Whiplash

“The microphone explodes, shattering the molds, ya either drop tha hits like de la O or get the fuck off the commode-“

The blaring, rebellious lyrics of Rage Against the Machine awoke a tired, slumbering individual. His head was in a fog, with only one thought in his mind: Shutting off that damn music so he could go back to sleep.

“With the sure shot, sure to make the bodies drop. Drop and don’t copy yo-“

A charging cell phone’s alarm function was the source of the rugged notes. A hand hastily swept across a nightstand next to his bed. It inadvertently unplugged the phone and sent it flying through the air, crashing to the floor. The back of the phone slipped off, dislodged the battery, and silenced the phone’s alarm.

He didn’t really care to deal with the fact that he may have just broken his phone, all that mattered to individual at the moment was sleep. He settled back into his bed, closing his eyes.

…

…

…

Something wasn’t right, here.

…

…

…

And then, everything came rushing back to him. He saw his friends standing around him, and then a bright flash of light just before…

He died.

Patrick’s eyes burst open and he shot up in bed. In total shock and confusion, he observed his surroundings.

It was a blue-painted room, with white wooden trim along the walls and windowsills, letting daylight flutter inside and illuminate the room. Posters of popular rock bands, some he had never heard of before, were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. High school textbooks and stacks of papers sat on top of a bureau, along with other various belongings.

Directly across from him, sitting up against the window, was a computer desk. A laptop open on the desk displayed its screensaver.

It was a stereotypical teenage room. But this room seemed familiar; not in a sense that he’d been here before, Patrick had never set foot in this room in his life, of that much he was sure. But everything in this room, the color, the taste of the band posters on the wall, the song that the phone woke him up to, expressed Patrick’s personality.

Patrick looked down at himself. He was fully dressed, shoes and all. He was wearing a red football jersey, acid-washed jeans, and a pair of clean, white Nikes.

Patrick dangled his legs off the bed and his feet made contact with the hardwood floor. The last thing he remembered was dying. He and his friends were burnt to ash for sacrificing themselves to save a race that wasn’t even theirs.

He slowly got up out of the bed. Did none of any of the events over the past few weeks really happen? Did he just imagine it all? Could he really have that vivid of a dream?

If he were just waking up from a dream, surely he’d recognize his own home, because this definitely wasn’t it. Stepping quietly, he retrieved the phone that he knocked onto the floor. He didn’t even recognize this phone, but it was still worth checking out. He reassembled the battery, locked the back of the phone into place, and pressed the power button.

It refused to start up. Frustrated, Patrick set the phone down on the nightstand. To his left was a doorway to a bathroom.

Patrick flipped on the lights and made his way to the mirror. What he saw made his eyes widen.

He looked young. Granted, being twenty-one is still young, but he looked much younger than that. His hair was cut in a short, spiked style, and his face lacked any facial hair whatsoever.

Patrick ran his hands over his face, not accustomed to the lack of whiskers, his goatee, or any 5 o’clock shadow.

He felt smaller, less muscular and less tone, and his body wasn’t responding to how he was used to. Patrick pulled up his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to get a better look at himself.

The muscles gained from his military service looked like they had never formed. He was sufficiently skinnier, and less muscular than the body he died in.

Patrick held his hands on the back of his head, studying his reflection in shock. He thoroughly examined every feature of his face.

Curiosity compelled him to leave the bedroom. He opened the door and found himself staring down a hallway of a standard, upper-middle-class house. Cautiously, he made his way down the stairs. It appeared he was the only one home, but he kept his guard up. For all he new, he could be dead; this could all be a trick; his mind and his instincts weren’t about to relax just yet.

He entered the kitchen, brightly lit by a wall of windows on the first floor. Every few steps, he stumbled. Patrick wasn’t used to his body responding slower and having less mass. With one hand pressed against the wall to keep him from falling, he carefully walked towards the refrigerator.

A jumbled collection of loose photographs hung from the refrigerator door, held by a few neon-colored magnets.

Patrick crept closer to examine them.

They were family photos.

Patrick’s heart nearly stopped; it was his mother, and his father.

Patrick grabbed one of the photos and examined it closely.

A much younger Patrick, looking to be between the ages of ten and thirteen, sat in between his parents, smiling happily. They each had an arm around him, while they sat on a sandy beach. It was the same photograph that the Nightmare had shown him when it tried to negotiate with him.

“What… What is this?” Patrick stammered aloud. “This never happened. Where-Where am I?”

“You’re home, Patrick,” a gentle voice responded behind him.

Patrick jumped at the sudden presence of another, spinning around.

It was a large, white alicorn, her mane flowing back and forth with magic just as it did when she was alive. The ceiling was just barely tall enough for her to stand upright, but she took up a lot of space.

Patrick could see through her body. She was slightly transparent, as if she didn’t belong here.

“No…” Patrick stuttered. “I-I killed you! What the-I don’t-Where-“

Patrick nearly hyperventilated, before Celestia resumed speaking.

“Yes, Patrick, you did kill me. But just breathe,” Celestia cooed. “It’s all over. You’re safe now, the Nightmare is vanquished, and everything is as it should be. All thanks to you.”

“Everything?” Patrick asked. “So… That’s it?”

Celestia nodded.

“So, where am I? Am I dead?”

“No,” Celestia replied. “You’re very much alive, Patrick.”

“But, I died!” Patrick cried. “We all sacrificed oursel- Wait, where are my friends?!”

Celestia calmed him down before he nearly had another anxiety attack.

“Sorry,” Patrick broke eye contact self consciously. “I just- It’s a lot to take in.”

“Just calm down, Patrick,” Celestia said soothingly. “You are home, where you belong. This is your life as it was without me manipulating anything. The date is June second, 2010. You are currently sixteen years old.”

“I really am younger?”

Celestia nodded.

“Where are my parents, then?”

“On their second honeymoon. They will be home next week.”

Patrick shook his head, processing all this shocking information laid out before him.

“But, I thought that we couldn’t save humanity because… I killed you. How am I standing here right now, when I should be dead, too?”

“There are some things that we can’t really explain, Patrick,” Celestia smiled. “But it is because of the magic of friendship that you and your friends shared.”

Patrick blinked. He let Celestia continue speaking.

“When each of you sacrificed yourselves while bearing the Elements of Harmony, deep down in your hearts, you all wanted the same thing. You wanted to save humanity, for everything to be how it was supposed to be. The Elements heard your cries, and made it be.”

“But that letter,” Patrick pointed out. “The one I read in that artifact room. Is the world still going to end in 2042?”

“You have the knowledge of when nuclear war ends humankind, Patrick,” Celestia smirked. “I guess you’d better get to work on your presidential campaign!”

Patrick’s jaw dropped.

“What? Oh you gotta be-”

“-Kidding!” Celestia chirped. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. The look on your face was priceless.”

“That wasn’t funny,” Patrick grumbled.

“All jokes aside, it’s a little complicated to explain, Patrick. Try to imagine that a copy of humanity was created, and sent forward in time. The original, this reality that you’re in, is now on a timeline separate from the one that it and Equestria shared. Humanity can now advance indefinitely without preventing Equestria from existing.”

“Then how are you here? Are you… Dead?” Patrick asked.

“Not that I don’t think you’re intelligent, Patrick,” Celestia said. “But I don’t think that you can understand.”

“Ah,” Patrick crossed his arms. “More secrets, then.”

“It’s like Jose said about death,” Celestia explained. “There’s not enough time in the world for me to explain it to you. But no, I am not dead. Anymore.”

“Then did none of this ever happen in Equestria?”

“Oh, it happened,” Celestia nodded. “And it will probably be the most significant event in our history. But when you six wanted everything to go back to how it was supposed to be, the Elements of Harmony responded. And for everything to go back to how it was supposed to be, I needed to be alive.”

Patrick was quiet for a few moments.

“We will rebuild Manehattan and Fillydelphia. We will mourn the many who were lost. True, we could have avoided all this turmoil if you’d have just trusted me,” Celestia sighed.

“However, I forgive you for killing me, Patrick. Now that you know why I did everything, why I truly kept my plans a secret from you, I hope that you can forgive me for everything I put you through. For everything I made you witness, every intolerable act I caused you to commit, and for all the suffering you had to bear.”

Patrick thought for a moment, recalling all the pain Celestia had caused him. His parental issues, his criminal record, his military service, murdering two men, witnessing the death of his best friends, and everything that had just taken place in when she brought him to Equestria. He was shot in the shoulder, he had been struck by lightning, crashed his bike, beaten by guards, and quite possibly driven insane.

“Patrick, I am so sorry that it had to be you. That it was always you, that you were always the only thing in this universe that could save life as we know it, both humankind and ponykind. So…”

Celestia bit her lip.

“…Do you forgive me?”

Patrick simply stared at her in disbelief. She was asking for his forgiveness? He took some time to contemplate it while Celestia waiting eagerly for his response.

“Well, Celestia,” Patrick let out a heavy sigh. “…No.”

Celestia, a bit taken back, beckoned him to explain.

“I’m not trying to be bitter about it, Celestia. I mean, I wish I could forgive you. I’m trying. I really am, Princess, in every fiber of my being, trying to forgive you. I actually want to. But...”

Patrick dug his hands in his pockets.

“…But, I just can’t. After so much heartache, so much bloodshed, I am just not physically capable of forgiving you.”

Celestia frowned, but nodded understandably.

“I may never be able to forgive you,” Patrick voiced.

“-But!” Patrick spoke up. “I can thank you.”

“Thank me?” Celestia asked. “And what would it be for?”

“For saving my race,” Patrick smiled. “Even after everything you caused me to go through, I was going to die, along with the rest of my race, thirty-two years from now if you never changed my past. But now, World War III isn’t going to happen, and we can continue to exist.”

“Celestia,” Patrick took in a deep breath. “I’m truly sorry that I can’t forgive you, even after everything you did was only done to save both you and me. I know I’m incredibly selfish, and I’m a terrible person, but I’m not going to lie to you. No, I do not, and I can not, forgive you.”

It was Celestia’s worst fear come true, that even if she succeeded, that Patrick couldn’t forgive her. He obviously wanted to, but he just wasn’t capable of doing so. His explanation why made Celestia feel like she was an inch tall.

“-But, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for saving humankind. Words cannot express how grateful I am, Princess.”

Patrick held out his hand in front of Celestia. She smiled and brought her hoof forward, but it simply phased right through Patrick.

“I’m afraid I can’t shake your hand, Patrick,” Celestia’s face lifted. “I don’t belong here.”

“Oh,” Patrick shrugged. “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Come,” Celestia moved towards a door leading out of the kitchen. “There’s something I wish to show you.”

Celestia was much too big to go through the doorframe, but she simply phased right through it. Patrick followed expectantly, opening the door.

It was a spacious, two-car garage. A red, late-90’s Honda Civic sat in one of the parking spaces. On the other side of the garage, Celestia stood before a large object, a canvas tarp covering it.

Patrick approached Celestia and the covered object.

“See for yourself,” Celestia gestured to the tarp.

In one swift movement, Patrick grabbed the tarp by both hands and yanked it off, throwing it on the floor of the garage. What he saw next nearly made him faint.

A sleek, incredibly clean 2010 Honda CBR, painted a pure, glossy white, sat in front of him.

“Look in your right pocket,” Celestia pointed to his hip.

Patrick slipped his hand into his pocket and felt something. He pulled it out and let it lay flat in his palm to observe it in the light.

It was a small, jagged strip of metal, with a flat, plastic handle. On the handle, a winged emblem was engraved just above “Honda.” It was a key.

Patrick inserted the key into the ignition and turned it, making the dashboard came to life. A matching, white helmet with a gold-tinted visor hung on the left mirror.

Normally, Patrick would be running around the room in a fit of pure joy. But something still bothered him. Something that not even this bike could make him feel better about.

“What’s wrong, Patrick?” Celestia asked. “I thought this is everything you’ve ever wanted? Your parents love you, you have your life back, mankind is saved, and you even have a bike that most people your age could only dream of.”

Patrick flipped the ignition of the bike, turning it off.

“Celestia, the Nightmare told me that if you never manipulated my life, that my friends and I-“

He struggled to form a sentence.

“-That we would have never met.”

“Oh,” Celestia frowned. “I see.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes,” Celestia confessed, stepping closer to him to console him. “That is the truth. In your life that I didn’t change, none of you six ever crossed paths.”

Patrick had never felt so empty in his life. Even after the best possible outcome he could imagine, it still meant nothing without his brothers by his side.

A distant rumble of engines became closer and closer, until they became incredibly loud.

“What’s that?” Patrick voiced over the noise.

He found the garage door opener on the wall, and pressed the button.

Daylight poured into the dim, stuffy garage. Patrick took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the harsher light, and became speechless yet again.

Five motorcycles were parked at the end of his driveway, their engines roaring. Five riders, wearing full-face helmets, sat on them, watching the garage door rise to see Patrick staring incredulously at them.

“Hey, come on Patrick!” Jose called to him. “We don’t have all day, let’s go!”

Patrick’s heart jumped for joy. He felt himself grinning ear-to-ear, feeling as if he were about to burst with excitement.

He nervously looked at Celestia’s transparent form, and then back to his friends all waiting on him. They didn’t seem to acknowledge Celestia’s presence.

“Hurry up, man!” Louis tapped his wrist with his index finger, symbolizing a watch. “I’m only getting older!”

“I’ll admit to manipulating one little thing,” Celestia smirked.

“Now I really wish I could forgive you,” Patrick laughed.

He threw his leg over the bike in his garage, sticking the key in the ignition again and starting the engine.

It turned over quickly, the spark plugs sputtering as it began to idle, and became a stable, warm hum.

“I know that I can never take back everything that I did to you,” Celestia’s mane flowed back and forth. “But I can take away all the memories, including those of your military service, of everything, so they won’t plague your heart anymore.”

“That’s okay,” Patrick slipped the helmet on his head and began buckling the strap. “I’ll keep them.”

“I don’t understand,” Celestia shook her head. “Why would you want to keep those memories, after how much pain they caused you? I’d think you of all people would love to live just a normal, happy life, Patrick. Wouldn’t you be happy to forget them?”

“Sure,” Patrick sat on his bike.

“Then, why don’t you?”

“Because,” Patrick squeezed the clutch and shifted into first gear.

“I have a feeling- It’s going to be a good day.”

His engine roared, and the bike jerked forward.

Tires squealing, Patrick shot out of the garage and down the driveway, coming to a halt just next to Jose, his face partially obscured by his helmet.

“It’s gonna’ be a good day, man,” Jose smiled.

“Yeah,” Patrick felt tears of joy freely dripping down his face. “It is.”

Jose swept his hand across Patrick’s helmet, flipping down his visor. He reached over Patrick’s handlebars to flip the kill switch and shut off Patrick’s engine.

Jose revved his engine loudly while he, Ryan, Spencer, Louis, and Joe all sped off, coming to a stop a block up the street.

“Hey!” Patrick flipped his visor back up. “Not cool!”

Jose laughed, watching as Patrick started up his bike again to catch up with them.

Celestia smiled as she watched them disappear down the street. She could finally return to Equestria and the living world at peace, knowing that everything was as it should be.

“It’s going to be a good day,” Celestia murmured as she faded away from the human universe.

“I can feel it.”

The end

Afterword

Hey guys, Molotov Cocktail here, author Of Whiplash.

Now that the story's over, there's a few things I can say. ~~The first is that no, there's not going to be a sequel. Whiplash is done, and I intend for it to stay that way.~~ Oops I lied.

Some people were asking about alternate endings and epilogues. I'm not going to rule those out, but it's highly unlikely I could make either at this point because I'm about to enter military service, so I think it's safe to say ~~you're probably not going to see anything new from me.~~

I want to talk about the flashbacks for a second. I wanted to tell a human story as well. And the flashbacks allowed me to do that. I hope you enjoyed reading them.

I know a lot of it was kind of cynical or depressing, I went through a lot of stuff while I wrote some chapters and I'm sorry that I let my writing reflect that.

And no, Patrick is not me, nor is he my wish fulfillment character. I wrote about things that interest me and that I know about: Guns, military, motorcycles, racing, and my city. However, Dreads and Spencer are based on real people. Some of the flashbacks are, too, but I'll let you use your imagination to decide which ones.

All I can really say about myself is that I'm 18 years old (I was 17 for most of the time I wrote Whiplash.) And yes, I do ride. I have a Yamaha R6. I like motorcycles, racing, writing, photography, guns, and road trips.

The idea for Whiplash isn't considered by many to be the most original. And I'd have to agree, almost every [HiE] follows the human falls to Equestria, shit happens, (s)he saves the world. I'm just happy I was able to finish the story. Although, I didn't really know the direction of the rest of the story until 5-6 chapters in. I kind of wish I'd have named the story either "Remembrance" or "In Memoriam."

Whiplash was a big learning experience for me. Looking back at how much my writing has improved since I began the story, it's really mind-blowing to me. But that's a huge reason of why I wrote this story for the past 7 months: Constructive criticism and improvement. I'm trying to get into a photojournalism field, and by you guys giving me criticism and feedback, my writing skills improved over time and that was one of my goals out of writing this.

Like or hate the story, thanks so much for reading! I'm humbled Whiplash got the response that it did. And thanks to my pre-readers:

Sweetie_Belle_Derelle (Fimfiction)
Sandman (Fimfiction)
Nailbudday (Deviantart)

I couldn't have done it without you guys.

I hope you enjoyed reading Whiplash as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Things I don't really want to say but I know I should:

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is copyrighted by Hasbro Inc. and their respective owners. I wrote this work of fanfiction without the intent of gaining any profits other than feedback, nor do I claim to own any of the characters, settings, ideas, etc. portrayed by the show. (TL;DR: Please don't try to sue me. I don't have very much money because I've spent it all on motorcycles and you'd probably be wasting your time.)

I do not condone any illegal motorsport activities nor do I participate or have any knowledge of its happenings or whereabouts.

Many a cup of coffee and Rockstar were consumed in the making of this story.

Live free.
-Molotov Cocktail