The Things We Did: Mood Lighting
It wasn't glamorous, it had no budget, and it was hardly anything at all. At least you could walk in and tell that a party was supposed to be here. One of those parties you threw for your grandfather on his umpteenth birthday, which had just enough to satiate the notion that his family still cared about the old coot. Though this celebration was actually for a young stallion named Thunderblade, whose 18th birthday was to be celebrated this evening. Plus, this was going to be one of those parties where all the guests get drunker than life and start going at the first (even remotely) attractive pony they see, regardless of sex or any relationship they might be in. Not like anypony would remember afterwards, right?
So those half-asses decorations? Unimportant.
Whooves tied the second string holding the banner, which read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, THUNDERBLADE!
The font was accented with little graphics of storms and tornadoes. Whooves thought it was perfect, considering how much his best friend loved that kind of stuff. Despite being in advent of the (hopefully) fantastic events that were to unfold tonight, he knew Thunderblade would take the time to appreciate the little things. before hitting the makeshift bar on the kitchen counter. The pegasus had his priorities, that much was known.
The coffee-colored stallion checked the clock. Five-thirty. Better call up the guests.
***
At about six-fifteen, the partygoers began to trickle in. Among them begin Applejack, the naturally-beautiful, strong farmhand from Sweet Apple Acres; Vinyl Scratch, the fiery budding DJ with a memorable electric-blue mane; Octavia, classical music aficionado and Vinyl's lovely marefriend, was right by her side. Not too long later, a mare named Berry Punch showed up.
To this, Whooves had one single mental exclamation. Shit. Berry was known for hitting the bottle harder and more often than anyone else in Ponyville. Though she means well - and is also quite a passive drunk - no matter where she is, it is guaranteed that anything beginning with "al-" and ending with "-cohol" will be gone before morning breaks. (Not the isopropyl rubbing kind, though. She needn't make that mistake more than once in her life.)
Whooves had this covered, though. He had an entire minifridge full of assorted wines that, even though he absolutely hated them, apparently no one else did, especially not the pony in question. So he'd just direct the temporarily-sober mare to them. Problem solved.
After a few minutes came two more mares, obviously close friends. However, the brown-hued party host had no idea who they were. I really need to go through who's following me on Trotter... he noted. One of them had a bright-orange and tail, plus a carrot cutie mark to round out the theme. Her friend was slightly peculiar. She was wall-eyed. Whooves would never discriminate, especially not for something as petty as physical appearance, but it was an oddity he would not soon forget.
Then Thunderblade's "crew" came in. These guys can be seen as some thugs ready to back up their "leader", but really they just wanted to have a good time. So all was still well.
He checked the clock again. Six forty-five. Time to get this show on the road.
***
"Okay everyone, find a place out of sight of the door so we can surprise him," Whooves announced.
"Aw come on, no one does that shit anymore," one of Thunderblade's friends shot back.
"Yeah, I was about to tell my Ditzy about-" the carrot mare from earlier began, but was cut off by the host.
"You all will be here 'til the young hours of the morning, so what does half a minute matter when you will be rambling on about your fantastic life again afterwards," Whooves retorted, placing most of the sarcasm on the adjective, naturally.
The crowd mumbled in agreement as they did what hey were originally instructed to do.
Knock, knock-knock-knock-knock knock. Knock, knock.
Whooves flipped off the lights, heard the muffled jingling of keys as he backed to the side, and watched the door swing open. The stallion of the hour entered the considerably-dark condo, his confused look unable to be seen.
Then the dark blue pegasus was met with a blinding light. It wasn't that the living quarters had luminescence to rival Office Depony, but that he hadn't been seeing in good light since he left work at sundown. The hallway at the complex had many half-working or broken fixtures, casting it into a dim light, and it certainly wasn't for the mood.
While he overcame his temporary vision impairment, Thunderblade was greeted by a twenty-or-so-strong chorus of "SURPRISE!"
The Invincible, Invisible Driver from Burnout Paradise comes to Equestria: The Impossible Turn (of Events)
“Drive west to the Lone Stallion Ranch, the clock is ticking,” DJ Atomica’s voice excitedly commanded. A cakewalk, it’s only 2 miles down the road, the person behind the wheel of a Hunter Citizen thought. He’d been through challenges like this countless times, barreling down either side of the road with utter disregard for streetlights, innocent motorists, and billboards. It was a good life.
He didn’t mean to be such a reckless soul, it was just…
These damn cars! They’re so hard to control!
The certified joyrider decided to take the easy route. This included hitting a small-yet-steep ramp over a long, narrow block of median asphalt and making a clean landing. Three times. Things went smoothly, as they were hoped to be, but the Driver wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Coming off of the bridge, the final, unforgiving turn had to be made. You’d think bearing left after all this guy’s done so far would be simple, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. After boosting the entire length of the bridge, you’re hitting absolutely insane speeds even after running out of the stuff.
The Driver’s tactics were rusty, and more destined to fail than shooting an 1860’s-era Derringer pistol. Hit the emergency brake and turning to quickly slow down. This failed to work for several reasons. Firstly, he had hardly any road left to perform this maneuver. Secondly, he was still going much too fast. Thirdly, he was repositioning himself about 25 degrees in a car that can’t turn worth shit.
And with these bleak conditions, time began to slow down.
No, no, no, no…can’t do it can’t do it can’t do it…
Rubber and pavement, you’d think it would be a great idea to make an automobile. Except when it’s dragging two tons of metal in a direction it can’t roll.
Somewhere, the Driver swore he could hear the echoes of some teenager screaming “FUUUUUUUUU-,” but he wasn’t sure.
He braced for impact…
100 yards…
75 yards…
50 yards…
25…
10…
5…
Time slowed down.
***
Steam escaping the dead engine. A few birds chirping. The morning sun warming the surrounding air. Black fading to normal vision. And one hell of a migraine.
There are some tricks you just can’t pull off…
But wait, for once, the Driver wasn’t thinking this…he really said it!
“I’ve always been mute…how bad was that crash?”
He began to unbuckle himself from the seat, struggling in his dazed state to pull the latch.
In Obscurum: Excito Sursum
…Nothing.
My senses are returning, one at a time. First is my sense of hearing.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Is there a leak? Just that very thought tells me I can form basic, logical conclusions.
Here comes the next sense. Touch.
Drip-plop. I feel the tiny droplet of water slide down my face. I might as well be crying, but I have no emotions to support a conclusion indicating I am sad. With the sense of touch comes the notion that the surface I am on is very cold. And probably dirty. My initial reaction would be to try to stand or sit up. I can do neither. I shiver. The only upside is that I now know I am completely unhurt, except for a minor headache.
A third sense graces me. This time it is taste. Licking my lips, I taste nothing, but I realize they are dry. I suddenly feel thirsty, and it hurts to swallow.
Smell comes back. The only noticeable scent is musty air and a hint of…blood? That is quite the scary thought. I can’t be concerned with it.
The only sense I’m not sure about is sight. Either the room is pitch black or I’m blind. I guess I’ll find out in the long run.
I feel very tired. Was I not sleeping a few minutes ago? I may as well just lay here. I’m in no danger, so it wouldn’t hurt to-
“Do not sleep.”
Hearing is definitely back. I recognize the voice as one of a stallion’s, but I have never heard it in my life.
“Can you speak?”
For a moment, it seems I have forgotten how to form speech. Grabbing for words, I sputter out:
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Can you tell me who you are?”
For the first time since my awakening, I have hit a mental wall.
Who am I?
