Chapter 1 ~ Requiem For the Gods
“Let’s review, then shall we?”
The teacher turns around to meet his audience. The Royal Guards present stand at rapt attention as his ice-blue eyes descend on them. He pushes back a lock of platinum-blonde hair from his pale face and clears his throat. “First question,” he says, his baritone becoming more serious. “How can you tell when someone has been possessed by a demon?”
One of the ponies raises a hoof. He points to him. “When they possess knowledge they couldn’t possibly know.” The guardspony is rewarded with an approving nod. Their teacher turns and writes the answer on the board behind him. He turns and points to another raised hoof.
“When they perform acts that they would otherwise be unable to do?”
At this, their teacher raises an eyebrow. “Can you name any precise examples?”
The guardspony nods back. “Such as a pegasus performing telekinesis, an earth pony being able to fly, or a unicorn having vast amounts of physical strength.”
The answer is added to the board, along with the examples. He rests his chalk and returns his attention to his audience, his hands behind his back. Another hoof is raised. “When they have an extremely low body temperature.”
Added.
“When they have powerfully negative reactions to holy objects.”
Added.
“And what counts as a holy object?” asks the teacher.
“Anything used for religious worship,” comes the answer.
His blue eyes flicker for a passing moment. “Can you be more specific?” he asks evenly.
The guardspony swallows. “R-Right. Objects such as sacred symbols used to represent the personal sacrifice of gods or immortal beings…”
Added.
“…Prayers given to holy beings…”
Added.
“…And, uh…”
His daunting eyes seem to pierce the guardspony as he thinks harder. Another hoof is raised, gaining the teacher’s attention. “Weapons or objects made from wood, water, or metals that have been blessed by priests.”
Added.
Down goes the chalk. Their teacher looks at them, his face still as stern as before. “All right, let’s move along. We know the signs of someone possessed. Now. How are we certain that the demon and his host are not collaborating with one other in some form of mutual pact?” Somewhere during his question, a ghost-white figure walks by the lecture hall’s door, just out of the corner of the teacher’s eye, disappearing before he can focus on him.
As his students begin raising hooves, Alucard returns his gaze to them and begins gathering more answers. Outside the lecture room, Aeon walks by briskly, now in his original human form. He checks his Stopwatch and puts it back into his coat pocket, making a mental note to make time to fix it. In addition to its strange effects when its powers are activated, it’s at least a few seconds behind.
His walk through Castle Canterlot is a thought-provoking one. Such architecture as built by creatures long-believed to be either dumb pack animals or outright myths, yet can still be compared to the most beautiful and intricate constructions of man. The bright, angelic colors really bring the design together, acting as a sort of glue that binds together both the regal and the godly.
Aeon hears a voice and looks in its direction. Inside the ballroom, a large human instructs his guardspony pupils on how to defeat a vampire. His aging features do little to impede the raw courage he exudes, his long brown jacket and dusty red hair complimenting his overall strength.
“The vampire is a creature of deception,” he says to his students. "Creatures of dark powers. They say a vampire is created when he steals the soul of a demon." He walks slowly across the front of his audience. "That said, their powers are great... but that doesn't mean they're invincible." He stops in front of a training mannequin.
"Let's say this fine fellow," he says as he pets the mannequin, "is a vampire. He has all the powers of a demon, but none of the contract details. No restraints. How can he be defeated?"
The man takes a step back. He brings out his weapon of choice—a long, black leather whip—and with an effortless flick, knocks off the mannequin’s head with a jarring crack.
The head rolls along the floor to the man’s foot. He kicks it upward and catches it in his free hand, lifting it like a prize. “Quite simply, really. They are weak against holy objects, same as any other demon. Magic is also effective, as is the alchemy that gave the vampires life. But in every case, you must remember one thing.” He tosses the head into a pile of abused mannequins and puts away his whip. "Always, always, always aim for the head."
He turns to his students. “All right, troops,” he says. “Today’s lesson is complete. You know what time it is now!” He and a few of the nearby castle servants begin setting up targets for his students as they ready throwing knives, axes, and magic crosses.
Aeon continues his trek to the Princesses’ throne room, passing by a few castle servants as they wave to him. He returns their wave as he continues on his way, walking through the castle’s indoor garden. The exotic flora secretes a wonderful smell that seems to cleanse the entire area, as well as paint the otherwise deep-green garden with a splash of wild colors here and there.
He looks up as he sees another human—this one a tall woman with long black hair and ivory-white skin—leaning against a pillar with a detached look in her ice-blue eyes. The outside light bathes her dark clothing and armor in a splendid glow, drawing special attention to the exotic tattoos that line her arms. She looks to him as he nears.
“Aeon,” she says, her voice a tired monotone.
He checks his Stopwatch. Well, despite the fact that his stopwatch is at least thirty seconds off, Aeon decides there’s enough time for a chat. Not to mention that failing to acknowledge the personal sacrifice of those involved in this mission would make them feel unappreciated. Wouldn’t want that!
Snapping the Stopwatch shut, Aeon holds out his hand to shake hers. She does so, but only hesitantly. “I do hope our equine comrades are not leaving you bored, Shanoa,” says Aeon.
“Not at all,” she responds, her emotionless face unmoving. “I was able to go through some of their spellbooks, and found some new runes I can make Glyphs out of.”
“I take it you have been practicing?”
Shanoa nods. “Been putting in the training. I’ve had trouble finding partners, though.”
“Alucard and Julius seem to have taken it upon themselves to teach what they know. Perhaps you could offer that same service?”
At this, Shanoa shakes her head. “It’s a fine suggestion, Aeon; but no, I don’t think my powers are something that can be taught. There are magic-users here, but… they…” Her eyes dart about.
Suddenly, something fast and red bursts out of the bushes. Without a moment’s pause, Shanoa turns and parries an axe blow—an ethereal sword suddenly materializing from the tattoos on her arm. A sickle forms in her left hand as she brings it up for a counterstrike, only for her quarry to push her away and dodge the slash.
He laughs as Shanoa brings down an axe, he chortles as she swings a blade, he guffaws as she thrusts a rapier. He leaps and feints and misleads and with a final ducking dodge, he springs back up, getting Shanoa in the chin with the butt end of the axe he carries. She loses the feeling in her legs for a split-second—long enough for her red-coated enemy to give one of her armored knees a kick, putting her down in a humiliating bow. The axe head hovers just to the side of Shanoa’s neck.
The red-coated man’s blue eyes shimmer with good humor, complimenting the rest of his youthful facial features. His blonde hair is tousled by the wind as it blows by. “Do you admit defeat?” he asks in a young, heroic voice.
Shanoa looks up to him, her face unreadable. Suddenly, she lunges upward, swatting away his axe with a sickle, her lance materializing with its point only an inch from his face. The two combatants hang there, as if frozen in time. “Never,” she growls.
Her enemy smirks, his adolescent cockiness never waning. “Might wanna look down, Shanoa,” he says. He holds the axe upside-down, the blade meeting Shanoa’s stomach. One good upward swing would rend Shanoa in half—or failing that, leave a lethal stomach wound.
Despite the ferocity behind every strike, there is finesse and self-restraint within these warriors. Aeon grins and applauds their match. “Good show, Jonathan!” Aeon cheers. “Very good show! You actually managed a stalemate against Shanoa this time.”
Jonathan Morris—for that is the blonde young man’s name—stifles a half-offended laugh. “Oh, come on!” he says. “I’ve beaten her at least a few times now.”
Shanoa takes this moment to her advantage, using her lance to swipe the axe out of Jonathan’s hands and sending him to the ground with a kick. She keeps him well-placed with a heel, her lance again pointed at his face. “Yeah, a distraction,” Jonathan snorts. “Like that’s fair.”
“Pay closer attention to your enemies,” she says curtly. “Dracula’s minions may strike at any time. They won’t be fair.” With that, Shanoa’s lance disintegrates back into the tattoo on her arm. She turns and leaves the garden, walking by a few earth pony servants who eye her with caution after having witnessed such a brutal turnabout.
Aeon helps Jonathan up. “My apologies,” he says. "I did not intend to distract you."
“Don’t be sorry.” Jonathan looks in Shanoa’s direction and shakes his head, annoyed. “Jeez. Shanoa’s all business, all the time. Girl needs to loosen up a little.”
“Sparring is serious business, Jonathan,” Aeon says. “The more seriously you train, the more seriously you fight.”
Jonathan breathes a sigh. “You guys remind me of every instructor I’ve ever had.” He looks Aeon straight in the eye. “You have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. No problem.”
Aeon puts a reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “But I do trust you, Jonathan. If I did not, you would not be here.” He looks around a second. “By the way, where is your little girlfriend?”
Jonathan scowls and looks away, blushing. “Shesnotmygirlfriend,” he says quickly.
Aeon chortles as the two continue on their way out of the garden. “But the two of you are just so comfortable around each other. You share a connection even many married couples do not possess.”
They pass down a hallway, the windows allowing the morning light to spill on the two comrades. Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Look, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times. Charlotte. Is not. My girlfriend. She’s been my best friend since we were kids. She’s like my baby sister, almost.”
Aeon’s smile widens. “Many of the most successful marriages I know of were born from strong bonds formed as childhood friends.”
They walk for some more silence. Aeon finally looks aside at Jonathan and is greeted by a scowl. Jonathan glowers and looks forward. “Quit suggesting it,” he says silently.
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t true.”
“Because you will not allow it to be true? Or because Charlotte will not allow it to be true? Marriage is an agreement between two people, after all.”
Jonathan groans and waves a hand impatiently. “Why do I even talk to you?”
Up ahead, the throne room doors are open. Aeon tries not to stare at how very, very tall the ornate doors are, but he finds them so impressive that not staring might come off as a bigger insult. The two unicorn guardsponies at the door look to the incoming duo. Aeon nods to them.
“I have returned to deliver a report from Twilight Sparkle to the Princesses.”
The guardsponies nod and, with some effort, open the door. The two humans walk in to a rather amusing sight.
In front of Celestia’s throne is the previously-mentioned Charlotte Aulin. Her long brown hair is tied back into a smart bun, a pair of reading glasses at the bridge of her nose. Her shawl is forsaken from her wardrobe for now, her white blouse and deep blue skirt and socks making her look even more like a young librarian. She sits demurely in front of the Princess of the Sun, several books piled all around her. Aeon looks at them a little more closely and notices they are notebooks, many with tags and notes sticking out.
Next to Celestia’s throne sits her sister Luna. The difference between them is startling—the elder sister is bright and cheerful in her appearance, while the younger sister is dark and moody in hers. Both are equally beautiful creatures, their eyes and voices and shimmering, otherworldly manes complimenting their overall regal forms.
Luna sits at a small tea table across from another young human. This one is ghost-white in his appearance—much like Aeon. His white ankle-length coat stands out more than any of his other features, except perhaps his pale blue eyes and ivory hair. He sips his tea as he turns his attention to the two visitors, his boyish face half-hidden by the raised teacup.
“All right,” Charlotte says, noticing that other business is at hand, “May I ask you one more question before I go, Your Highness?”
Celestia nods. “Of course, but only one more for today.”
Charlotte looks down at her open book and readies a pen. “All right. Can you tell me more about the zebra culture you mentioned earlier?”
Celestia's horn shimmers as a book from her own pile is floated over to Charlotte. Its cover says Zebra Culture. "As you may read in this book, their vast knowledge of magical alchemies—potions and incantations thereof—come from their long lineage of tribal teachings and other ancient practices.”
Charlotte nods. “I see,” she says as she puts down her pen and thumbs through the book, her baby-blue eyes drinking in words and pictures faster than she realizes. “It’s interesting that many of these equine races seem to mirror, almost perfectly, the practices of several human races. These zebras, for example, remind me of the African negro tribes.”
The young man in white nearly spits out his tea. After choking it down, he clears his throat. “The, uh… what... tribes?”
She looks to him with a smile. “African negro tribes, Soma. You know—colored people.”
Soma looks to Charlotte with a kind of patient awkwardness. The confusion in his eyes dissipates when he remembers the vast difference in the eras in which Charlotte and he grew up. Still, he’s grateful his half-black friend Hammer isn’t here to hear this. That and it’s always awkward hearing such terminology from the mouth of someone in his own age group.
Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Charlotte, please stop pestering royalty. It’s embarrassing.”
Celestia raises a hoof to her mouth and giggles. “Oh, nonsense, Jonathan! Charlotte is merely a mind eager to grow. She reminds me so much of my own student—always ready to expand her knowledge in whatever way she can.”
Charlotte beams at Jonathan in a way that feels almost comically insulting. She nods at him, as if expecting an apology. He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Either way, I don't think it's okay to—”
“Silence!” bellows Luna from the tea table. Her sudden outburst causes Soma to nearly drop his teacup. “Thou address Our sister in naught less than insolence! Is that any way for an honorable warrior to engage a Princess?”
Jonathan bows. “I apologize, Your Highness. That outburst was… discorellous of me.”
“Discourteous, Jonathan,” Charlotte corrects as she puts all her notebooks in a bag for later study. “The word you’re looking for is discourteous.”
Jonathan shoots her an impatient grin. “That outburst was discourteous of me,” he says.
Celestia nods. “Jonathan, you must learn to be more like your friend Julius Belmont. Now he is a real gentleman.” Her smile broadens. “Always mindful of the fairer sex, eager to help, slow to anger, good with children…”
Luna suddenly sports a mischievous smile, her flowery language disappearing along with her anger. “Why, Sister! It appears you bear much fascination for Sir Julius. If I knew no better, I might assume you wish he were born a stallion instead of a man.”
For the third time in as many minutes, Soma fights the tea that threatens to shoot out of his mouth in surprise. Inwardly, he wonders why he always drinks tea when someone says something shocking.
Celestia blushes at Luna’s assertion. “Finish your tea, my sister,” she says brusquely. “If Aeon is here, that means he brings development on my student’s crusade against Dracula.”
Aeon then nods and turns to his friends in the room. “Indeed, Your Highness. For the rest of you, please continue to train and teach her soldiers your arts until further notice. I appreciate your continued participation and patience in this confusing situation.”
Silence as the three humans and few remaining Royal Guards leave the room. After the large double-doors close, Aeon draws out the message from his jacket and hands it to Celestia. Luna steps up beside her sister to read over her shoulder—a vice she’s had since she was a child. All three read the scroll…
When Aeon exits the throne room, Soma watches him as he makes his way back to the garden. He thinks nothing of it until he realizes that, oddly enough, Aeon could have simply “dimension-hopped” back to Equestria right after receiving the Princess’ response message. The unnerved grimace on the time-traveler’s face does nothing to assuage his concern.
Soma purses his lips in thought, watching Aeon as he takes a seat near the red roses. He plucks one and smells it. There's a look in his eyes, a faraway look that suggests he remembers something.
Soma draws near, slowly, unsurely. Is it truly his place to question the motives of a time-traveler? All the things Aeon has seen and experienced, tasted and felt—all these things must certainly make him a better man than he. But still, Aeon’s odd behavior is just… becoming odder and odder.
Aeon looks up as he stands next to him. Soma nods to the bench, wordlessly asking if he may have a seat. Aeon places the plucked rose onto his pure-white jacket pocket. The contrast the spot of red makes against his white coat is striking.
“Is there something you would like to ask me, Soma?” he asks softly.
Soma doesn’t take the seat, thinking it better to look around, his serene blue eyes picking apart the garden, checking for anyone who might listen in. They return to Aeon hesitantly. “…You OK?”
Aeon smiles. Even his smile feels odd; unnatural. Like there’s no reason for it to be there on Aeon’s face. “What do you mean?” he asks.
Soma puts his hands in his jacket pockets and tries his best to make and maintain eye contact. It’s like watching a shy boy try to recite lessons in front of a class. “Well, I mean during this whole, uh... crusade against Dracula, you occasionally took some of us with you to these worlds to fight his minions...”
“Yes. Yes, I did. And you did a masterful job in defeating Olrox, by the way.”
Soma blushes and looks away. “Thank you. But... well… um…” He takes a deep breath and returns to meet Aeon's gaze. “You haven’t done that… lately.”
Aeon’s gaze turns to the garden for a moment, before slowly making its way back to Soma. He sighs through his nose and nods, a curtain of melancholy draping over the action. “No, I suppose I have not.”
“Well, why not?” Soma asks earnestly. “This land of Equestria is all that stands between Dracula and his regeneration. And if that happens—”
“He will become even more powerful and embark on a voyage to conquer all creation, I know,” Aeon says in a tone Soma has rarely heard from him. It’s still as calm and dry as his voice always has been, but there is frustration present beneath his monotone.
“Well then, why not at least take me or Jonathan back with you? Or Alucard?”
Aeon shakes his head. “That is… something... I…” The thought Aeon attempts to project dies on its way to becoming words. It is rare he finds such difficulty in expressing himself—usually only saying what needs to be said. But now? How to explain…
Soma raises an eyebrow. “Aeon? Aeon, is there something wrong? I know your powers are beginning to dull, we all know. But—”
“They are not dulling,” Aeon says in a quiet, controlled voice. “It is not just my powers that are fading. They are fading as a result of…” He breathes in deeply, then turns and looks Soma Cruz in the eyes.
“Soma… I’m dying.”
Those two words linger there. I’m dying. The two words that seal a personal fate, the two words that admit one’s mortality, the two words Soma never imagined he’d hear a time traveler say.
Aeon clenches his teeth as he looks to the rose on his jacket. He pulls it out of his breast pocket and analyzes it. “I might not be physically aging, but I can feel it. Like a flower that blooms in spring and wilts in the fall, I can feel time now." He frowns, his voice becoming almost... angry. "Janine was right when she told me I'd become so arrogant, so used to merely observing time, I… I never knew what it was like to feel time as it slipped away from me, simply because I was not mortal like you or your friends...”
Soma holds his breath when Aeon mentions Janine, feels a cold at his back. He does not wish to hear more. No more about Janine. No more about how great she was (And she was), no more about how clever she was (And she was). The entire group understood what they'd lost when they'd lost Janine. They'd lost a lot.
They'd lost Aeon, for starters.
Despairingly, Aeon lets the rose fall to the ground. Soma watches it flutter weakly, landing soundlessly. “My time is short,” Aeon continues. “My time is nearly… over. I have become so very weak.”
He pulls out his Stopwatch, the very tool he uses to stop time. It opens with a click. Aeon watches the seconds tick by. “I must rely on machines and relics to do things I used to be able to do merely by thinking or wanting it to happen. And even then, I cannot use Janine's devices to their fullest.”
The hour hand is approaching a number Soma hadn’t noticed before—thirteen. A frown bothers his mouth as Aeon snaps the Stopwatch shut and looks to him again. “Our final battle with Dracula draws nearer and nearer. Partly because I am certain he and his forces will attempt an attack on this castle, and partly because I cannot do it anyway, I will not take any of you along with me to Equestria.”
“...Is there any other way for us to get to Equestria?” Soma asks, his eyes pleading.
Silence. Aeon sighs. “Soma. I understand your situation. It is not such an easy thing to take, but you must not feel responsible for Dracula’s actions.”
Soma’s body language changes, from a shy boy into a teenager demanding his right to his family’s fortune. “But I am Dracula. Aeon, if there is any chance I can undo my past self’s sins, then—”
Aeon waves away Soma’s response impatiently, not unlike a father attempting to finish his thought before his children interrupt. “When I spirited you away from your time period as our world's entire continuum collapsed to nothingness, I did not do it to give you a chance at righting whatever Dracula wrongs. You might have inherited his soul, and his powers, but you did not inherit responsibility for Dracula's actions. You must learn to put all that behind you.”
Soma pauses for a moment before breathing deeply. He rocks on his heels, awkwardly, shifting about a little. “...All right. But, Aeon, does anyone else know that you’re…?”
Aeon stands up. “None that I know of, although I am certain at least Charlotte and Alucard have both figured it out on their own.” The Stopwatch is put away, the rose on the ground now forgotten. The first man in white walks by the other, a look of determination coming over him.
As Aeon walks away, Soma calls out to him. “Good luck. We’re all rooting for you.”
Aeon pauses. Then turns. Then nods. Then disappears without making a sound, leaving Soma Cruz alone with the plucked rose.
Rose can see it. Rose can see it and smell it and taste it and hear it and feel it and above all else fear it. It’s all over her, crawling and screaming. It’s red. Blood red. It stops crawling and screaming, but it still poisons and frightens as it claws its way into Rose. She looks aside as she strangely feels no pain, and sees that all the other ponies are red, blood red.
All the blood red ponies are screaming and crawling over one another, smothering Rose. Desperate. There’s desperation. Anger. Distrust. The blood red ponies mash into one another as they begin to fall down an abyss. They become one thing. They form a body, then an ocean, then a monster, then a wail, then a death. They die just as they smash through a mirror that reflects what each pony really looks like, and the reflections hardly flatter them.
The pieces of the mirror fall without a sound, they fall to the ground like seeds. The ground opens up for them, swallows them. Then the ground begins to twist and distort until it gives birth to a creature unlike anything Rose has ever seen before. The creature looks up to the blood red ponies. The wails of the desperate, angry, distrustful ocean body fall silent mid-scream, as if suddenly devoured by silence.
And the Castle watches it all. Smiling. There’s no way for a Castle to smile, but it does, and Rose can see it. Rose can see it and smell it and taste it and hear it and feel it…
…and above all else, fear it.
Chapter 2 ~ Pressure
Chapter 2~Pressure
Applejack hides amongst the trees, trying to remain as quiet as she can. “Quiet as a church mouse,” as Granny Smith would say. The smell of the orchard tonight is foul and invasive, the air that blows through the trees cold and uninviting. When she focuses her eyes on the group that trespass on Sweet Apple Acres, Applejack realizes where she is.
She’s dreaming. Then she remembers that she can’t be dreaming—she is instead remembering. She isn’t so much sleeping as she is merely dozing, straddling that delicate line between consciousness and unconsciousness, and instead of dreaming, her mind hoofs through previous events and presents them to her in quieter volume and more muted colors. Like watching an old movie.
Death appears—no sound, no flash, no magic. Just a blink and he appears. She does not know his name, but one look and she can tell what it is he stands for. His sudden appearance causes a primal fear to run its sickly fingers down her spine, and it’s this primal fear of hers that names this creature the end of all living things. Death.
Death begins talking. She can’t hear him, but he speaks quietly to the tall thing in the dark dress. Maybe it’s the dress, or maybe it’s her movement, or maybe it’s that the quiet sound of her voice sounds rather feminine, but Applejack assumes that whatever it is, it’s female.
There’s something to the female, too. Applejack can’t quite put her hoof on it, but it makes her feel uncomfortable. Queasy. It makes her skin crawl and her insides twist. She would later recognize this feeling at a glance when she looked at Marble and felt
it.
Suddenly, the Ghostly Dog howls. It sounds nothing like a dog ought to sound—instead coming out as this long, wailing distortion of a noise. It’s one of the things she remembers so clearly. Too clearly. She stifles a quiet gasp, trying not to be seen or heard. Applejack waits. Waits and dreams and remembers.
Upon closer inspection, the Ghostly Dog had been digging for something, and there’s another creature next to him, holding a lantern. He seems similar in construction to both Death and the female, producing such a stink that Applejack can smell him from where she hides in the bushes. Out of the Ghostly Dog’s hole comes a bone. It floats over to the female's open ghost-white hand, like she’s using telekinesis.
She finds her eyes drawn to that bone. There’s something... about it. Something worse than Death and the thing holding it, if such a level could possibly be reached. She’d felt terrified in the presence of Nightmare Moon, King Sombra, Death, the female thing… but this is worse than any of them. It's as if the bone once belonged to a nightmare that never stopped, a creature that never existed, a life of murder and sickness that never ended…
… And these creeps came this far, on this suspicious night, to find it…
The whole scene unnerves Applejack. The unseen claws of fear hook into her flesh, gripping her tightly—her breathing catches, her lip trembles, her heart beats faster. It’s astonishing that a scene so seemingly ambiguous could evoke such a powerful emotion.
What should she do? She should get help. Maybe go wake up Twilight—no, wait, Twilight’s over in Canterlot right now. Maybe Rainbow Dash? But she lives too far away, and in a cloud-house on top of that. Rarity? Pinkie Pie? Fluttershy? No, she ought to go get Big Macintosh—no, that would be a bad idea; what if these creatures heard her and chased her to her house? In fact, why didn't she think to take Big Macintosh with her for backup in the first place?
Her mind races, flaring and sparking at every idea. She swallows as she watches the group begin to chatter with each other. Were they going to leave? Maybe that would be the best thing to do—simply wait for them to leave and…
Oh, come on, Applejack. What are you, stupid? The night outside suddenly becomes so foul anypony could feel it, and on the very same night spooky creatures of species you’ve never seen before invade your orchard and find what looks like some kind of ancient rib-bone buried there. Doesn’t that sound the least bit suspicious to you?
And what about that feeling in your gut, Applejack? You can tell these creatures are up to no good. Just look at them: creepy tall skeleton thing in a black robe, a half-rotted dog that glows in the dark, two pale ape-like creatures wearing the kind of clothing you’d see at a funeral gathering. Whatever’s going on here is just as huge as it is insidious. And it’s all happening in your own back yard.
Applejack is torn from her inner turmoil by a series of warbled shrieks. She holds her breath, her eyes bulging in terror at the thought that she’d been discovered. Snapping to reality (dream, she reminds herself—memory, she amends), she looks towards the group of gathered terrors and finds the dog barking (that shrieking was barking?) in the direction opposite hers.
Death pops out of existence again, rematerializing in front of an oddly-shaped shadow she hadn’t noticed before. The female takes a few steps forward while the male hangs back, his lantern swaying in the darkness. The mellow light it casts reveals the shadow to be Dirt Nap, the local grave digger.
Applejack raises an eyebrow. What’s he doing in her orchard? She hopes he wasn’t there to pilfer apples. Again. Or peep into her window to watch her sleep. Again. Whatever his business was, it’s been cut short—Death now looms over him.
The female draws near to Dirt Nap, talking. She’s too far away for Applejack to make out what she’s saying, but thanks to the lantern light, Applejack can plainly see the look of enchantment on Dirt Nap’s face. Is she some kind of ape-unicorn thing, casting a spell on this unlucky undertaker? She hears words finally: "revive... Lord Dracula... belong."
Dirt Nap says something to the female. Maybe it’s that she remembers this so clearly, but Applejack can make what he’s saying from over here: “We belong.” Those are the only two words she hears out of him, but they scare her. We belong? Like, together? What kinda hickory-smoked hoodoo was that ape-icorn pulling?
It’s then that she notices she’s leaning too far forward in her hiding place. Before she knows what she’s doing, Applejack finds herself losing her balance slightly. It makes enough sound for the Ghostly Dog to hear. It turns its head, its vacant, watery eyes burning holes into her soul.
Everything adds up faster than Applejack can comprehend. Her mind shuts down with a silent shriek, her body taking over, acting before and without thinking. She dashes forward as fast as she can, trampling the Ghostly Dog. This action draws the attention of the others. The male’s lantern glows wickedly, emitting deadly embers. He howls something that Applejack—lost in the throes of her terror—can’t hear.
Applejack quickly seizes the lantern and smashes it against the male’s chest. His scream is high-pitched and ghostly, ringing in Applejack's ears as he is engulfed in flames. She bowls him over as he burns, and rushes for the last three.
It’s only a second-long. Her run to them lasts for only one second. But it feels like forever. A moment in time she knows she’ll remember long after all this is over. Death’s shadowy, distorted face as an awful noise erupts from it. Dirt Nap’s surprised look. The menacing red eyes of the female. Applejack hadn’t noticed her eyes before, but they’re piercing and awful, like a pair of spears shooting from her skull—meant to impale and eradicate.
During this period, Applejack hears two voices in her mind, both screaming over each other. The first screams
(I’M GONNA DIE I’M GONNA DIE I’M GONNA DIE)
while the other bellows
(I DON’T WANNA DIE I DON’T WANNA DIE I DON’T WANNA DIE)
Everything happens so fast that Applejack honestly has no idea what’s going on until she finds her hooves pounding the orchard ground at full speed with the rib between her teeth.
Applejack turns over in her uneasy dozing, smacking her lips as she does so. She groans as slumber once again dares to tease her tired, troubled mind with a memory.
Fire all around her. She can both smell and taste the smoke. Screams and crow-calls descend from the air along with the ashes. Ponyville is burning. Dying. Being murdered. Monsters Applejack has never seen before shamble about, alongside long-dead ponies and mad animals, maiming and killing and shrieking and laughing.
Applejack remembers only a little of this. Only a little. There's Rarity. There's Sweetie Belle. And there are dogs. Lots of dogs. All foaming at the mouth. All roaring like savage creatures, intent on tearing her friends to ribbons.
Like before, everything happens fast. Lightning. Unlike the first time, there’s no moment of slowing down; strangely, the inverse has happened. Everything speeds up—bones are snapped so quickly there’s no time to hear them break; stomachs burst without a sound; canine faces are crushed in utter silence.
The sound only comes back when all that remains under Applejack’s hooves is a reddish-pink mush.
Applejack remembers shivering. Terror. Awful, piercing terror. Like the female’s eyes in the orchard, only stronger. She looks to Rarity and sees her eyes wide with shock. At first, she thinks Rarity must be terrified of her.
But before she gives an apology, she notices the dead dogs under Rarity’s hooves.
And she notices Rarity’s hooves are covered in blood.
Rarity too shivers in awful, piercing terror.
Applejack turns again, feeling a small nudge at her side.
This one happened only an hour or so ago, she and Aeon walking back to Sweet Apple Acres as Ponyville creaked and groaned awake. As she slips further and further away from dozing and into actual slumber, her clear memory of this event becomes muddled with dream logic. The skies become a wave of many colors, like a fleet of balloons.
She tries to remember Aeon’s words but they sound like they come from miles away. Had she even been paying attention? Something about Janine. She can tell from the way Aeon talks about her she meant a lot to him, perhaps everything to him.
The red orb. Something about it, about Janine.
Applejack.
About the orb, and Travelers, and Janine, St. Germaine, and Galamoth.
Applejack, wake up!
And the Castle, that Castle, that evil, damn Castle, it looks down at Applejack with a knowing smile even though castles can’t smile this one can and it smiles as Travelers and don't be late everything skies full of colors and Janine and mad dogs and Galamoth Galamoth Galamoth with Aeon? Aeon? Aeon? twelve o’clock noon everything library don’t be late red eyes we’ll know we’ll know
“Applejack!” says the nudge. “Applejack, you wake up, y’hear? ’Salready been an hour—yer naptime’s up!”
The nudge is gentle, her voice tiny and soft. Applejack reaches over behind herself, touching her younger sister, feeling her head. It looks to Apple Bloom as if Applejack is stopping a noisy alarm clock.
With an aching groan, Applejack opens her eyes and is met by the barn around her. Hay and wood and tools and that ancient smell and everything else she’d grown accustomed to since her house was destroyed. Since Dirt Nap destroyed it.
“’Mup,” Applejack says. “Ah’m up.” She struggles back up to her hooves—her muscles bitching and her back croaking with the effort. She does some stretching exercises as Apple Bloom watches.
“Some’n wrong, Apple Bloom?” Applejack asks after some silence.
Apple Bloom looks away shyly, then comes back. “...You OK?”
Applejack stands up straight, looking sharply into her sister’s eyes. “Whaddaya mean, sugarcube?”
“You were mumblin’ some’n ’bout the library at twelve noon…?”
At Apple Bloom’s words, the memory rushes right back. Aeon promised to reveal as much of anything and everything he could later today—at the library, twelve o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.
“What time is it right now?” Applejack asks quickly.
“’Bout ten thirty.”
Applejack looks out the open barn door. She groans as her eyes adjust to the light. As everything comes into focus, Applejack sees Sweet Apple Acres—or what remains of it—and her home—or what remains of that. Burnt apple trees stick up from the ground like gnarled hands. Grass struggles to grow back on charred earth, like flesh trying to grow back after being burned away. Only a few farm structures are still operational.
A week and a half. A week and a half of restoring their farm… and still so much visible damage. They’d only been able to clear the debris. The real work has yet to begin.
Applejack lets out a small sigh. Her “let’s get to work” sigh.
“Ah got an hour or so before that partic’lar meeting,” Applejack says, turning back to Apple Bloom. “Ah’ll help git us replantin’ some apple trees today ’fore Ah go.”
Apple Bloom’s face is somber, as if a cloud has gathered over her. She looks worryingly at her sister. “Is everythin’ gonna go back t’normal, Applejack?”
Applejack thinks about it for a good few seconds. “Ah sure hope so, sugarcube,” she answers honestly.
A pause. Apple Bloom shifts her weight from one side to the other shyly. “Me, too.”
Applejack puts a comforting hoof on Apple Bloom’s shoulder. “So long as we stick together ’n stay the course, everything’ll turn out fine. Just gotta stick to it, that’s all.”
Apple Bloom attempts a smile, but Applejack can see right through it as if it were a glass window—and inside it is a veritable china shop of uncertainty. Applejack pulls her into a hug. “Just… Just don’t give up, ya hear?” she says quietly. “Never give up. That’s about the worst thing anypony could do in a situation like this 'un.”
She holds out Apple Bloom at a foreleg’s length. “You unnerstand me, Apple Bloom?”
Apple Bloom nods. “Sure, AJ. Ah won’t give up.” She smiles. “…Thanks.”
Before Apple Bloom can say anything else, she finds herself pulled into the dreaded Noogie. She erupts into a giggle fit as Applejack threatens to physically drill resolve into her head if’n it don’t stick with mere words. The two sisters pull away, finally, still caught up in giggling. It takes a few seconds for the giggles to leave.
“Ah’ll be out in a few minutes,” Applejack says. “Gimme some time t’freshen up first.” As Apple Bloom leaves the barn, Applejack calls out to her again. “An’ stay where Granny Smith an’ Big Macintosh ’kin see you!”
The first few seconds of being alone in the barn are spent sitting quietly with a bewildered grin. Applejack shakes her head, admiring at how well Apple Bloom is growing up. Goodness, she’s growing up so fast. Soon, she’ll have her cutie mark, and working hard on the farm, and…
…well. She’d take on the world. And she looks so much like Ma and Pa… She’d inherited so much from them.
Putting all this in the back of her mind for now, Applejack walks over to the barn wall where a small washbasin and the little mirror Rarity had loaned her both sit. She washes her face quickly, then begins the task of brushing the stray straws from her mane and tail.
As she does so, Applejack finds herself lost in her eyes. Her own father’s eyes.
(Our father. Is not. A killer!)
She’d inherited these beautiful colors from him. Her eyes flick to the Stetson hanging from a nearby hook on the barn’s wall.
She'd inherited so much.
“...You proud’a me, Pa?” she asks quietly. Her lips tremble. She looks back to the eyes in the mirror, the eyes she’d inherited along with everything else. The brush finds its way back to her golden mane, sliding through it, grabbing the straws and throwing them out.
After a few minutes, Applejack realizes she has been brushing her mane longer than she intended. She’d been too busy boring holes into the green eyes in the mirror. Inspecting them. Searching. For what, she is unsure.
A soul, perhaps?
Applejack shakes her head. No. Not going down there. You killed because you had to, AJ. The situation had soured too quickly to do anything besides damage. You were forced to hurt them before they hurt you.
And the dogs?
Oh, come on now, AJ! Get a grip! Those dogs were foaming at the mouth. Mad. There’s only one option when your dog goes mad, and that’s to put it down.
Really?
Of course.
But you didn’t notice Rarity and Sweetie Belle at all until after you’d killed the dogs, didn’t you?
Applejack snorted. What would the point in worrying about that be? She came across a group of mad dogs about to kill some innocent ponies, and she’d acted to save the would-be victims. There’s no evil in that, just like there’s no evil in self-defense.
And Actrise?
The brush pauses. Applejack looks away from those eyes, looks at anything else. The Stetson on the hook. The hay on the ground. Anything. Anything but those inspecting, searching eyes.
...well, that certainly wasn’t one of her proudest moments…
And if Big Macintosh wasn’t there, what would have happened? You would have either succeeded in killing Actrise, which would have ended up leaving several innocent ponies without a cure to save them—or, better yet, you would have gotten yourself killed. And what would have become of your friends then? Or your family?
Or Apple Bloom?
Applejack bites her bottom lip as she feels herself sweat. Her ears press against her head shyly as she looks away again. Good grief, it’s like she’s receiving a stern lecture from her Pa.
She shakes her head again, scowling this time—she tromps over to the Stetson on the wall and crowns herself with it—she walks out the barn door…
…and turns back to the mirror, back to those green eyes she’d inherited from her father, along with everything else.
“…Ah’m sorry,” she says to the reflection in the mirror. With that, she turns and leaves the barn.
Detective stories often hold that it’s fairly easy to break a perp under pressure. Just make the right threat, rough ’em up a bit, tell ’em they don’t owe those punks nothin’. (And it’s always “You don’t owe those punks nothin’” in a detective story, just like “We’re takin’ you downtown” and “She was a classy dame.”)
Of course, all that means is detective stories are stupid, stupid, stupid. When the perp’s boss holds more cards than you, getting them to talk is like trying to eat a wall. Nothing Shatterstorm could have tried would have mattered. He could have told Actrise she didn’t owe this Dracula character anything, but the fact is, she likely does. Very likely.
His time with Actrise in the interrogation room—a small, choked ass-crack of a room—yielded only a few things. The first he noticed was that this calm, cool, arrogant, powerful unicorn was suddenly timid and docile, flinching when Rainbow Dash raised a hoof to her as if she expected to get hurt. The slight French accent was gone. It’s almost like she’s a totally different pony now. He’d noticed it a little last night before that blue unicorn tried to give her a chance to escape, but this little session helped to definitely confirm his suspicion.
The second is that whatever Dracula and his minions are doing to keep Actrise quiet works. She doesn’t narc, doesn’t squeal, doesn’t rat. And he can see it in her eyes: she’s not talking because she’s terrified of what might happen if she does.
Shatterstorm recounts all this with Rainbow Dash on their way back to the library, where Twilight had told them to meet up with her. Rainbow Dash had noticed these things about Actrise, too—or at least, she claims to. It's not like she took notes or anything. Shatterstorm groans in exasperation. It's like high school joint studies all over again.
Before he can lecture her on taking her mission more seriously, a pegasus races by them, carrying a bag of hammers. "Comin' through!" he shouts.
“’Scuse me!” says another, heaving a barrel of nails.
They look around to find the sky is full of their fellow pegasi, darting about, helping the Ponyvillians with their reconstruction. Rainbow Dash recognizes a few of them. “Hey,” she says, “Looks like Cloudsdale’s lending a hoof.”
Rainbow Dash and Shatterstorm duck and weave through the busy aerial traffic. The ponies below bustle about as they reconstruct houses and buildings, the sounds of tools pounding and whirring and clanking. Out of the corner of her eye, Rainbow Dash spots a Cloudsdalian she could spot anywhere.
Her overall color scheme is a screaming ball of fire shaped into into an equine body. While she is out of her Wonderbolt costume right now, Spitfire wears what looks like a military shirt, complete with a tie. She and two other similarly-dressed Wonderbolts direct other ponies about, apparently acting as makeshift foreponies.
The previous year Rainbow Dash spent in the Wonderbolt Academy was a very impactful one, and one of the biggest benefits was that she and Spitfire went from “admirer” and “idol” to “student” and “teacher”. Rainbow Dash looks to Shatterstorm and grins impishy. She can imagine the look on his stupid face when he learns she and Spitfire are tight. Will it be dumbfounded shock? Jealousy?
But before she can swoop down to get Spitfire’s attention, Shatterstorm looks at Spitfire and brightens up. The smile on his face is wide and sudden, like a foal opening a present on Hearth's-Warming Eve.
“Spitfire!” he called.
Spitfire looks up, catching a glimpse of the oceanic-colored pegasus as he swoops downward and lands in front of her. A big smile stretches her face as her eyes dance happily. “Shatterstorm!” she cries.
He nods, still smiling. “How’s it going, Spitz?”
Spitfire wraps a foreleg around him as Rainbow Dash descends in thunderstruck silence, her jaw slack and eyes wide. She’s too stunned that they're already acquainted to notice the way Shatterstorm tenses at Spitfire’s touch. It’s there and gone in a blink.
“I’m doin’ great,” Spitfire says. “I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages, kid!” She pulls away a second, her eyes attaching themselves to his tumbling, ocean-green mane. “And you’re letting your mane grow back, I see.”
Shatterstorm shrugs, his sudden nervousness apparently forgotten. “It’ll take some time for me to look like a rock star again,” he says with a nonchalant shrug and boyish grin. The way he says rock star, and the way Spitfire chuckles at it, imply a chummy inside joke. Suddenly, Rainbow Dash feels an incredible amount of jealousy, an emotion that burns through her with jarring force. Her teeth clench angrily as she stares daggers at the back of Shatterstorm’s head.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Shatterstorm asks.
“The Mayor of Cloudsdale and the Mayor of Ponyville decided to lend hooves to one another,” says Spitfire. “In light of recent events, you know? This is the kind of time we ponies ought’a stick together.”
“Took ’em long enough,” Shatterstorm smirks. “But what about Cloudsdale?”
Spitfire shrugs. “Cloudsdale got attacked, same as Ponyville. We managed to survive as best we could for about a week before figuring we’re better off together on the ground with Ponyville than by ourselves in the sky.”
“Well, Ponyville does have a defense forcefield now,” Shatterstorm says.
Spitfire laughs. “True. Kinda hard for us pegasi to get one of those.”
At the news of her hometown’s fate, Rainbow Dash lets go of her jealousy with a sigh, letting her escaping air take it someplace far away. She recomposes herself, reminding herself that there are much bigger things going on than News Flash: Shatterstorm Cheeses Off Rainbow Dash Yet Again!
Shatterstorm gives Spitfire a hoofbump before he tells her he has to go. He turns to leave. “Oh, wait,” he says, turning back around. He unfolds one of his colossal wings in Rainbow Dash’s direction. “This is Rainbow Dash; she’s a friend of mine.”
Spitfire nods. “Yeah, I know her,” she says with a knowing smile. “She’s currently training to be a Wonderbolt.”
Shatterstorm looks at Rainbow Dash strangely. “You? You’re a Wonderbolt cadet?” he asks in genuine surprise.
Rainbow Dash finally receives the look of bewilderment she’d wanted. She pompously puffs out her chest, her cocky smile smugly, silently tugging at Shatterstorm’s ego.
He turns back to Spitfire, his eyes glazed-over. “Seriously?” he asks with a dry, flat tone. “Y-You’re kidding me, right?”
Rainbow Dash deflates with a huff. “Oh, what? Can’t believe somepony this awesome can be a Wonderbolt?”
Shatterstorm smirks. “No, I just can’t believe somepony as undisciplined and lackadaisical as you are could have trained under Spitfire.” He shakes his head as Rainbow Dash clenches her teeth, feeling her anger bubble up again.
“You sure she’s Wonderbolt material?” he asks Spitfire.
Spitfire laughs as Rainbow Dash sizzles. “Just as much as me, Junior. And if I recall correctly, there was this one kid in the cadets who was so snotty, rude, and disobedient that I had to go out of my way to straighten him out.” She grins maliciously. Shatterstorm’s eyes try to escape Spitfire’s as a blush comes over his face.
Rainbow Dash laughs. Before Spitfire can continue, Shatterstorm reminds Rainbow Dash that they have to return to the Library. Rainbow Dash nods. “Naw, it's OK,” she says. “You can go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Shatterstorm inspects her behind squinting eyes and a growing frown. He knows—they all know—that Rainbow Dash intends to glean more hilarious history from Shatterstorm’s time in the Academy, and that Spitfire’s all too eager to oblige. Shatterstorm sighs, glumly accepting what he can’t prevent. “Sure,” he growls. With a fuming flap of his wings, he takes off for the Library.
Rainbow Dash looks to Spitfire as Shatterstorm flies out of earshot. “So,” she starts. “Shatterstorm was a Wonderbolt cadet?”
“Was,” Spitfire emphasized.
“He get kicked out?”
Spitfire shakes her head. “No, actually, but he did get punished a lot. He was only disobedient because he was like, sixteen. All boys that age are rebellious.”
Rainbow Dash raises an eyebrow. “I... didn’t think the Wonderbolts took in anypony that young.”
“The kid crashed into a hurricane and destroyed it!” Spitfire said, waving a hoof to emphasize her point. “We’d have to be crazy to turn down an applicant with that kinda cred!” She leans in. “And for the record, you didn’t have to wait that long to submit your application, either. You broke the sound barrier with literal flying colors when you were like… what, seven?”
Rainbow Dash shrugs. “Just wanted to have all my cards in place first,” she says. “Anyway, I think I know the real reason he was so rebellious.”
“…You think he’s sexist, don’t you?” Spitfire smirks. Rainbow Dash nods. Spitfire sighs sadly, and lowers her voice. “Look, he’s…” She pauses, trying to figure out a polite way to phrase her next sentence, then leans in forward and lowers her voice further. “…Shatterstorm is really complicated. For reasons I don’t think I have the right to explain,
(“You were always good to Momma.”)
he’s always had problems with mares, especially mares in positions of authority.” Spitfire’s face brightens. “He’s apparently warming up to you though, so that’s progress.”
Rainbow Dash only notices her own bothered frown just now, and wipes it away with an understanding nod. “Yeah, he’s… I-I’ve noticed that.”
“But he’s a very sweet guy once he cools off,” Spitfire continued. “He and I became almost like brother and sister later on during his time in the Academy. Heck, we even kept in touch long after he’d left.”
“Why’d he leave, anyway?” Rainbow Dash asks.
Spitfire gives Rainbow Dash a tired smirk one can associate with telling a reluctant truth. “Same reason you almost did,” she says. “It was my first year as drill instructor for the new recruits. And, noob I was at the time, I made the mistake of pairing him with a pony with a lot of talent but no self-control, and he didn’t like having to put up with her.
“At first, I chalked it up to his conflict with mares, but he was also a very promising flyer and I hoped he could tough it out, but… well…” Spitfire shrugs. “I mean, both Shatterstorm and this other kid—Blue Yonder, I think her name was—had some real talent. If you and that one kid… uh…” She taps her hoof on her cloud, trying to recollect the ex-cadet’s name.
“Lightning Dust,” Rainbow Dash says. She dislikes the memory associated with that name: that cocky, uncontrolled pegasus whose antics were a danger to everypony around her. Perhaps the most disgusting was her apparent lack of remorse or empathy.
Spitfire points. “Yeah, Lightning Dust. If the two of you are speed, Shatters and Yonder were power. No matter what we threw at them, they plowed through it like it was wet toilet paper.” She chuckles a little. “They were a great pair—at least, at first.”
Boy, that sure sounds familiar, Rainbow Dash thinks.
“But then it happened. Shatterstorm packed his things, walked into my office, said his piece, left his badge on my desk, and walked out. We found a letter in his room, on his bed, that explained everything, telling me why he left, apologized for leaving…” Spitfire smiles wistfully. “…and then apologized for being such a little snot to me.” She closes her eyes and chuckles slightly.
“So there I was, down one star flyer and finding myself having to expel another for her reckless behavior. And when I found the same thing happening again almost seven years later”—she leans forward, smiling—“to yet another pair of star flyers, the first thing that ran through my mind was, Oh great, we have another Shatterstorm situation. I was lucky I stopped you before you left.”
Rainbow Dash sniffs a laugh. She remembers that debacle a little too clearly. Her laugh is joined by Spitfire, who looks back down at the working ponies below.
“Shatterstorm’s actually a lot like you, come to think of it,” Spitfire says suddenly. “You’re both stubborn, determined, gutsy, passionate, daring…” She looks aside at Rainbow Dash. “…very loyal…”
After a second, Rainbow Dash blinks. “Oh brother, not you too,” she groans, facehoofing.
Spitfire laughs and gives Rainbow Dash a playful shoulder-shove. “Hey, I just want the two of you to be happy,” she says with a smile. “Plus, this is Shatterstorm we’re talkin’ about here. Dude needs a girlfriend, stat.”
“Well then, he’s gonna hafta look somewhere else,” Rainbow Dash frowns as Spitfire giggles. Rainbow Dash brightens up. “It’s been fun talkin’, Spitfire, but it looks like we’re both busy.” She gives Spitfire a hoof-bump, turning around and readying her wings for take-off. “Catch ya later!”
“Hey, before you go, can I ask you something?” Spitfire says suddenly. Her tone catches Rainbow Dash off-guard. It sounds quiet… serious, even. Not nearly so laid-back as she was only moments ago.
Rainbow Dash turns around, an eyebrow raised. “…Yeah?”
Spitfire bites her bottom lip thoughtfully. She didn’t mention it before—even pretending it didn’t happen so as to not alarm Shatterstorm—but she felt the way his body tensed when she hugged him. It was as if he’d expected her to hurt him…
A pause. Then, “Nah, forget it.” Spitfire laughs it off, making a mental note to ask Shatterstorm himself when they meet next. “Peace out,” she says. With that, Rainbow Dash takes off from the cloud, making a beeline for the library.
Spitfire returns her gaze to the worker ponies below. “Hey, you!” she yells down to a purple earth pony. “Yeah, you! You put that flask away and get back to work!”
“Sorry, Spike,” says the salespony. “But I don’t give credit. Come back when you’re a little richer.” He’s a skinny thing, covered in acne. The dorky glasses, brown mane, and nasally voice go well with his milquetoast mannerisms. Everything about him begs to be punched and kicked.
“But you’re the only stand here in the whole marketplace who sells them!” Spike protests.
The haughty salespony’s nasally squeal becomes more refined. “Pan’s Needles are of precious commodity, especially now. I can’t part with them for less than a hundred bits each.”
Spike looks down at the bag of money he’d brought with him. After purchasing the other ingredients Twilight needs, he was left with a little under ninety bits. His scaly lips contort as a soft, aggravated grunt escapes his nostrils.
“No bits, no Needles,” the salespony says curtly. With that, he turns his attention back to setting out wares for other potential customers.
Spike sighs, slumping his shoulders. As he turns to go back to the Library, he hears something land next to him. “Hey, Spike!” says Shatterstorm. “What’s up?”
Spike looks to Shatterstorm with a grumpy frown. “Hey, Shatterstorm,” he says.
“Sounds like something’s wrong in Spike Land,” Shatterstorm says. His casual choice of words is offset by his serious tone. “Somethin’ bothering you?”
Spike went through a quick explanation: the list Twilight made (Which was thankfully short), the items he was sent to acquire, and finally the current issue of the problematic salespony and his ridiculous expectations for trade. “I can’t seem to talk him down,” Spike sighs.
Shatterstorm nods understandingly. "Well, I have a little money," he says. "I'll help you out." They return to the ingredients stand.
The salespony turns around with a disinterested look in his eyes. “Yes?” he sniffs.
Just the sound of his voice alone makes Shatterstorm want to punch him. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give my friend here my military discount?”
At this, the salespony stiffens. “Military?” he asks.
Shatterstorm puts a hoof to his armor. “Military,” he says, smiling.
The salespony nods. “Well, I think I can appropriate for that.”
Spike smiles at Shatterstorm. “Thanks,” he whispers as he reopens his moneybag.
“That’ll be ninety-nine bits per Needle.”
A pause sinks between seller and customers, the quiet noise of the marketplace becoming quieter. “Your military discount is only one bit?” Shatterstorm asks incredulously. “Seriously?”
“Pan’s Needles are incredibly difficult to come by,” the salespony explained. “And with the trains and other forms of quick transportation almost completely down at the moment, I’m stuck having to raise prices on everything just to make ends meet.”
Shatterstorm scowls. “That’s not making ends meet, that’s price gouging!” He waves an accusing hoof at the salescolt. “You’re deliberately taking advantage of someone in need!”
“The same could be said of all sales ethics,” the salespony shrugs.
A tense silence. Finally, Shatterstorm sniffs. He turns to Spike. “Come on, we’re going.” The two then depart from the ingredients stand.
Shatterstorm groans and runs his hoof through his ocean-green mane. I can’t believe that guy! he thinks. As his thoughts become grumbles, his eyes descend to his dragon companion, whose attention has floated elsewhere. His moody body language has been swapped for one more perky and lively.
“Hi, Rarity!” he chirps, waving.
Her purple mane has been redone from the nearly-day’s-length it spent neglected, back to its beautiful curls. Her pearl-white coat becomes positively radiant in the late-morning light, drawing special attention to the scrumptious curve of her back and the delicate shape of her face.
Shatterstorm looks to her and holds a breath, watching. Waiting to see what she would do.
“Good morning, Spike darling,” she greets, giving the dragon a quick hug. “And how are we today?”
“Well,” Spike began, “we were trying to get this one guy to reduce his price on some Pan’s Needles, but he wouldn’t budge, so…”
“Who are we talking about?”
Spike jerks a thumb to the ingredients stand. Rarity smiles and nods. “Leave this to me, darling.”
Shatterstorm observes Rarity as she walks to the stand. Her body language has changed completely—from casual canter to enchanting sexiness in as few as two hoofsteps. A blush forms over his cheeks as he watches the sway of her hips and the way her tail seems to bounce with every step she takes.
He can’t hear the conversation she has with the salespony, but the looks on their faces say everything he needs to know. Petey Pizza-Face has probably never been laid in his life, as evidenced by how immediately enraptured he is by the sudden attention of such a beautiful mare. Rarity’s winning smile—as framed by her full lips—moves in just the right way, saying just the right things.
Shatterstorm sees all the signs. Nervous coughing. Adjusting his glasses and bowtie. The increasing redness of his face. He’s being pulled in. Helpless.
Finally, after some further smooth-talking, the Pan’s Needles are hoofed over to Rarity, in exchange for a small purse that probably hold less than half the bits Spike was carrying. Rarity puts the Needles into her own saddlebags, winks to the salespony, then returns to Spike and Shatterstorm, her sexy saunter not stopping until she was sure she was out of the salespony’s sight.
Rarity gives Spike the Needles. He looks at her with eyes that contain more than admiration. Shatterstorm feels suddenly worried for his little buddy—the poor thing has a baaad case of puppy love. “Thanks, Rarity!” Spike says, “You’re the greatest!”
Rarity shrugs nonchalantly. “Oh, it was nothing, really. Anything for a friend.”
Toying with a lonely stallion was nothing to her? Shatterstorm thinks uncomfortably.
“It was fun helping you, Spike, but I really must run,” says Rarity. “I'm off to check on the damage done to the Boutique."
"I've been by there a few times," Spike says. "All the damage is on the first floor. Didn't look like the second floor was even touched." He smiles. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Red alarms blare in Shaterstorm's mind. If he doesn't stop Spike now, Rarity might take advantage of him the same way she did the salespony. "Spike, weren't you already running an errand for Twilight?"
Rarity brightens. "Are you now? Well, I don't want to keep you, darling." She looks into Shatterstorm's eyes. "Oh! How rude of me! I don't mean to act like you aren't even here, Shatterstorm."
"Don't worry about it," he says, shyly making eye contact.
That winning smile comes back. "I must say, I feel much better now that I know such a fine specimen of pegasus such as yourself is keeping an eye on my Spikey-Wikey."
The blush returns to Shatterstorm's face. He sighs through his nose and forces a smile. Rarity giggles at his reaction, that same kind of giggle a mare uses when she attempts to ensnare a stallion. That oh, he's so cute kind of giggle that's supposed to earn his attention.
Rarity pecks Spike on the head. "Be good to Shatterstorm for me, won’t you, darling? I’ll see you later.” She leaves the two, weaving herself back into the crowd of ponies in the marketplace.
“Isn’t she something?” Spike asks dreamily. Shatterstorm remains silent. “She’s just as beautiful as she is generous…” He places a claw to the spot on his head where he'd been kissed. "I... am never washing my head again."
Suddenly, an idea pops into Spike’s head. He turns to Shatterstorm. “Hey Shatterstorm, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
Shatterstorm answers Spike with a crooked frown and a heaving sigh. “Yes,” he says slowly. Apparently, Spikey-Wikey has forgotten about Shatterstorm's... problem... with mares.
Spike smiles. “Share some tips with me, then! How do I impress a mare like Rarity?”
A looooooong and uncomfortable silence. Spike’s smile slowly fades. “Shatterstorm?”
Oh, the wonderful world of dating. All the verbal abuse, the casually taking advantage of a lonely pony, the awkward sex that ends with tears and apologies and self-loathing. Shatterstorm clicks his tongue. “Trust me on this one, Spike. You don’t want her.”
Spike seems taken aback by Shatterstorm’s sour disposition. “What do you mean, I don’t want her?”
“You’re setting yourself up for epic disappointment,” Shatterstorm says despondently. “She’s a stallion-eater, Spike. There’s a million just like her.”
The crushed look on Spike’s face says everything even before he opens his mouth. “What are you saying?” he asks. “Shatterstorm, you don’t even know her!”
Shatterstorm grunts. “I don’t have to. What did we just see her do?”
“We saw her get us the magic ingredients Twilight needed!” Spike argues.
Shatterstorm nods. “Mm-hmm. And how’d she do that?” A pause. “By taking advantage of that guy’s desperate want for female company. She didn’t even think anything of it; you heard her.”
Spike goes from shock to outright anger. “He deserved it!”
Shatterstorm stomps a hoof, his wings fluttering. “Nopony deserves that!” he nearly shouts. “Nopony deserves to be taken advantage of like that! Mares like her pull stunts like that so they can feel powerful!”
“Rarity’s not like that!” Spike shouts, tears in his eyes. “She’s not like that at all!”
Shatterstorm facehoofs and growls. “Good. Grief. We just saw her demonstrate what kind of power she has, Spike. How many times has she pulled that on you already?” He looks Spike right in the eye. “You tell me.”
Spike wants so badly to tell Shatterstorm of all the wonderful things Rarity’s done. All the wonderful things Rarity is. But he’s already in the camp that thinks Shatterstorm isn’t willing to listen. And unfortunately, he’s right.
“You don’t know her,” Spike growls. He looks away. “You don’t know her at all.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Shatterstorm says. He sighs and puts a hoof on Spike’s shoulder. “Look, Spike, I’m just trying to keep you from making the same mistakes I made.”
With a quick movement, Spike throws the unwanted hoof off. “Love is not a mistake. And it’s not Rarity’s fault the mares you loved didn’t love you back.” His green eyes seem to pierce Shatterstorm—but not as badly as his words.
A few seconds pass before Shatterstorm realizes he hasn’t drawn a breath since Spike put him down. The little dragon turns and flees the market, escaping this confrontation with hot tears in his eyes. As he does so, Shatterstorm feels tears of his own well up. He quickly wipes them away.
He looks around to see several ponies staring—probably had been since Spike started shouting. Shatterstorm glares at them. “What're you lookin’ at?” he growls. The ponies in question resume their business, their hushed words buzzing around Shatterstorm like bees.
With a heavy heart, Shatterstorm flaps his wings and returns to the skies, making way to the Library again.
