  "I could have just trott—er... walked past him and his favorite water cooler, ignored the glaring shine on his forehead, cast away the snickers and sneers of his buddies.  It would have been just like it was with my parents."  She inhaled heavily.  "Settling for the status quo.  Choosing to be what everyone wants me to be.  The normal citizen.  The sane person."

"And yet, that's not what you did, was it?" Dr. Sharp said.

Persephone's mouth lingered open.

"Do you remember what you did, Persephone?"

The mare's amber eyes darted across the ceiling.





Bright fluorescent lights and fire sprinklers glistened overhead.

"Unnngh!"  Persephone grunted, mane tousled and hooves flailing as she rocked to a stop on her backside.  A sea of papers fluttered to a stop across the office floor around her.  Their rampant rustling failed to cancel out the unmistakable sound of snickering voices a few steps away.

"Oh!  Oh my goodness!"  A young latina woman in a dark red dress sat up against the edge of a cubicle, straightening her hair as a mess of files pooled around her.  "Percy, I-I didn't even see you!"

"It's n-not your fault, Mable."  Persephone winced as she used her tail to tilt herself back up on wobbly hooves.  She fussed with her shoes, trying to regain balance.  "I rushed around the corner.  You didn't see me."

"I-I don't understand how I could have tripped!  I guess I was in such a hurry!"

"It's... it's fine, Mable," Persephone sighed as she picked her backpack up once more.  The shadows of curious office workers collected in her peripheral.  She did her best to cloud them out.  "It happens.  Believe me."  She gulped.  "Y-you're not hurt, are you?"

"Heh..."  Mable smirked as she knelt down to pick up all the sheets from the office floor.  "Only my pride."

"Here, let me help."  Persephone trotted over and started nudging files into a single pile with her nose.

"Oh, please, Percy.  It's not... uhm..."  Mable winced, trying not to stare too long at how her co-worker was using her face, muzzle, and teeth to reshuffle the papers.  "I-I mean, I know how d-difficult it is for you to... to..."

"Just let me help you for once, okay?  It's the least I can do since—"

More chuckles lit the air.  A couple of shadows gathered around the water cooler just a few steps away.  One figure in particular reflected a gloss of electric light from his skull, stabbing the peripheral of Persephone's vision.  The mare simply clenched her eyes shut, taking a deep, deep breath.

"Having a little trouble there, Ceres?" a male voice paused in cackling just long enough to sneer.





Persephone blinked.  She leaned her head back against the couch and exhaled.

"I made a choice that day, Doc," Persephone murmured.  "And it was the wrong one."

Sharp squinted at her.  "Are you certain of that?"

Persephone said nothing.

The doctor folded his hands together.  "Until you can be sure of where you stood in this most recent situation, Miss Ceres, I do not believe you will be at ease with your own conscience.  And I also doubt that you will be at ease with those who might antagonize you in the future, regardless of what you are or what you think you are."

The pony swallowed.  Finally, she murmured, "You know what I think, Doc?"

"What is it, Miss Ceres?"

She clenched and unclenched her jaw.  "I think I was a great deal less confused before I came here."





With a slap, Mable shut the refrigerator and turned around, glaring.  "If you ask me, it's Roger who needs to be in therapy, not you."  She unscrewed the water bottle and stepped across the tiny break room until she sat at the table across from Persephone.  "That man has Napoleon's complex super-bad!  He wants the big whig's seat, and he's never going to get it."  She took a swig of water, gulped, and exhaled, "But instead of owning up to it like an adult, he keeps taking his frustrations out on everyone around him.  Most especially you!"

"Mable, please..."  Persephone sighed.  A ham sandwich lay on a paper plate beneath her, but it was barely nibbled.  "Roger is not the issue.  It's me."

"Que va!"  Mable frowned.  "Is that you talking or the shrink talking through you?"

"Please.  I just got out of my therapy session."  Persephone glared out the door, eyeing the ocean of cubicles and wandering bodies beyond.  "Can we just chillax and talk about something that isn't stupid, stressful, or centered around me?"  She took another measly bite, swallowed, and said, "How's the whole New Yorican thing going?  Do you burn VHS copies of West Side Story every year or what?"

"Percy, don't be a goof."  Mable smirked.  "You begin to sound like your roommate."

"Ugh, don't you even start."  Persephone rolled her eyes.  "I love Trisha to death, but she and I are like oil and water.  You know that."

"And yet you get along so well."

"Pffft.  When we can afford to."

Mable raised an eyebrow.  "Trouble on the farm?"

"Yeah.  We tried planting a field of land mines and it went off in our faces.  Well, mostly mine."  Persephone squinted at her co-worker.  "Don't you have better things to do than ask me questions about my problems?"

"It's just that you're such a sweet, meek, well-to-do girl, Percy."

"Heh..."  Persephone glared at a distant water cooler.  "Most of the time."

"And yet you keep to yourself so much.  Which is fine, I guess, but people can't help but want to get to you know you better."  Mable shrugged.  "It's my fault.  The only questions I have to ask are about—"

"—how screwed up I am," Persephone muttered.  Her ears drooped at the thought.  "Gods, that's depressing."

Mable smiled hopefully.  "I like to think that all of our individual issues are what make us special.  We're unique like that."

"Unique, huh?"  Persephone smirked awkwardly, took a bite of her sandwich, and muttered.  "Mmmmf... that makes me one of a kind."

"If you ask me, I think it's unfair."

"Mmmf... what is?"

"The way that Mr. Hayton is singling you out n'all!"  Mable frowned.  "The man isn't an idiot!  He should see that you're a person who doesn't like the spotlight!"

Persephone swallowed and glanced curiously at the other woman.  "What are you getting at?"

"Think about it!  All of the opportunities he's given you!  All the presentations you've been made to give at the big meetings.  The speed at which you've been promoted."

"Well, I'm a hard worker, Mable."

"No denying that!  And kudos to believing in yourself, girl!"  Mable pointed.  "But you gotta admit that Hayton's gone a long way to make sure you stay in these offices, especially with what went down."

"Yeah.  I've been over that with him."

"And you think he's gonna tell you the truth?"

Persephone sighed and looked tiredly at the woman.  "And just what is the 'truth,' Mable?"

"That man is shaping you into some sort of protege!  He wants you to be the very model of In Step employment!  That's why he's going all out, forcing you into these stupid re-programming sessions!"

"They're n-not reprogramming sessions, Mable!"  Persephone chuckled.  "Not to scare you or nothing, but this ain't my first rodeo, girl.  I can deal with any shrink Pluto would like to toss at me."

"Then how come you didn't have a choice in the matter?"

Persephone opened her mouth, hesitated, and slumped back in her seat.  She fidgeted, shrugged, and said, "Well... y'know..."

Mable simply raised an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look," Persephone said with a frown.

"What look am I supposed to give you?"  Mable took a sip from her bottle, then said, "Face it.  This is the situation Hayton needs to shape you into whatever he wants you to be.  He'll convince you that you gotta dance to his song or else you have no chance with the company."

"And just what is he turning me into?"

"A lackey?  A liability?"  Mable shrugged.  "Listen, Percy, when you first came to this office, I was a little put off."

"Oh really..."

"Yeah, girl!  The way you climbed through the ranks!  You practically breezed by the rest of the girls!  Including me!  But later, as I learned to appreciate you, I also started to feel bad for you."

"In what way?"

"You don't seem like the kind of woman who likes being forced to do something, and yet you go through the motions day in and day out.  You're like a square peg that somehow forced itself to fit through a round hole.  All the edges are frayed, but it's still there.  You're still the square."

"Well, since we're speaking metaphorically, then all I need to do is get a grinder and rub those raw edges round forevermore."

"Percy, I'm just worried about you," Mable said with a long face.  "What happened with Roger—what you did with everyone watching—was the first and only real, honset thing that ever happened at this office.  I may have been scared at the time, but looking back, I'm real proud.  And now with Hayton patting your shoulder and forcing you through these sessions... well..."

Persephone stared quietly at the woman.

Mable sighed.  "I think that something that was very real and very true is being hammered into the shape that it shouldn't be.  And, y'know, it may get you far in this company, but will someone like you be happy there?"

"I suspect someone like you would be happier," Persephone said.

Mable sighed.  "That's not what I mean—"

"Sure it isn't.  Mable, has it ever occurred to you that the reason I keep things to myself is that I believe everyone else talks too damn much?"

"Erm..."

"And maybe I'm not the one who's occasionally being real and true, but every friggin' person in this office—Hell—the whole world is just full of shit and I'm the only one who notices?!"  Fuming, Persephone raised the sandwich to her lips, but paused.  She blinked at the ragged meat dripping out of the half-eaten slices of bread.  Fighting back a nauseous expression, Persephone hopped out of her chair, picked up the paper plate, and hobbled on three legs towards the trash can in the corner of the room.

"I... I don't understand..."  Mable leaned forward.  "Aren't you hungry?"

"I hate ham," Persephone grunted.  "Ham and all meats.  Always have."  She tossed the stuff away, dusted her hooves off, and swooped her backpack up before shuffling once more into the offices.  "If you ask me, I'm sick and friggin' tired of faking it."






Hours later, Persephone was in bliss.  She tilted her head back, eyelids fluttering, as her mane billowed and flounced behind her.

At last, after several mental seconds had passed, the mare opened her eyes to see the bend in the running path.  She veered to the left, turning about so that she came upon the gymnasium's straightaway once more.  Outside, the city glistened with yellow brilliance beyond the glassy black windows.  A smattered group of random night owls stood and stretched upon various mats along the side of the large room, sweating up a storm.

Persephone ran around and around the path, her hooves kicking up dust in circles, much like how her mind was constantly spinning.  Dr. Sharp's socratic words, Mable's worrisome voice, and Mr. Hayton's cheeky grin all merged into one, forming a nebulous gloss like the glint of light off of Roger's furrowed forehead.  By the tenth lap, Persephone was as witless as she was breathless.  She trotted over to a bench where her backpack lay and fumbled for her water bottle.  The cool moisture sliding down her throat did little to wash the dizzying ache away in her skull.  Her head felt like it was full of people, and the mare was sick of it.

So she sat down, tilting her head back as she focused on the tickling sensation of the sweat running down her coat hairs and into her blue spandex.  Seconds passed, a minute, and finally a pair of scuffling sneakers scuffed up.

"Taking a break?" a thick-accented voice implored.  "I don't know whether to be scared or thankful."

"Hmmmm..." Without opening her eyes, the pony murmured, "How so, Irma?"

"Well..."  The sandy-haired employee sat down on the bench beside her, adjusting her blue jumpsuit.  "Scared because it's the first time I've ever seen you pause in running here.  Thankful because I can no longer be bloody jealous of your superhuman endurance."

"Heh..."  Persephone took a sip, wiped her brow, and smirked aside at the familiar face.  "I'll settle for the 'super' part, at least."

Irma chuckled.  "I really mean it.  You put the rest of the runners here to shame."

"Irma, you're Australian, aren't you?"

"Born and raised in Sydney."

Persephone squinted at her.  "Then how come you don't sound it?"

"Trade secret, darling," Irma uttered with a wink.  "I suspect you have yours."

"Yeah, well..."  Persephone shrugged.  "Everyone seems like they wanna get to them lately."

"Not this woman," Irma said.  "Though I'd be remiss if I didn't take the opportunity to use them."

Persephone's eyes darted back.  "I beg your pardon?"

"How long have you been coming here, Persephone?  Night after night?  Running the same path and doing it all splendid-like?"

"Going on a few years, isn't it?"

"Exactly."  Irma nodded.  "And you do know that we've been seeking a professional jogging trainer for a long time."

Persephone blinked.  "What are you getting at, Irma?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you, girl?"  Irma smirked.  "You would do wonders for this gymnasium as a running coach.  Somewhere in that athletic masterpiece of a body, you've got the know-how for pure endurance, and it would do a lot of good to a lot of people if you were gracious enough to share it."

"Eh... eheheh..."  Persephone flicked her tail and wriggled her hooves right underneath the lady's gaze.  "Some secrets aren't so easy to exploit, Irma.  Thanks for the invitation, but—"

"You do realize that this is something that pays, right?"  Irma raised an eyebrow.  "I'm serious about this, Persephone.  The gym here has gone through tons of people in desperation for a running coach who would stick.  And between all of the posers, juicers, and losers of this city, I feel like I'm at my wit's end!"

"Then try searching the other side of your wit, Irma."  Persephone took another sip of her bottle.  "I come here and run laps because it's a hobby.  It keeps me happy."

"Then why not consider taking on a job that'll make you happy and get you paid?"  Irma grinned.  "Seems very win-win to me."

"You don't understand, Irma."  Persephone gave her a tired smile.  "Jogging like this?  This late at night?  And at this place of all places?  It's..."  She fidgeted.  "...it's one of the few good things I have."

Irma blinked at that.

"And I'm not about to ruin that by turning it into some sort of obligation.  Forgive me, Irma.  I know you mean well n'all.  But..."  Persephone sighed.  "I already have a job."

"Hmmm..."  Irma nodded.  "Must be a right proper job, then, for you to love it so much."

Persephone blinked at that, almost letting the water bottle slip.  "It... uhm... it pays well..."

"I imagine so!"  Irma stood up, smiling.  "Well, the offer still stands.  If ya think you might fancy yourself doing a bit of running on the side—only, y'know—allowing others to run along with you..."  She winked and gave a thumb's up.  "You'll know where I'll be."

"Right..."  Persephone nodded quietly.  "Always."  She watched as the woman walked away, then gazed down at her own hooves as they dangled off the bench.  She sighed.





With slow, sluggish steps, Persephone trotted down the night-drenched sidewalk towards her apartment.  The city hung in a grimy hush above her, and grated water drains steamed on either side of her as if the underworld itself lingered beneath her very hooves.

She sighed out her nostrils, eyes darting back and forth, sweeping clean the concrete slabs that stretched beneath pale gold lamplight.  Every now and then, an errant car horn, distant shout, or police siren would echo across the gritty surfaces of the buildings looming above the little pony.  She tilted her head up, glancing across the street as shadows shifted and fluttered from lit window to lit window.

Even in the nighttime, the city kept moving, and it never once stopped to notice the petite equine in its midst.

Persephone heard the rattle of metal scrap.  Her heart jumped, and she flung a look to her right.  A dark alleyway stretched into utter blackness.  Squinting, the mare could make out the faintest hint of delapidated shapes in the edge of shadow.  Something shifted, tail flicking.  Then, with a flash of pale paw pads, a stray cat zoomed in and out of sight, retreating into inky night with freakish speed.

Persephone stood still, her amber eyes turning glossy as she envisioned the shapes of garbage cans in the onyx maw of concrete yawning before her.  Somewhere, an infant foal lay in the bowels of one of those aluminum sarcophaguses, wailing for comfort, for love, for a pair of loving hooves to hold it.

She didn't realize that she was trotting towards the darkness until one of her hooves knocked aside an empty soup can.  Then she froze in place, shivering in her uncomfortable clothes, weighed down by a backpack full of an alien world's detritus.

Suffering a deep chill, Persephone backtrotted until she stood beneath the fogged up window to an apartment's bottom floor.  She pressed herself against the wall, resting her shoulders as she allowed her lungs to gather as much oxygen as she could.  Even when running laps inside a gymnasium, she didn't feel this exhausted, this drained.  She clenched her eyes shut and tried to shake the trailing sensations of her infancy away.  Instead, a darker memory invaded the empty space left behind, and she heard the rattling of chains as a beam of light fountained into the room from a pair of bulging doors.

"Persephone..."

The mare gasped, her eyes flying wide open.  Her ears twitched, still resonating with the echo of her name's ghostly pronunciation.  She spun about and looked straight up.

The window to the apartment loomed above her.  Trails of moisture ran down the slick surface, as if a sudden tremor had shaken much of the condensation loose, trickling the moisture towards her like a singular rain cloud.

A panic flew through the little pony's body, a fear that Persephone could not explain.  Without a second thought, she trotted towards the nearest intersection.  That trot turned into a jog and soon she was gallopping—darting breathlessly through the sleepy streets—until she reached the front steps to her apartment building and afforded herself a chance to inhale.

She plunged into the lobby, gladly leaving the darkness behind.





The elevator reached her floor and the doors opened with a half-melodic ding.  She trotted out and immediately found herself faltering.  Her eyebrow raised as she focused on a familiar shape squatting just outside her apartment, a few feet away from the door.  Quietly, she approached the figure, holding her breath with worrisome a pause.

Caelus sat, legs-folded, with a graphing calculator propped on one knee and a notepad in the other.  He was busy ambidexterously popping numbers into the keypad with one hand and using the opposite to draw insanely complicated quadratic formulae.

"Uhm..."  Persephone blinked.  "H-hey there, Caelus.  What's up?"

"Venus should be seen passing through Capricornus in thirty-six hours," Caelus murmured out the side of his mouth with a slight tremble.  "Jupiter crawls a serpentine path through Gemini between Castor and Pollux—"

"Cael..."  Persephone trotted over and rested a hoof softly on his shoulder.  "Please, tell me, why are you sitting out here like this?  What's the matter?"

Caelus bit his lip.  He tilted his head up, turning away from the equations as he murmured, "Integers... mmmmm... escape me when she is upset."  He squirmed, twitching a tiny bit.  "Forty-five minutes and twenty-two point five seconds longer than the last time she spent shedding tears."  He gulped.  "Someone has to measure it.  She pays so much attention to me.  Just like you d-do, Percy..."

"Alright, Cael."  Persephone tapped his shoulder, then craned her neck towards the slightly cracked apartment door.  "Everything's gonna be alright.  Just stick around here for a while."  Cautiously, she approached the entrance.

"Mmmm... the m-m-mail," Caelus stuttered.

"Huh?"

This time, he looked at her directly, his eyes flinching sadly beneath their bulbous lenses.  "The mail came forty-five minutes and thirty-eight seconds ago."  He bit his lip.  "And then the tears.  Just like l-last time..."





Persephone slowly pushed the door open.  Instantly, she could hear the scuffle of pacing sneakers, punctuated by hyperventilating gasps.  The little pony shuffled her way in, eyes darting left and right across the dimly-lit abode.  The further she trotted into the front room, she heard Trisha's sniffling breaths with greater and greater volume.

The mare rounded the bend, seeing the shuffling shadows of a distraught woman.

"Come on... come on, ya bastards!"  Trisha could be heard hissing above the dull sound of a dialtone.  "Goddess, how I hate being on the other end of the line!  Your offices gotta still be open at this hour!  Friggin' answer!"

Persephone squinted confusedly, but then her hoof brushed into something.  She glanced down to see an envelope that had been torn open.  A half-folded letter hung out of the paper sleeve.  She pivoted the thing around with her hoof until the thing was legible.

At the very top, she saw a string of words addressed to a "Patrick Trinidad."  Glancing down, her amber eyes scanned every other line, catching various doctors' notes and medical review statements.  At last, on the second-to-last paragraph of the letter, she spotted a sentence in bold.  All she needed to see was a glaring "operation postponed," and her muzzle scrunched up.

"Ah jeez... not again," Persephone mumbled.  Just then, a slamming sound issued from the kitchen, startling her.

"Shit!" Trisha grunted, having dropped the phone completely as she leaned—heaving—against the kitchen counter.  "It's crap like this that makes me wish I moved to California."  She gulped, then grumbled, "Yank my chain left and right like I'm their god damn yo-yo.  Aren't the friggin' hormones enough, you soulless money grabbers?!"

Her fists clenched, shook, then went loose, palming the counter as her body went limp, shaking at the end of each pent-up sob.

"Goddess... Goddess alive, I'm so fr-friggin' tired of the waiting game..."  She whimpered into the back of her wrist as her body quaked.  "This whole life.  I'm sick of it.  So help m-me..."

Persephone battled a lump in her throat.  With a brave breath, she snuck forward, shuffling into the kitchen.  Once her hooves clopped over bare tile, Trisha jumped.

"Guh!"  The woman held a hand over her chest, shivering.  "Jesus, Percy.  Put a bell on, will ya?"  She wiped her smeared cheek and tried putting on a smile that had no business being there.  "Funny world we live in.  Some day you piledrive the bear..."

"Yeah.  Uhm... I feel ya, Trisha."

"Sure ya do, Percy."  The roommate bit her lip and gazed off towards the nightlit windows, trembling.  "Fraid that... m-my tank of jokes is running low tonight."  She gulped hard.  "But... b-but did you want me to slice you some apples or...?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with that..."  Persephone pointed across the kitchen.

Trisha's eyes followed the path of her hoof.  "What, the stool?"

"Yeah.  You know how... uh... bad my grip is."

Trisha sighed.  She pulled the wooden thing over with a scraping noise and slapped it down before the pony.  "Honestly, silly filly."  She managed a weak smile.  "You gotta hire yourself a maid or a nurse soon because this is getting—"

Persephone dropped her backpack, hopped up the stool like a cat, and flung her forelimbs around Trisha's neck.

The girl gasped, her teary eyes twitching.  "Percy...?"

"I was just remembering..."  Persephone smiled gently as she leaned in, giving the girl's neck a warm nuzzle.  "My arms are good for one thing."

Trisha blinked, then reached up to pat the pony's shoulders.  She nodded, biting her lip.  "Yeah..."  Her face cracked as the tears flowed freely.  "Ain't th-that funny?"

"Shhhh..."  Persephone rubbed the side of Trisha's cheek with her mane.  "No moping.  Because moping is—"

"Shut up, Percy."  Trisha sobbed, burying her face in the pony's hair.  "Mmmm—I know the rest, ya beautiful idiot."

Persephone merely smiled, standing her ground as the woman wrapped her arms around her and sobbed quietly.  No matter how loosely Trisha's body went slack, Persephone held her there, keeping her engulfed in the tiniest—yet strongest—of hugs.

It's not as if her roommate had any choice in the matter.
> 2016 April Fool's Chapters of Utaan / Appledashery
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Utaan

"Make way!" hollered Windburst of the Right Talon of Verlaxion.  He and Starstorm flew over the gasping crowds of Frostknife, their wings kicking up flakes of snow.  "Make way!  We've caught the beast!  The beast from beyond the Blight!"

Ponies and griffons from all trots of life parted ways, forming a narrow runway along the northernmost edge of the lofy clifffaces.  Soon, Seraphimus, Raptr, and Keris landed with a struggling, writtling pegasus in their grasp.

"Grnnnnghhh!"  Rainbow gnashed her teeth, pendant rattling as she fought against the guardians restraining her.  "Let me go!  Let me go!  You have no idea how important my journey is!"

"That's enough struggling out of you, monster," Seraphimus hissed.  She led the way into the open Court of Verlaxion.  "You shall answer now to the Goddess for your crimes!"

"Please!  You don't understand!"  Rainbow panted and panted.  "I had no choice back in the Quade!"

"I had hopes, Rainbow Rogue," Keris said in a melancholic tone.  "You almost fooled me into thinking you were a noble soul."

"Let me see the creature!"  Chandler trotted up alongside Hymmnos and a group of Central Guardians.  "Mmmmmm... even more petite than I imagined."

"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" Rainbow grrrrrr'd.

"Nevertheless."  Snorting, Chandler turned about and gestured towards the stairs just beyond the Tribal Statues.  "Throw her before the mercy of Verlaxion.  Let the Queen deal with her."

Seraphimus and Keris bound Rainbow's limbs, then shoved her forward.

"Mmmmmf!" Rainbow landed with a grunt against the bottom of the stairs.

"Unifier!  Unifier!  Unifier!  Unifier!" the whole of Rohbredden chanted.

Shivering, Rainbow tilted her head skyward, gazing up the stairs towards Verlaxion's throne.

Blue light emanated.

A cold fog descended.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand—"Cut!"

All of the effects ended, along with the chanting and the falling snow and the billowing fog machine.

"That's a wrap, folks!" shouted a pony in a baseball cap, wearing a microphone.  "Time to tear her down!"

Ponies wandered on and off set, carrying microphone and camera equipment.

Rainbow blinked.  She stood up, watching as the Talon split up, along with dozens upon hundreds of extras.

"What..."  Rainbow blinked.  "Wh-what's going on here?"

"What, are you dense?"  A stagehoof wandered by, frowning at the mare.  He picked up one of the many styrofoam statues in one fetlock.  "Utaan ran out of budget.  Didn't your agent tell you?"

"But... but..."  Rainbow grimaced.  "To end on such a cliffhanger?"  A gulp.  "And a forced one at that?"

"Look.  It's obvious to everypony on the project.  The story went on for waaaaaaaaay too long.  Production got strained.  I mean... we've resorted to releases every two or three days!  Whatever happened to the good times of daily updates?!  Pfffft... it's Ynanhluutr Part Deux, only this time nobody cares."  He yawned while pushing down the walls of Frostknife, revealing backstage walls and concrete and dangling setpieces.  "Can't even save the story with a lesbian kiss, you know what I'm saying?"

Ariel walked by, grunting in a deep bass voice:  "Shoulda stuck to Redguard Delicious.  I swear to Celestia."

"But... b-but..." Rainbow Dash gulped.  She stood up, stripped of her pendant, and trembled in place as the studio dissolved prop by prop around her.  "What about Verlax?!  Aren't we gonna have a climactic encounter or—"

"Pffft.  You think Imploding Colon has the time or money for that?!" Seraphimus lisped.  Several assistants rushed up, draping a luxurious fur coat over the Talon leader's shoulder before tending to her makeup.  "Rumor is he's taken the Patreon money and run off to live at Disney.  Gonna go... hump pillows inside the castle, or something.  Tch... Bitch, did I say you could unscrew my Dasani caps?!"

"I-I'm so sorry, Seraphimus."

"Such a shame," Theanim said, trotting across the set with Bard.  "If the fic was slightly better, we could have seen some amazing headway into the plot."

"I heard that Lord Belgarion's agents were asking to get the rights of Bard back.  You want my opinion?  They can have him!"

"No joke..."

"And that Wildcard schtick is the worst grab at attention in years..."

Rainbow blinked, watching as a stallion shuffled after the director.

"Please?  Pleeeeeeeeease can't you film one last scene?!"  The stallion got on his knees, nearly whimpering.  "I'll be a janitor in Frostknife!  A ghost from Rainbow's past!  A random thug she beats up outside of Starkiss!  Anything!"

"For the last time, Mr. Trampoline, give it a rest!  It's over with!"  The director growled.  "Honestly!  You're almost as bad as that Skeeter, fellow!"  He sighed, flipping through a clipboard.  "Still... such a shame we couldn't use 'Alamais.'  I was really, really looking forward to the Night Shard."

A stagehoof looked over.  "What if the Fact Checker starts a GoFundMe campaign?"

"What if you suck on my urinal puck?"  The director spat.  "Get back to work!  I want this studio disassembled in time for the Ponies Are the Size of Cats reboot!  The public has spoken and they want their apple snuggles, Goddess dammit!"  With a groan, he marched off.  "I swear... this project would have jumped the shark at the start of Book Nine anyways..."

Rainbow Dash's ears drooped.  With a heavy sigh, she shuffled past styrofoam statues, unused machine world pyrotechnics, and a pony wandering by with Mortuana's detached wings.  She stepped outside, meandering through busy studio buildings.  At last, the mare stepped up into her trailer and shuffled inside.  Empty cider bottles lined the scant window space.  She hobbled across a sea of junk, picked up a cell phone, and dialed a number.

The phone rang and rang and rang.

At last, the dial tone ended, replaced by a squeaking face on the other line.

"Yeah. H-hey there, CandleStick Head?"  Rainbow squinted out the window as she stood in her trailer with her phone to her ear.  "Yeah.  They... they went on and pulled the plug."  Silence.  "Yup.  Left it on a lame-ass cliffhanger too... maybe hoping someone else will pick it up."  Silence.  "I know, right?  And after all the courage I worked up for that lesbian kiss scene?"  Silence.  "No."  Silence.  "No, I didn't ask them that.  Besides, I figured Twilight and the others were all being paid half since they were technically voice acting."  Silence.  "Uh huh... uh huh... no... no, I-I... listen, I..."  She rubbed her muzzle, sighing.  "I need a break here.  How about... how about that one gig, y'know, with the remake they've been talking about?"  Silence.  Rainbow Dash frowned.  "So what if I'm only in it for the first chapter and then I die?!  This will make Scootaloo's career!  Just... just give me a chance!  I know they were gonna bring me back at some point or another for the time travel reveal!"  Silence.  "Huh?"  Silence.  "'It's been so many years she's practically a baritone now?'  What's that got to do with anything?  Kids love time travel stories these days.  Hello?  Hello?"

A frown crossed her lips.

She dropped the cell phone and slumped to a couch, sighing.  Her hoof hung over her muzzle in a defeated fashion.

"Shoulda stuck to Titans, I swear..."  Her ears twitched.  "...I'd have made a great villain... woulda tapped that Bronyphobia gland nice and good."

Just then, the air around her resonated with 1950s cheesy sci fi muzak.

Rainbow blinked.  Her every body part drooped.  "Oh Goddess, not again—"

FLAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

The trailer was lifted in a giant glowing tractor beam.  A UFO hovered above the studio, zapping the portable building until it dissolved into the vessel's rotating energy banks.  A Kokiri boy stuck his head out of one of the many windows.

"We got her!" Hajile hollered.  "Jesus Christ!  Go!  Punch it!  Punch it!"

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!












Appledashery


LAST TIME ON APPLESTUARY


"I..."  Applejack whimpers, sniffling.  "I think I might be pregnant!"

"Me too!" Granny Smith squeaks.

We see a close-up shot of Stu Leaves clasping his fuzzy cheeks and facing the camera.  "Not againnnnnnnn!"


(LAUGHTRACK)



TWO PONIES IN LOVE... WITH A VENGEANCE


Screeeeeeeeeeech!

A police car speeds around a street corner.  Applejack and Stu Leaves, wearing uniforms, stick their bodies out of the windows and fire semi-automatics past the screen.

POW!

P-POW!

BLAM!


WITH NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE


"AJ, the door locks!" Stu hollers, fumbling with the door.  He ducks his head, then looks back across the computer room.  "AJ, we need the door locks!"

Panting, he looks back at the window.

Rainbow Dash smiles toothily at him from the other side.  She glances down at the door handle.

Swooosh!  The door opens part way, with Rainbow's sharp claws reaching through.

With a gasp, a wounded Applejack limps over and helps Stu push the door back, fighting against Rainbow's incursion.

"SKRIIIIIIIIIIIIII!" Rainbow Dash hisses.

Meanwhile, shivering, Scootaloo wanders over to a computer, sitting down to a monitor displaying cheesy 3D graphics.  "A Unix system!  I know this!"


IN A ROMANCE THAT WILL CHANGE ON-SCREEN STORYTELLING FOREVER


"Hmmmmmmm!"  Stu Leaves stands in a suit, eating from a bag of fast food.  "Now this is a tasty apple!"

"Wh-what?" stammers a pudgy stallion sitting in a kitchen chair.

"Equestrian, motherbucker!" Applejack in an afro aims a gun at his head.  "Do you speak it?!"


UPDATED AT A THRILLING THREE HUNDRED TO FIVE HUNDRED WORDS A DAY!


"Rnnnnnngh!"  Stu Leaves tosses the glowing disc with all his might.

"Guh!"  Noir barely deflects and falls partially off the platform.  He holds onto the side, suspended hundreds of digimeters above the abysmal grid.

Zecora, wearing a glowy red commander helmet, peers over the edge of her battlecruiser.  "Finish the game!"

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" Stu Leaves yells.

Frowning, Zecora's hoof hovers above a red button.

A deep bass voice reverberates over her shoulder:  "I want him in the fic until he dies shipping."

Zecora fumes and fumes.


DON'T MISS THE NEXT EXCITING INSTALLMENT


Applejack sits across from Stu Leaves in a crowded, smoky room filled with buffalo.

"Is this what you want?" Applejack asks, holding an apple to her head.  "Is this what you want?"

Stu Leaves replies silently with a thousand mile stare.  A red bandanna graces his forehead.

Applejack inhales.  "I love you..."  She closes her eyes... and flings her hoof.

The apple bounces harmlessly off her head.

She sighs.

"Buffalo!"  "Buffalo!"  "Buffalo!"  "Buffalo!"

Stu Leaves' muzzle forms a tiny smile.

Applejack leans forward.  "Come on, Stu.  Come home.  Just come home.  Home.  Talk to me.  Talk to me."

Stu fidgets in his chair, close to tears, lips moving.

A buffalo hooves Stu another apple.

"Stu..."  Applejack says, grasping Stu's forelimb.  "Remember the apple trees?  You remember them?"

"One buck?" Stu says with a faint grin.

"One buck!" Applejack smiles back.  "One buck!"

Stu chuckles.  "Yeah..."  He pulls his hoof from Applejack's grip and immediately slaps the apple to the side of his skull.  Juice and seeds go spilling all over his quivering body.

The whole room lights up in smoke and cheers.  "Buffalo!"  "Buffalo!"  "Buffalo!"

"Stu!"  Applejack cradles the stallion, sobbing.  "Stueyyyy!  Noooooo!"

The frame suddenly freezes with VHS static.

"Soooooo... uhhhh..."  A studio exec trots in front of the tv monitor and smiles at the ponies gathered in the conference room.  "What... does everypony think of the new direction we'll be taking the fic in?"

Applejack blinks.  She looks aside at Stu Leaves.

Stu Leaves bites his lip, fidgeting.

"Well?"  The exec adjusts his glasses, then glances at the far end of the table.  "What do you think, Miss Dash?"

"... ... ... ... ..."  Rainbow Dash frowns... scowls... and then—"RRRRGH!"  She flips the massive oak table.  SMASH!  Angrily, the mare stomps out.

Applejack and Stu grimace.

The studio exec clears his throat.  "Well... there's always Utaan!"  A pony leans in, whispering into his ear.  "What?  No kidding?  Them too?"  He frowns.  "Then what the Hell is left?  Day Old Spaghetti?"

SMASSSSSSSSH!

A giant UFO crashes into the room.  A green haired boy with elven ears hops out, unsheathing a sword while cheesy 1950s sci fi muzak blares behind.  "Alright, where's Babellyon?!"  A beat.  "Jesus Christ.  Here too?!"

> 2018 April Fool's Chapters of Ofolrodi / Appledashery Vol 2 / How to Disappear Completely
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ofolrodi

Well Why Didn't We Just Do This From the Get-Go I Mean the Series Has Been Going On Long Enough You Think That the Author Would Have the Common Sense to Implement a Deus Ex Machina Sooner Also What's With All of The Repressed Girlyism?



The Dihmers and the Herald formed one marching line against the curved landscape of the world.  Splotches of chaotic lightning dwindled in the distant twilight, silhouetting their nimble equine shadows atop the rolling hills like that one night shot from Saving Private Ryan.  And by that just now, you should know something.

"Arre we therre yet?" Kepler moaned, carrying two full packs stuffed with the leftovers of Emeraldinian bric-a-brac.

"No," Rainbow Dash droned.

Ten minutes later.

"Arre we therre yet?" Kepler moaned.

"No," Rainbow sighed.  Her ghostly companions yawned.

The landscape rippled and undulated with each passing ponimeter.  The stars above did starry stuff.  A bioluminescent slug creature ripped off Avatar slowly, quietly in the corner.

"Arre we therre yet?" Kepler moaned yet again.

"No," Rainbow growled this time.

"Curious," Seraphimus remarked, which was remarkable for her.  "The wyvern doth protest too much."

"Yeah," Flynn wheezed, acting conspicuously in-temper.  "It's almost like his character has wildly fluctuated or something."

"I love Rainbow Dash!" Ariel squeaked.

"Stop your groaning, Keps," Logan belched, then belched again.  "We have a Midnight Armory to break into and—by rectal thunder—it's gonna take us another three hundred chapters to get there."

"But my wing-feet hurrt!" Kepler whimpered.  "What I wouldn't give forr a good pairr of camels!"

"Kepler, I said no camels!" Flynn snarled.

"Just chillax," Rainbow's voice cracked.  Ariel clung to her leg and she had to shake her off in mid-step.  "We need patience, for crying out loud!  I mean... it's not like we're gonna stumble upon an inexplicable magical elevator that can take us all the way back to Equestria for a breather!"

Just then, Wildcard whistled shrilly.

Everyone looked towards the top of a ridge.

There he perched, gesturing at something.  With nimble fingers, he hand-signed:  "I just stumbled upon an inexplicable magical elevator that can take us all the way back to Equestria for a breather!"

"Whoah..."  Rainbow Dash blinked.  "Really?" she chirped.

"I'm definitely sensing a vertical shaft erected ahead of us," Rarity remarked.  "And not of the alluring variety."

"And judging from the flashing of my horn—!"  Twilight remarked, rubbing the body part in question.  "—it's definitely magical!"

"Magical in what way?" Ariel asked.  A blink.  "Wait, how did I hear that—?"

"Let's chick that shit out!" Logan hollered, and the group galloped anxiously to joined Wildcard.  The Dihmers—meantime—vanished... fell into a lava pit.  I don't know.  "Whoah dayum!" Logan whoa dayum'd...

...for there before them, standing like a slightly-less-pee'd-on-cover to a The Who album, was a giant concrete monoloth.  Set within its center and furnished with varnished oak doors was the entrance to a massive service elevator.

"Do... do you think it'll work?" Applejack asked.

"Only one way to find out," Rarity said.  She looked at their anchor.  "Darrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrling?"

"Zoop."  Rainbow Dash stooped forward.  She pressed the tiny "Down" button with her cute pony hoofsie.  Click.

Whurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—

A vertical line of light rose up the center seam of the doorframe.  Shortly thereafter, the doors opened to a brightly-lit elevator car.  Ding!  A draft of cool air-conditioning billowed outward, ruffling everyone's mane and headfeathers.

"It... appears to be operational," Seraphimus stated.

"I wish I had headfeathers," Flynn sighed.

"Do you really think it'll take us all the way to Equestria?" Logan asked.

"Heck if I know."  Rainbow trotted in through the door frame.  "Let's check it out."

"But Rainbow!" Twilight Sparkle gasped, her lavender jowls flailing.  "What about the Harmonic Prism?!  The Shards of Endrax?!  The Trinary War factions and Axan's Dragon Stone?!"

"... ... ... ... ... ..." Rainbow ellispsaid.  She pulled the large round Macguffin from her other Macguffin, gave it a shake, then tossed it over her flank like Mark Hamill.  "Meh."  Plunk!  "We won't be long.  Besides, I wanna snuggle Roarke already."

"Who's Roarke?" Ariel asked.  WHAP!  Seraphimus' talon kicked her inside.  "AACKIES!"

"Obey the pony who I once swore on my dead family to murder, infidel."  And she stepped in too.  She was shortly followed by Wildcard—who was a little turned on.  Then Kepler, Logan, and Flynn—who were remarkably less so.

The door closed after them.  The dim twilight of the Dark Side was replaced by the blinding artificial glow of an electric lamp above, complete with a persistent, annoying buzz.

"So... uh..."  Flynn squirmed slightly.  His mechanical eye rotated in and out, since I gave up on writing "lens" versus "lenses" two dozen chapters ago.  "Where to?"

Rainbow Dash looked up... and up and up and up and up and up.  There were about four thousand seven hundred and ninety-two buttons.

"I reckon it's the one marked 'one,'" Applejack remarked.  "Or maybe 'ground level?'"

"I'm here and I'm saying things," Fluttershy said.

"There it is."  Rainbow Dash flew up by about a four feet—which is a lot for a cat-sized snuggable creature—and she pressed the button in question.  With a quiet hum, the car slid down the unfathomably lengthy shaft.

"But if it's already established that there are four thousand seven hundred and ninety-two floors fitting the width of this slice of Urohringr," Twlight Sparkle remarked, "Then how can one accurately use the adverb 'unfathomably?'"

"Ehhhhh... leave Steven alone, Twilight," Pinkie Pie said, waving a hoof.  She leaned in with a smirk and whispered:  "He's got his own traffic sign in front of the house!"

The elevator console chimed as it lit past each button... slowly...

Very slowly...

In the meantime, a speaker crackled with early 90s muzak, occasionally broken by a text-to-speech modulator that gleefully stated:  "Next floor.  Office supplies.  Staplers.  Hysterectomies."

"This..."  Logan was already yawning.  "...might take a while."

"Don't worry," Flynn stated.  "If we get sleepy, just lie on Wildcard.  He's super fluffy."

The Desperado gave the middle finger.

"That reminds me," Rainbow Dash muttered, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the Herald.  "What's with the extra finger, Jordan?"

Wildcard gave her a curious look.

"I mean... not counting your metal limb.  Gilda only had four claws on her talon.  But somehow you're able to shoot the bird... cat bird... cat... birb?"

The speaker crackled:  "Next floor.  Lawncare equipment.  More lawncare equipment.  POP Vinyl figures.  Crematory jars."

"Maybe Wildcard was born at Hemingway's retirement home?" Flynn suggested.

"Figures."  Logan nodded.  "He would belong to a dude without a head."

Rainbow looked at Seraphimus.  "Does that mean you hatched out of a Nirvana album?"

Seraphimus sighed... ... ...

Wildcard looked existentially at his digits, trembling.

"Next floor.  The ghost of McCarthy.  The memories of Nixon."

"Wait..."  Flynn remarked, holding a hoof up.

"Added color.  A group of anonymous latin-american meat packing glitterati."

"What if it's not that he's got an odd number of claws on each hand," Flynn suggested.  "But... he's just using two fingers at once to flip the bird."

"Cat birb."

"Whatever.  I mean... has anypony looked?  I mean really looked?"

"Achhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Kepler salivarily suggested.

No one had an answer.

"Next floor.  Lacy lingerie.  Puffy ballgowns.  Pink plush bedspreads."

"OoooOoooOoooOoooh!" Rarity cooed.

"Uh uh."  Twilight Sparkle shook her head.  "Not happening, Rarity."

"But darrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrliiiiiiiiiing!"

"We have to go to Equestria, grab an entire army, file them thirty at a time into this elevator shaft, and then bring them gradually back to the Dark Side—one by one—until we have a force substantially large enough to take on the Factions of the Trinary War!"  Twilight Sparkle upturned her nose.  "We've not time for sissy girly shopping—"

"GUHHHHHHHHHHHH!"  Pinkie Pie was twitching all over.

"What's the matter, Pinkie?"  Twilight then paled.  "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww shit."  She turned towards Rainbow Dash...

...who was foaming at the muzzle.  "Humina humina humina—"

"No!  Dun do it, sugarcube!" Applejack held a hoof out.  "You'll betray your character's deep pink secret!"

"I can't help it!"  Rainbow Dash SLAMMED her hoof down over the "open" button of the elevator.  "I'm sorrrrrrrry Roarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrke!"

Ding!

The doors opened, casting the elevator in a sheen of heavenly fuchsia.

"Weeeeeeeeeee!"  Rainbow Dash dove through.

Ding!

The doors closed, leaving the Herald and a panicked Desperado lingering inside.  As the car continued down the shaft, Ariel mewled worriedly to the walls.

"Is..."  Her eyes sparkled.  "...is senpai coming back?"

Seraphimus slapped her atop the head.  "What is your motivation, again?!"

The metal suspension cables above snapped from an outward explosion of pink fluff, and the shaft filled with shrieks.






 ~ ~ ~ 







Appledashery Volume 2

==The End==






Applejack sighed.

A gray malaise hung over Sweet Apple Acres.  Granny Smith was not around.  Big Mac was not around.  Stu Leaves and Fluttershy and the rest of Applejack's friends were not around.  It was just her, the orchards, and a wagon full of empty baskets.

Applejack sighed.

She trudged towards a line of trees.  She placed a basket against the trunk.  She swiveled around, lifted her haunches, and heartily bucked a length of bark.  A resounding thud rolled through the farmstead, and a cluster of red delicious fruit fell into the container.

Applejack sighed.

She stood in place, her mane billowing slightly in a dull wind.  Shutting her emerald eyes, she struggled to maintain her composure.  The grayness was creeping in from all angles.  The breeze—whistling in from the tombstones that stood on the hill overlooking her, her daily routine, her ritualistic life as it fashioned itself after the scattering dust of everything she once knew and loved.

Applejack sighed.

Just then—out of nowhere—a chiming sound chirped artificially.

Without opening her eyes, Applejack brought a hoof up and tapped her combadge.  She spoke with a lethargic drawl:  "Applejack here."

"Applejack," Apple Bloom's voice crackled.  "Incoming message from Starfleet.  Priority One."

Applejack nodded, eyes opening blearily.  "I'll be in my Ready Room."

Leaving the apples, Applejack trotted straight for the barn.  Once inside, she made for a pair of door panels.  Schwisssh!  They openened gracefully for her, revealing a luxurious office suite with windows looking out into streaking stars in outer space.

Clearing her throat, Applejack sat at a chair and tapped a computer panel atop her desk.  "Applejack here," she said as a face blipped onto the computer screen.  "What can I do for you, Admiral?"

"Applejack..."  A mare in a red uniform sat before a United Federation of Planets symbol.  "...we have a mission of utmost importance for you to accomplish.  Rainbow Dash was on the edge of Cardassian Space, conducting an experiment to break the Warp Ten Threshhold.  She's since vanished and our sources believe she may have wounded up stranded in The Badlands."

Applejack arched an eyebrow.  "Ain't that awful close to that Demilitarized Zone of theirs?"

"Yes.  So perhaps you can see the delicate nature of this operation."

"I reckon I do."  Applejack nodded.  "Voyager's ready for her maiden flight.  If you like, I can have her out of drydock and ready to conduct a rescue."

"That would be most paramount."  The admiral leaned forward on the screen.  "Make your way to Deep Space Nine where you will receive the rest of your crew complement, then set a course for the Badlands.  Recover Rainbow Dash alive and well.  We cannot allow the secrets of breaking the Warp Ten Threshhold fall into the hands of the Cardassians."

"I understand completely, Admiral."

"We're sending in the absolute best.  Starfleet out."  And the computer screen went blank.

Applejack stood up, suddenly wearing a red uniform.  She marched firmly through the automatic doors—Schwisssh!—and onto the bridge.

"Captain on the bridge!" Tuvok exclaimed, standing tall behind the tactical station.

"At ease, Lieutenant Commander."  Applejack trotted over to the Captain's chair.  "Our mission is a real whizz-banger.  I'll brief you on it soon.  As for now..."  She turned towards the helm.  "Mr. Paris, set a course for Deep Space Nine.  Ensign Kim?  Work with Lieutenant Torres on refittin' the warp core to handle passage through the Badlands."

"Yes ma'am," Paris said suavely, entering the necessary coordinates.

I smirked, raising an eyebrow from where I sat beside her chair.  "The Badlands?  Sounds like a rescue mission."

"You bet yer sweet tattoo, Scootaloo."  Applejack smirked at the screen.  "There's coffee in that there nebula."





"No... we have not seen your pathetic petite pegasus," growled a person with far too much peanut butter on his head.  He leered through the bridge's viewscreen.  "However... if you were to share some of your... Federation technology with us... then maybe we could help you find her together!"

"I dun like bullies, First Maje Culluh, and I dun like you."  Applejack stood up from the Captain's chair and marched icily towards the screen.  "Ever since we got stranded here in this consarn Delta Quadrant, we've been receivin' nothin' but a heap'o'trouble from yer Kazon-Nistrim folks.  I think it's high time y'all learned to back up."

"I shall not be talked to by a woman this way!" Culluh hissed.

"Captain..."  Tuvok spoke up.  "The Kazon-Nistrim vastly outnumber us in this particular sector of space.  While we very clearly do not share the same ideals, it would be logical to form some sort of base agreement with their faction in order to more effectively discover Rainbow Dash's—"

"Target their bridge!" Applejack shouted.  "Fire all photon torpedoes!"

"Ahem."  Tuvok calmly stroked his Vulcan fingers over the targeting console of his computer.  "Firing now, Captain."

Culluh blinked on the viewscreen.  "Wat."  He and everything seen on camera erupted into flames.

The bridge's screen switched to a shot of the Kazon ship exploding into a million Paramount Studios pyrotechnic bits.

"Whew..."  I exhaled, shaking my head.  "Sure shut him up."

"Who?"  Applejack sat down, adjusting the tunic of her uniform.  "Culluh or Tuvok?"

"Both!"

"Dun matter none.  We've got a petite pegasus to find."  Applejack looked across the Bridge.  "Ensign Kim.  Trace their warp trail from the past few days.  I ain't convinced they haven't spotted Rainbow Dash.  If we follow their trail, I'm willin' bet we'll find her safe and sound."

"Aye, Captain."

"How many indigenous alien vessels are we intending to blow up along the way?" Tuvok asked.

"That depends."  Applejack leaned on an armrest.  "How many of them torpedoes do we still got loaded?"

"After that last encounter?  Thirty-one, sir."

"Then I reckon about two hundred and twenty-five."  Applejack waved.  "Set a course, Mr. Paris."

"Y-yes, ma'am."





"Captain!" Ensign Kim exclaimed.

Applejack looked over from where she was standing beside a computer console with Tuvok.

"I think I've got something on short-ranged scans!"  Kim plink'd away at his console.  "Pegasus bio-signatures.  They're faint, but they're out there."

"Are they in visual range?" I asked.

"Affirmative."

Applejack trotted out into the center of the bridge.  "On screen."

The bridge's viewscreen blipped to a shot of space.  A tiny blue figure floated wildly in the distance.

"Magnify."

The image zeroed in on the figure.  It was a pegasus in a shiny space-suit, adrift in the cosmos.

"Life-signs are reading positive," Tuvok said.  "The target is likely dehydrated and feverish."

"Well, we can't very well projector the Doctor out into space, can we?" Paris said.

I leaned forward.  "Ensign Kim.  Prepare a tractor beam.  We'll reel her into the cargo bay."

"Belay that order, Ensign."  Applejack trotted towards me.  "She may be too delicate to handle with a tractor beam right now."  The freckled mare took a deep breath.  "Patch word through to Engineering.  Tell them to meet me in the Cargo Bay with a space suit.  I'm going out there to get her personally."

I arched an eyebrow.  "Are you sure that's safe?"

"No.  But if I know Rainbow Dash, she could appreciate a bit of darin'."  Applejack marched off to the nearest turbolift.  "You have the bridge, Scootaloo.  Keep the seat warm for me."

"Aye, Captain."

Schwissh!






With bursts of hydraulic jets, Applejack glided out into open space.

She made for the freely-floating sight of Rainbow Dash.

The farm mare breathed in and out... steadying her pace... squinting past the fog that her own exhalations made against the transparent visor of her helmet.

At long last, she came into contact with the pegasus.  With strong muscles, her suited limbs wrapped around the other mare's suit.

Startled, Rainbow Dash shook and thrashed with spontaneous panic.

"It's me!" Applejack exclaimed, transmitting her voice over a local communication system.  "Sugarcube, it's me!  It's okay!  Yer gonna be fine!"

Rainbow's ruby eyes fluttered in exhaustion.  "Uhhhh..."  Her adorable voice cracked.  "Applejack...?"

"That's right, darlin'."

"You..."  Rainbow Dash sniffled, eyes moistening as she gazed through their separate visors to see Applejack's face.  "You came for me?"

"Why, of course I did!"  Applejack smiled sweetly.  "Yer my best gal!  I'd cross an entire quadrant for seventy-five years at warp ten to see you home safe!"

Rainbow Dash gulped dryly.  "Warp Ten..."  She shuddered.  "I... I broke the Thresshold, Applejack..."

"I know, darlin'..."

"I was... I-I was everywhere..."  Rainbow's twitching eyes darted about, filling with tears and starlight.  "...Equestria... the griffins... the Klingons..."  She focused on her friend again.  "I... I was even there with you, AJ."

"Sugarcube..."

"Ever since your parents died... all this time..."  Rainbow's muzzle quivered.  "...you were just as sad and lonely and confused as I was.  And... and we could have cut so much stupid crap short if we just reached out to one another and told each other the truth."

"We didn't know any better."

"That doesn't make it right."  A tear trickled down Rainbow's fuzzy cheek.  She whimpered.  "Doesn't change the fact that I always wanted to tell you... choice words... choice words that I always wanted to share—"

"Rainbow... please, you dun have to—"

With a firm breath, Rainbow Dash let it out:  "I wish we could boldly go."

Applejack's eyes shut.  She sucked a breath in.  When the warm moment had passed, she reopened her eyes—and now she too was tearing up.  "Oh sugarcube... we was meant for each other..."

"What do we do now, AJ?"

"Reckon the only thing we can do..."

And the two ponies in space suits...

...they reached for one another, helmet to helmet, adrift in space...

... ... ...and they cuddled.





Weeks later.

On a humid, swamp-riddled planet in the steamy thick of night.

I materialized via transporter along with Tuvok and another yellowshirt.  Fumbling, we marched through marsh and foliage... until we came upon a shallow brook.  There—across from the rippling water—there perched two giant orange salamanders that were vaguely pony-shaped.  Upon seeing us, they chirped wildly, and one even came towards us belly-first in an awkward, waddling charge.

Setting my phaser to stun, I shot the creature in the spine... then knocked its mate out with another energy blast.

Once both creatures were unconscious, the three of us stepped cautiously forward.  Tuvok and I knelt beside them, performing readings with our tricorders.

After a moment of study and reflection, I spoke aside:  "There are traces of equine DNA.  It's them."  I gazed in wonder at the state of them.  "But I have to admit, I'm not sure which one is Applejack."

Tuvok arched an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly.  "The bigger one.  Obviously."

I took a look at him.  Suddenly, we both heard a rustling sound.  We looked towards the patch of sand in between the two mates.

A litter of tiny salamander-shaped ponies slithered out of a round-shaped burrow.  With infantile chirps, they slithered briskly away from us and hid deep into the muddy waters of the swamp.  Vanishing.

Tuvok gave me a blank look.

"I... don't know how I'm going to enter this into the log," I said.

In a slightly affirmative tone, Tuvok said, "I look forward to reading it."


THE END







 ~ ~ ~ 







How to Disappear Completely

Fwiffity Fwoofity Poof!


A shooting star streaked over the shiny summits of the Crystal Empire.  This was accompanied by the otherworldly tinkling of a million tiny windchimes.

Flash Sentry's pony ears pricked to the distinctly heavenly melody.  A particularly cinematic gust of wind kicked at his luscious locks as he spun to gaze into the sky, eyes sparkling with constellatory radiance.

"Chuuuuuuu???"

Behold—from the sapphiric fabric of nubile night, there descended a translucent pink ball, undulating with sparkles and glitter.  It came earthward in a sassy sashay, swinging around crystalline chimneys and pirouetting spherically between lampposts.

Crystal pony citizens peered out of lit windows and stood—cooing—atop lofty balconies.  Soarin and Derpy Hooves trotted up from below ground, hoof-in-hoof.  Mr. And Mrs. Cake strolled up along with Lyra and Bon Bon.  Everypony gasped and murmured in awe, even as Octavia and Vinyl Scratch stumbled upon the magical scene, accompanied by Filthy Rich, Fancy Pants, Spitfire, and other characters that aren't entirely worth mentioning in a superfluously expository paragraph.

At long last—with the otherworldly grace of fabric softener sheets—the sapient concentration of pink touched down.  As it did so, it materialized into an elder mare garbed in silk-shiny blue robes, crowned with a snow-white mane and armed with a sparkling wand.  She batted her eyelashes, giggled with a little twirl, then came about to curtsy at the baffled stallion squirming directly in front of her.

"Good evening, my lovely child," she spoke... she sang.  Her voice was syrup poured over a Stradivarius.  "At long last, I have found you!"

"Uhhhhhhhhh huh..."  Flash Sentry's brow furrowed.  "And you are?"

"Do you not recognize me?"  The timeless mare struck a graceful pose.  The air around her billowed with lavender and vanilla perfume.  "I am the one and only Femboy Faerie!"

The air grew so silent you could hear a pin drop.  Instead, the atmosphere of the Crystal Empire echoed with some poor pony's epic spittake far off in the distance.

"Alright... uhm..."  Flash Sentry sat on his haunches.  "First of all..."  He counted off the fingers he no longer had.  "...the very term you're owning is... like... super rude and disrespectful to those who deal daily with the challenges of a transgendered or genderfluid lifestyle."

The Femboy Faerie giggled like Alan Hale Jr in drag.  "Oh, you silly silly boi—"

"Second."  Flash frowned.  "Come onnnnnnn, man."  His nostrils snorted.  "Just... how low can one go, huh?  I mean... I've heard of authors degenerating into a one-trick pony—"  He looked over his shoulder at the drooling spectators.  "No pun intended!"  He returned to his scowling lecture.  "—but there comes a time when the abject flanderization of one's previously-repressed themes crosses the line and becomes a pathetic barrage of unnecessary digital exhibitionism—"

"This is your lucky night, my child!"  The Faerie waved the wand high, grinning gleefully with shiny teeth.  "I've come to transform you into a pretty pretty princess!"

"Duaaaaaaah!"  Flash Sentry gasped wide, grasping at his muzzle.  "Oh my sweet fucking Jesus Holes—FINALLY!!!"

"Behold!" she Cyclops'd, ruffling up one sleeve after another before priming the magic wand to full blast.  "The prettiness becomes you!  Fliffity fluffy... fwoofity fwuffity..."  She flicked her fetlock and fired the sparkle-canon straight at Flash Sentry's fuzzy chest.  "POOF!"

SOUND EFFECTTTTTTTTTT!!!

Soarin, Octavia, and All the Rest(™) shaded their eyes.  When the pulsing light had dwindled, they looked to see a truly gorgeous sight.

Princess Flash Sentry stood in a dainty pose, his head tossed back with lips pursed like some Herbal Essence commercial model.  His mane billowed, twisted, and glistened into a delicate bun behind a twinkling tiara.  As tresses of sparkling light cascaded down his body, they solidified into silver-slick lengths of immaculately smooth fabric.  A symmetrical arrangement of lavender sashes framed a diamond-studded bust, and a myriad of pink bows flanked the trim of the most gorgeous ballgown imaginable.  Were there glass slippers?  Of course there were glass slippers.  Honestly, what were you thinking?  Go back to Russia.

"Oh... my... muffins...!"  Derpy whimpered from afar.

"Someone fetch me a bat!" Soarin wheezed.  "I'm going to the other team!"

"She's way more princessy than me!" Cadance hollered from a distance and threw herself off the tallest balcony in the kingdom.

"Well, go on, my child!" the Femboy Faerie harmonized.  "Do a twirl!  Take a look at yourself!"

Flash Sentry's eyes batted open.  He gasped.  He gasped again.  "Oh... oh goodness!  It is just so divine!"  He fluttered wings decorated in flower petals and used the feathertips to lift the hem of the dress, exposing alabaster petticoats and crinoline.  He spun about—skirts flailing—and grinned angelically towards the furthest corners of the earth.  "Why... it's so wonderfully gorgeous!  My heart is all a'flutter!  I feel like I'm wearing a cloud and... and... and..."

HONK HONK HONK!

Flash's eyes shifted left and right beneath closed lids.  The teenage human held his arms straight out as he spun and spun in the middle of the asphalt driveway before Canterlot High.

HONKKKKKKKK!

The teenager's eyes opened wide as he snapped out of his little fantasy world.  As he scuffled to a stop, his backpack swung off his body like a loose pendulum.

"Huh?"

This was uttered—of course—straight into the pulverizing metal grill of an incoming school bus that Final Destination'd Flash Sentry into viscera and paste that splattered all over the front entrance of the school.

KAPOWWWWW!

A row of students gasped as blood and organ meat sprayed against their clothes and limbs.  As seconds passed—and the hydraulics of the school bus hissed over its freshly slaughtered prey—they shrugged the gore off their torsos, clicked on their phones, and shuffled off towards their home room classes.

The only thing that could possibly be more whiplash-inducing than what just transpired is a poorly-timed line break—





Several hours later...

Curious humans, police officers, and city workers crowded around the front of the school—which was cordoned off by yellow tape and orange traffic cones.  A group of paramedics shoveled bits and pieces of Flash Sentry into Tupperware containers and shipped them off to the morgue.

A stereotypical detective and an even-more-stereotypical police officer in uniformed blue strolled out from behind the bus that had parked dormant since that morning.

"Well, I just got done talking to the bus driver," the detective grumbled, chewing on a thick cigar.

"Yes?" the officer asked in an Irish accent, tipping his cap back.  "And...?"

"Seems pretty innocent to me, so I'm ruling out first degree homicide."  The detective flicked the cigar away and lit a fresh one.  "Jury's still out on manslaughter.  Nevertheless... really can't blame the poor hispanic bastard driving this thing."

"Why do you think he did it, boy-o?"  The officer sniffled, melancholically scratching his head as he gazed down at the chalk-outline where most of Flash Sentry's flesh had accumulated after the impact.  "Why do you think he was just standing here, pirouetting in front of a moving bus like Julie Andrews on bath salts?"

"Because he was worse than Julie Andrews on bath salts," the detective hissed.  "He was a millennial."

"Ah-ta-ta-ta-to—of course."  The officer nodded.

"Grfffffff..." The detective grffffff'd, shoving in a second cigar.  "And you know how millennials are.  At the slightest hint of melancholy or angst or any other unsavory emotion that makes them reject this world, they mentally transport themselves to some place fanciful and silly and snowflake-friendly."

"Really?  Like what kind of world, mate?"

"I dunno.  Something full of ponies and princesses and shiet, most likely."  The detective puffed on a third cigar.  "You ever played Silent Hill One?"

"Please."  The officer spat.  "I'm no pleb."

"Spoilers ahead.  Turns out one of the endings is a total ripoff of Jacob's Ladder."  The detective stared off towards the setting sun.  A puff of wind blew industrial smog along with the scent of first-world refuse into his tobacco-stained nostrils.  "The protagonist is experiencing his dying breaths, so it turns out that all the events he ever witnessed were just the synapses of his brain firing wildly and creating some fantastical scenario that became the meat of the dank story's plot."

"Echh," the officer grimaced Jontronnily.  "You think that's what happened with the poor lad who died?"

"I don't know, buddy.  But one thing's for sure..."  The officer turned towards us, leering.  "It'd make for one sucky-ass piece of literature... and to be revealed in Chapter One Hundred no less—"

HONK HONKKKKKKK!

A second school bus rolled up, screeching, and—

WHAMMMM!

The detective's digestive system flew sky high while his brain matter splattered all over the officer.

The police man blinked into the crimson display.  He looked down at the twitching remains of the detective.  "The state of your arse, mate..."