A Thing of Oursby psimonChaptersThe Last FieldtripThe First SortieFancypants' Last DanceThe Last FieldtripOur One: A Story of Survival By Psimon Credits to Filler and StarmanTheta for inspiration Chapter 1: The Last Fieldtrip to Canterlot Every now and then, the one-room schoolhouse of Ponyville emptied onto the streets and was channeled towards Canterlot for fieldtrips. Whether to make use of the sprawling gardens and artifacts of culture in object lessons, to provide real-world exposure to the complexities and grandiose potential of their dominion, or to simply evacuate the schoolhouse for a time, the fieldtrips were usually well-received and entertaining. This field trip was no exception. The schoolhouse had been damaged in a rather unexpected bout of dismal weather. While repairs were being made, Ms. Cheerilee led some of the students to Canterlot to give those working on the school some freedom of movement. Coming along with the party were Mr. Cake – who coincidentally had some catering business to attend to – and the original perpetrator of the incident itself, a certain clumsy pony who had sought an opportunity to atone for the mistake and was sent far, far outside town limits in the name of that quest. Canterlot, of course, was clean, pretty, and all but glowing in the light of the mid-day sun. Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo were kept on short leashes and under close watch in no small part due to their association with the last disastrous field trip, to say nothing of Ms. Cheerilee's newfound awareness of the immeasurable capacity of the three to make good judgment calls. Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon were along as well, for two reasons: first, because such culture befit their education, and, second, because the adults involved in their lives knew it would be a good idea to give the five youngsters an opportunity to share a non-hostile experience and, hopefully, forge the beginnings of friendship. Harmony was, after all, what made ponies great... it did little good to have so many of them without it. The troupe arrived refreshed and excited at the great palace of Princess Celestia, but her majesty was not the one to greet them. Instead, the patently aloof Prince Blueblood thought it just quaint enough to deign to greet and host the group during their sojourn. It would, perhaps, be something of a service that would be good material to mention later, when his character was in need of defense. Even so, it was Fancypants who was called upon to do most of the work and most of the talking; Prince Blueblood only needed to be seen doing these nobly selfless deeds. He had no intention of deigning to perform them. The dialog was rather predictable. The party from Ponyville bowed their heads in respect, averting their eyes – but for one wandering one amidst the group – from sullying royalty and aristocracy with direct gazes. For their part, Prince Blueblood and Fancypants responded in customary fashion before making it known what was to occur: the group would be lead on tour of Canterlot en masse and in general before retiring to the Palace library for a series of readings from some of the great books. In their plaintive postures, it was enough to render the youngsters drowsy. Shuffled along by the adults, they passively lead the group's procession out of the castle and through the gardens, heading towards that promised tour with interest tempered severely by the stuffiness of the whole affair. As the group was rounding the corner through one of the ivied walls of the grounds, diverse expressions of surprise interrupted their forward march just after a strangely lean, foreign-looking pony came into view. His color was an odd not-black, not-blue, shifting sort of hue defying identification, but the effect was subtle in that it was plainly distributed over the whole pony, as if his appearance was but a cloak draped over some sequestered machination. He was standing beside a well which was not known to exist before now by anyone in the group, which caused the Prince and his conscript to pause long enough to neglect to ask the first question. “Would any of you like... to make a wish? This is a wishing well. It won't be here forever, you know; all you need to do is step up, make your wish, and toss one of these magical coins in,” the new figure cooed, nodding towards a small pile of black discs each the diameter of a tomato and the thickness of a spring onion stalk. “I've certainly not seen coins such as those before, Mister...?” Fancypants offered in an attempt to give Prince Blueblood opportunity to construct a witty repartee. “They're... foreign. Like me. How very astute of you. So astute that I won't try to deceive you,” he lied, “I travel the lands with this wishing well, bestowing the opportunity to toss these coins for wishes upon worthy souls from time to time and place to place.” Prince Blueblood found cause to raise an eyebrow while looking down his nose at the man, asking, “.... and what price the coins?” The strange stranger did not miss a beat in replying. “What an attractive question you have there. Granting wishes isn't a kind of magic you can grow on trees, yes.... these coins pay for that magic, but, you wish to know how you can pay for the coins. Very wise, very wise... a wish is a powerful thing.” The children shared confused looks whose longevity faded in the face of fascination at all the potentials. A wish – it was something each pony, not just the fillies, could quickly think of ways to spend. But Prince Blueblood had a good point... what would they need to spend to get them? “Are they free?” Sweetie Belle squeaked with optimism. With a shake of his head that almost masqueraded as a nod, the nameless pony clarified, “Almost. There is... a game, a magical game that we want to try to make better. My people, that is,” then a pause, as if he were trying to remember a script or figure his way out of a dead end, “We only ask that you play the game, that's all. You gain a lot.” “A game? AND a wish? Gosh, that's a win-win situation,” Applebloom observed in a fit of mathematics. The adults all silently passed around worried expressions, but the temptation proved too strong to maintain doubt. They were, after all, in the middle of the middle of everything good in Equestria. What cause was there to worry? This was a magical place, and none of them were used to doubting the virtues of it all the same. “I could sure use a wish,” Miss Cheerilee found herself confessing. It was a thought that did not get contested as everypony in the small throng nodded in agreement. Even Mr. Cake, who had been silent and did not intend to stay with the group after their formal presentation at the palace, found himself putting off his business to hear more about the offering of wishes. “Very well.... just come up to the well, whisper your name into it, and cast in your coin. That's all it takes,” the foreign-sounding pony all but whispered. To say there was not a rush for the coins would be too much of a smoothing-over of what happened next. The fillies dashed for the side of the well, eager to ensure their wish before there were no more coins or perhaps before they simply forgot their wishes. Miss Cheerilee commanded the same management outside the classroom as she did inside, however, and directed her students to form a line. That line formed behind the older ponies present, and among the adults, it was Prince Blueblood who was respected and feared enough to go first. They all took their turn, though it was only the last adult, the odd-eyed little pegasus, who hesitated. She couldn't think of anything to wish for – the world was a magical place full of potential and friends and adventure... but she did not want to hold up the line and risk being scolded, so she whispered her name like a treasured heirloom and participated in the little ritual. None of them felt particularly different as the pony nodded and informed them, “The game will begin tonight, and it will come to each of you in dreams. Prepare yourself, and leave as little to your tomorrows as possible, for they are promised to no one.” His voice dipped, almost quivering with a masked sadness, but he cut himself off before saying anything more. “We never did get your name,” Mr. Cake finally spoke up, sensing something amiss. “That's because I don't deserve it anymore,” came the reply, before the pony vanished along with the well in a chittering hiss that did not resemble anything natural in the world. The rest of the day went without great event, and that night, putting the experience out of their minds, each pony went to sleep doubting the encounter had even happened in the first place. That doubt would not save them from what happened next. The First SortieThe field trip had went as planned: a brief tour, some stories about the importance of harmony both for Equestria's past and her future, and a dinner which was received in varying degrees of appreciation. Having the benefit of a royal escort, the entire group settled into lodging amidst the palace, sharing rooms which were naught but partitioned alcoves of a large and lofty central apse tucked into the palace proper. Sometime during the night, each pony's dreams were violently interrupted by a dissonant hiss sounding something like a waterfall with a strange, metallic note to it like a bag of nails was just strewn about one of the palace's smooth stone floors. The scene then became the same for all of them: Prince Blueblood, Fancypants, Mr. Cake, Cherilee, the fillies, even their accident-prone comrade, all stood on an unbroken plane of the ruddy color of cinnabar filled with an equally unending, low hum. Standing in the middle of the circle they formed was the strange, foreign pony they had all but forgotten. Here, however, he looked quite different indeed. The almost shadowy coat of his mane was gone, along with most of his dimensionality. Instead, an ill-defined blob the color of an afterimage -- that flickering red, green, and blue shadow you see from time to time when looking away from something after having stared at it -- loomed like some desperate attempt of each pony to re-imagine whatever they saw in a matter less offensive to their expectations and understandings. He was not easy to look at, but fortunately, he wasn't the only thing to look at for long. Without any noise, the area about suddenly burned away to a night scene vaguely similar to Canterlot. It was a harder, bolder night, however. The moon seemed prouder, the stars bolder, the buildings a little newer... as if they had been rebuilt, as if they had been damaged before. The proud banners of Equestria were not to be found, replaced instead with some flowing moon-bedazzled flag that had an almost imperial, military feel to the way it cut through the night to announce itself. Each pony was, of course, in a slight state of shock. They expressed it quite differently. Silver Spoon was the first one to make any noise, and all she did was shriek. Miss Cherilee stared around and poked at the ground -- which seemed to still be some planar slice of sky -- as if doubting it. Scootaloo frantically flapped her wings for fear of falling from this height, scanning about for some cumulus safety net. "The game begins... I will show you how," said the weird, nebulous not-pony amidst the chaos. A clicking, clucking, scraping, pounding noise drifted through the air as the ponies were able to see they were not as much standing in mid-air as they were atop or within some great statue of some kind. It stood on its hind legs, but bore a quirky, balanced posture that wasn't like anything a pony would have ever wanted to try to manage. In the distance, a mass of platonic solids arranged in a vaguely equine fashion dwarfed a nearby parapet of a palace that was not unlike -- but not the same -- as the one they had been in before going to sleep. Applebloom trotted about in the sky on the unseen plane holding them up, "This is the best dream ever! I'm flying without trying!" Sweetie Belle recalled a story she had heard somewhere in her past and checked herself for diaphanous wings, not wanting to risk losing them to some over-indulgence. Prince Blueblood cleared his throat, "What are *you all* doing in my dream?" They were all interrupted by a screaming ray of cold, blue light blazing past them from the distant behemoth. They weren't touched by it, nor did they feel the cold, other-worldly wrath bound up in the light, but they all shared a sensation which belied the danger. "This is.... the game, that your wishes will come from," said the thing pretending it was a pony, "You take turns and fight. And win... to continue the game, that is. You... don't want to lose. This is more real than you might want to think." They felt themselves move forward, conveyed along with the strange, bipedal steps of the towering statue-like structure they were either on top of, inside, or somehow near. Like most dreams, much of the individual facts were fuzzy and hard to focus directly on for analysis. Whatever the details, the main sum of the particulars was that this oddly-shaped thing was advancing towards the other, smashing buildings and paths in its wake without regard for the damage, one of its legs -- which wasn't being used for walking at all -- outstretched menacingly, ending in a wicked point. Most of the ponies flinches and looked away as the point was driven into the other statue with a crunch, then a slice, then a pop. In the center of the other behemoth, a large sphere, pierced by that wicked point, steamed and hissed in the night. The pony seemed to level its gaze, though its eyes were indistinct from the rest of its murky visage, "You pilot this thing, and.... must break the core at the heart of the other. They *all* have cores." Diamond Tiara sounded unusually small when she asked, "This is... really happening? We're all together?" "What about the wishes, then?" Miss Cherilee asked, sounding less mature than the filly. "Oh, it's real... you'll have your wishes soon enough, if you keep winning," the almost-pony confessed, "I wish I could---" and it was then all cut off, like an umbilical cord. The morning came hard and fast, and the day had an awkwardness to it that came from none of the ponies neither understanding nor discussing what had happened. There was something strange to it all which kept their minds busy patching up the holes, filling the gaps, mending the loose seams whenever they thought about it, and it was easy enough to do so if they didn't talk about it. Self-preservation kept it from being a shared experience throughout the day as the field-trip continued; news from Ponyville reported the damage was more extensive than originally assessed, and there was no shortage of things to visit, see, and earn in Canterlot, so it was made into a three-day excursion. That evening, they all again retired to their lodging exhausted. In addition to a healthy round of exercise going about the capitol, there was also the burden of normalizing everything, of avoiding saying certain things, of fearing certain thoughts, of staying on top of their curiosities. There was also an accident involving the knocking-over of one of the larger tables during lunch, but everyone knew it wasn't on purpose and had no desire to make the perpetrator feel any worse about it. Again, their slumber was interrupted, though they did not meet that same pony from before in the odd, cave-like sort of chamber they stood about in a circle within. Instead, all that remained were a pair of very odd looking socks with five short little shoots coming out of them, perhaps for decoration or something. Before they could mention it, a small yet noisy creature the shape, size, and color of a parasprite descended on them. "Oh ... nevermind that," it said in a quirky female voice as the socks vanished with a brief hiss not unlike a steaming kettle, "Let's see who gets to go first. It's game time, remember?" The ponies all expressed different things: some disbelief, some fear, and for the youngest, even excitement. But it was Fancypants whose expression was the oddest, for he turned to look at something unseen. "Huh? Did someone call me?" He asked, looking about. "Ha ha! Lucky you! Going first is probably the best position. Except last... but we'll see who that is," the spritely thing half-giggled. "I don't... what.... is that?" Fancypants began to try to get more information, but as the surrounding bled away to a bleak, desert landscape with naught but a giant, hostile-looking dragon made of hard, solid shapes and orthogonal lines, he found himself dumbfounded. A dull thud accompanied by brief tremors filled the area as the statuesque... thing they found themselves associated with drooped to stand, properly, on all its legs, as Fancypants thought it should have in the first place. "I ... think I get the hang of it," he said, as he narrowed his eyes at their opponent. If this was going to be a game, he was going to win it with poise and without any doubt. He had a lot of people to impress, after all. But most of all, he really wanted his wish to come true. Fancypants' Last DanceThe air purred with tension and potential. The landscape was barren, sand-crested dunes going on in rolling waves from horizon to horizon. Amidst it all was a fractal, draconic figure menacingly imposing its silhouette against the sun-bleached, cloudless sky. Their own automaton, an awkward sort of thing trundling about on four legs, was equally geometric though it bore some passing resemblance to a pony in its current configuration. Fancypants tried to understand the situation as best he could. He was dreaming, but it was a shared dream of some kind. It felt more real and more vivid than dreams usually do. Could it be some form of magic? He thought back to last night, and to two day's ago, and recalled the dialogs. There was some kind of a wishing well, and he along with Prince Blueblood and a bunch of schoolchildren and chaperons from Ponyville had made some kind of a deal. Could this be the game they had to play for their wishes? There was a palpable sense of danger that betrayed the truth to any benign facade to the whole affair. Here it was, at last, though. For all the confusion, all the undefined risks, and all the unknowns, it might not turn out that bad. If this were a dream, he would just wake up, but if it were more than that, he would have it, finally... he found his thoughts drifting with the fluidity of disconnected consciousness. A past conversation filtered through the confusion to his waking ears. “You're a good one, Fancypants. You've even been able to make me look decent.” “Come come, Blueblood, there's a difference between self-deferential and self-detrimental. You needn't be so hard on yourself; really, all you did was make some incorrect guesses. No one can fault anyone for that. I'm sure she'll be back in Canterlot and in your presence, not throwing cake at you, before you know it.” “It is my duty to find and provide guidance, the compass for our future... it happens to be my cutie mark, you know. That means I shouldn't make such careless errors.” “Ah, but mine, you know, is a series of crowns. Aiding the royal family is my special talent, and where would I be if you gave me no opportunities to do so, hmm?” It was good enough a point to ease both their minds. Fancypants wasn't royalty, no, but he made a habit of being indispensable to them. Likewise, Prince Blueblood was indeed being trained to provide the kind of foresight other more famous members of the royal family were lauded for, but he himself was just as imperfect as any other pony. Maybe a little more imperfect, for all the poor socialization his cloistered upbringing afforded him; when you only knew one type of person and they all fell head over hooves to demonstrate their loyalty, you don't really find yourself expecting anything different from strangers. Fancypants was one of those rare ponies who didn't judge him for it, and furthermore, he was a unique pony in that he didn't let that stop them from being able to carry on a conversation. He was a forgiving one, even to someone like Prince Blueblood who couldn't find the courage to ask right-out for forgiveness. “Even if I'm supposed to be the one who charts our course, you always seem to have a knack for seeing things clearly,” Prince Blueblood complimented – something he found made him nervous, as it was not something that he found people reacted calmly to in the past. They tended to fawn. “Seeing things clearly? Not really; it's more about poise. Even when you're confused, scared, troubled... someone, somewhere, might be watching you. It's important to maintain your grace, or else you're going to just pass those bad things on to them.” “I see what you mean. Is that why you were so cool around that pink mare?” “Hardly! I was 'cool' around here because I find her attractive, oh prescient one!” “Oh … I see. That should work out well for you,” Prince Blueblood attempted to sound like an authority on the subject. Why he thought of that conversation, of the mare, he wasn't sure. As for Prince Blueblood and the matter of poise under pressure, however, there was little mystery. He was confused and scared half-to-death – he could feel his heart squeezing as if there were suddenly much more of him to keep alive – and barely attentive enough to the situation to notice a gout of flame the dark orange color of pumpkins leaping towards the group from the direction of the dragon-like beast, obscured now by its fiery breath. “Egads!” He declared, as the flame impacted their own automaton hard and spun it about with brute force. The group spun in kind, the world turning around with a swirling, lingering sort of inertia that lends itself to vertigo and being underwater. “Something like that won't do as much damage as your daydreaming will,” the parasprite from earlier cooed, floating down from some unseen perch onto the scene. “Focus, or it's gaaaaame over,” it giggled malevolently. The air around the front right shoulder of their own device, which bore the brunt of the flames, distorted with heat radiating invisibly off the unharmed exterior of the thing, some kind of material which had to be metal or very well-worked stone or... something else. Fancypants found his thoughts wandered and seemed to find information easier, making it all the more distracting to let his mind wander. “I'm aware of that much,” he said, maintaining his balance even as it was becoming more difficult to do so. “But what I do not know is whatever we are to do about this.” “Use your limited little mind! … To fight, I mean. You're the pilot, haven't you even noticed?” The parasprite did a little loop in the air as it spoke, which was not something expected of a parasprite. “It responds to my thoughts...?” The parasprite couldn't exactly nod, but it did rotate a little in ascent. “What else do you think it responds to?! There isn't much to yours, I know, but yes, you control it with your mind, and you had better hurry up and get controlling it before that one gets any closer,” in a tone that was at once angry, disappointed, and bored. Fancypants did not need to be told twice. With a trundling gallop, the horse-like beast under his command advanced over the sands and flew towards the dragon, in a statuesque pose not unlike some immortalized in Canterlot's gardens, and knocked it over, then stamped at its chest in a most methodical manner which by some standards could almost be called primal, if not distasteful. Scales were sheared away and fell with heavy impact on the sand, casting little dustclouds of fine particulate out from underneath them. Beneath the scales, there was no blood, no unsightly gore, but instead, stone and metal and strands, and then, beneath that, a sphere-shaped sort of oddly-discolored haziness. The core. Fancypants wasted no time in willing it trampled, and so trampled it was. There came a stillness to the air as Fancypants finally realized he was not alone. The rest of the ponies – Prince Blueblood, who he knew as a well-meaning neophyte, the Ponyville contingent, they all were standing in something of a circle, watching the scene with diverse shades of amazement, anxiety, and just a little fear in their faces. He opened his mouth to speak, to address them, hoping to rejoice in the victory. But no words came. His chest wrenched, heavily, and he gasped an exhalation as if he had been dealt a heavy blow. He felt his veins pulse, a tight beating of his heart sending his humor all astir in a cacophony of life and heat and surprise. “Kehehehe, it's starting, it's starting! The quickening!” Fancypants steeled himself and asked the little parasprite even as he felt his vision going a little fuzzy around the edges, “..What?” “You're still plugged in; you should be able to figure it out! Oh, the first time is always the most entertaining. The expressions....” the little parasprite cackled to itself, spinning about in a high orbit around Fancypants, but looking towards all the other ponies. He took the advice, immediately wary, and immediately weary. Closing his eyes and stilling his thoughts, he became acutely aware of something sliding out of him towards the great beast itself. He wasn't sure, exactly, what was happening... but the consequences came upon him like an anvil does the ground when dropped. He was dying. “No. Not.... like this, not where they will see,” he looked towards the fillies, thinking quietly to himself. There were parts of Equestria which were not given to the young. Truths of this world not lied about, but not paraded forth, either. They did not need to learn from this, from what he felt was happening, from death. It just was not how things happened. It was not normal, not harmonious, and scarcely elegant at all. “It's too late, it's too late! You played your round, your coin's already at the bottom of the well!” “I still draw air, do I not, you... thing, you?” Fancypants' eyes scanned about in desperation, in search of some way out, some solution, some idea. “Ohhhh,” the parasprite hovered in close, its expression plain and only but an inch away from Fancypants' eyes, “I can feel your thoughts, you know. I'm part of this thing, too. I know what you're going to try to do... it won't work, you know. I won't let it let you. This borrowed power will not bow to your primitive little wishes, ha! Ha, ha, ha! You may as well give up now and spare yourself the trouble! I won't give you permission to do it! You're not taking their little screams away from me!” The solution came to him like a bolt of lightning. Fancypants did not glare, though sweat dotted his brow and he found his balance difficult to maintain, “You must be new to Equestria, parasprite. I am Fancypants, the most important pony in Canterlot, a stallion of the first order and a unicorn at that. I...” he quickly threw out a hoof, maintaining balance and keeping himself from falling, “I do not NEED your permission.” His eyes were, but for the smallest moment, full of ire and spite. “Wha--” The little impish creature was stopped short and driven back by what happened next. With a magical warmth, Fancypants' horn emitted a field of light which expanded outward from him and encompassed the circle of ponies standing therein. The parasprite – if it even was a parasprite – was driven back with a hiss at the thing. Fancypants cleared his throat and spoke with the last of his breath and bravado in his sing-song refined tone, “Blueblood! I'm afraid this problem passes to you... take care of them. Tell her... she's beautiful,” he found his last thoughts drifting to the mare from his earlier recollection. The world went white for everypony, and dawn found almost all of them soon after.
The Last FieldtripOur One: A Story of Survival By Psimon Credits to Filler and StarmanTheta for inspiration Chapter 1: The Last Fieldtrip to Canterlot Every now and then, the one-room schoolhouse of Ponyville emptied onto the streets and was channeled towards Canterlot for fieldtrips. Whether to make use of the sprawling gardens and artifacts of culture in object lessons, to provide real-world exposure to the complexities and grandiose potential of their dominion, or to simply evacuate the schoolhouse for a time, the fieldtrips were usually well-received and entertaining. This field trip was no exception. The schoolhouse had been damaged in a rather unexpected bout of dismal weather. While repairs were being made, Ms. Cheerilee led some of the students to Canterlot to give those working on the school some freedom of movement. Coming along with the party were Mr. Cake – who coincidentally had some catering business to attend to – and the original perpetrator of the incident itself, a certain clumsy pony who had sought an opportunity to atone for the mistake and was sent far, far outside town limits in the name of that quest. Canterlot, of course, was clean, pretty, and all but glowing in the light of the mid-day sun. Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo were kept on short leashes and under close watch in no small part due to their association with the last disastrous field trip, to say nothing of Ms. Cheerilee's newfound awareness of the immeasurable capacity of the three to make good judgment calls. Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon were along as well, for two reasons: first, because such culture befit their education, and, second, because the adults involved in their lives knew it would be a good idea to give the five youngsters an opportunity to share a non-hostile experience and, hopefully, forge the beginnings of friendship. Harmony was, after all, what made ponies great... it did little good to have so many of them without it. The troupe arrived refreshed and excited at the great palace of Princess Celestia, but her majesty was not the one to greet them. Instead, the patently aloof Prince Blueblood thought it just quaint enough to deign to greet and host the group during their sojourn. It would, perhaps, be something of a service that would be good material to mention later, when his character was in need of defense. Even so, it was Fancypants who was called upon to do most of the work and most of the talking; Prince Blueblood only needed to be seen doing these nobly selfless deeds. He had no intention of deigning to perform them. The dialog was rather predictable. The party from Ponyville bowed their heads in respect, averting their eyes – but for one wandering one amidst the group – from sullying royalty and aristocracy with direct gazes. For their part, Prince Blueblood and Fancypants responded in customary fashion before making it known what was to occur: the group would be lead on tour of Canterlot en masse and in general before retiring to the Palace library for a series of readings from some of the great books. In their plaintive postures, it was enough to render the youngsters drowsy. Shuffled along by the adults, they passively lead the group's procession out of the castle and through the gardens, heading towards that promised tour with interest tempered severely by the stuffiness of the whole affair. As the group was rounding the corner through one of the ivied walls of the grounds, diverse expressions of surprise interrupted their forward march just after a strangely lean, foreign-looking pony came into view. His color was an odd not-black, not-blue, shifting sort of hue defying identification, but the effect was subtle in that it was plainly distributed over the whole pony, as if his appearance was but a cloak draped over some sequestered machination. He was standing beside a well which was not known to exist before now by anyone in the group, which caused the Prince and his conscript to pause long enough to neglect to ask the first question. “Would any of you like... to make a wish? This is a wishing well. It won't be here forever, you know; all you need to do is step up, make your wish, and toss one of these magical coins in,” the new figure cooed, nodding towards a small pile of black discs each the diameter of a tomato and the thickness of a spring onion stalk. “I've certainly not seen coins such as those before, Mister...?” Fancypants offered in an attempt to give Prince Blueblood opportunity to construct a witty repartee. “They're... foreign. Like me. How very astute of you. So astute that I won't try to deceive you,” he lied, “I travel the lands with this wishing well, bestowing the opportunity to toss these coins for wishes upon worthy souls from time to time and place to place.” Prince Blueblood found cause to raise an eyebrow while looking down his nose at the man, asking, “.... and what price the coins?” The strange stranger did not miss a beat in replying. “What an attractive question you have there. Granting wishes isn't a kind of magic you can grow on trees, yes.... these coins pay for that magic, but, you wish to know how you can pay for the coins. Very wise, very wise... a wish is a powerful thing.” The children shared confused looks whose longevity faded in the face of fascination at all the potentials. A wish – it was something each pony, not just the fillies, could quickly think of ways to spend. But Prince Blueblood had a good point... what would they need to spend to get them? “Are they free?” Sweetie Belle squeaked with optimism. With a shake of his head that almost masqueraded as a nod, the nameless pony clarified, “Almost. There is... a game, a magical game that we want to try to make better. My people, that is,” then a pause, as if he were trying to remember a script or figure his way out of a dead end, “We only ask that you play the game, that's all. You gain a lot.” “A game? AND a wish? Gosh, that's a win-win situation,” Applebloom observed in a fit of mathematics. The adults all silently passed around worried expressions, but the temptation proved too strong to maintain doubt. They were, after all, in the middle of the middle of everything good in Equestria. What cause was there to worry? This was a magical place, and none of them were used to doubting the virtues of it all the same. “I could sure use a wish,” Miss Cheerilee found herself confessing. It was a thought that did not get contested as everypony in the small throng nodded in agreement. Even Mr. Cake, who had been silent and did not intend to stay with the group after their formal presentation at the palace, found himself putting off his business to hear more about the offering of wishes. “Very well.... just come up to the well, whisper your name into it, and cast in your coin. That's all it takes,” the foreign-sounding pony all but whispered. To say there was not a rush for the coins would be too much of a smoothing-over of what happened next. The fillies dashed for the side of the well, eager to ensure their wish before there were no more coins or perhaps before they simply forgot their wishes. Miss Cheerilee commanded the same management outside the classroom as she did inside, however, and directed her students to form a line. That line formed behind the older ponies present, and among the adults, it was Prince Blueblood who was respected and feared enough to go first. They all took their turn, though it was only the last adult, the odd-eyed little pegasus, who hesitated. She couldn't think of anything to wish for – the world was a magical place full of potential and friends and adventure... but she did not want to hold up the line and risk being scolded, so she whispered her name like a treasured heirloom and participated in the little ritual. None of them felt particularly different as the pony nodded and informed them, “The game will begin tonight, and it will come to each of you in dreams. Prepare yourself, and leave as little to your tomorrows as possible, for they are promised to no one.” His voice dipped, almost quivering with a masked sadness, but he cut himself off before saying anything more. “We never did get your name,” Mr. Cake finally spoke up, sensing something amiss. “That's because I don't deserve it anymore,” came the reply, before the pony vanished along with the well in a chittering hiss that did not resemble anything natural in the world. The rest of the day went without great event, and that night, putting the experience out of their minds, each pony went to sleep doubting the encounter had even happened in the first place. That doubt would not save them from what happened next.
The First SortieThe field trip had went as planned: a brief tour, some stories about the importance of harmony both for Equestria's past and her future, and a dinner which was received in varying degrees of appreciation. Having the benefit of a royal escort, the entire group settled into lodging amidst the palace, sharing rooms which were naught but partitioned alcoves of a large and lofty central apse tucked into the palace proper. Sometime during the night, each pony's dreams were violently interrupted by a dissonant hiss sounding something like a waterfall with a strange, metallic note to it like a bag of nails was just strewn about one of the palace's smooth stone floors. The scene then became the same for all of them: Prince Blueblood, Fancypants, Mr. Cake, Cherilee, the fillies, even their accident-prone comrade, all stood on an unbroken plane of the ruddy color of cinnabar filled with an equally unending, low hum. Standing in the middle of the circle they formed was the strange, foreign pony they had all but forgotten. Here, however, he looked quite different indeed. The almost shadowy coat of his mane was gone, along with most of his dimensionality. Instead, an ill-defined blob the color of an afterimage -- that flickering red, green, and blue shadow you see from time to time when looking away from something after having stared at it -- loomed like some desperate attempt of each pony to re-imagine whatever they saw in a matter less offensive to their expectations and understandings. He was not easy to look at, but fortunately, he wasn't the only thing to look at for long. Without any noise, the area about suddenly burned away to a night scene vaguely similar to Canterlot. It was a harder, bolder night, however. The moon seemed prouder, the stars bolder, the buildings a little newer... as if they had been rebuilt, as if they had been damaged before. The proud banners of Equestria were not to be found, replaced instead with some flowing moon-bedazzled flag that had an almost imperial, military feel to the way it cut through the night to announce itself. Each pony was, of course, in a slight state of shock. They expressed it quite differently. Silver Spoon was the first one to make any noise, and all she did was shriek. Miss Cherilee stared around and poked at the ground -- which seemed to still be some planar slice of sky -- as if doubting it. Scootaloo frantically flapped her wings for fear of falling from this height, scanning about for some cumulus safety net. "The game begins... I will show you how," said the weird, nebulous not-pony amidst the chaos. A clicking, clucking, scraping, pounding noise drifted through the air as the ponies were able to see they were not as much standing in mid-air as they were atop or within some great statue of some kind. It stood on its hind legs, but bore a quirky, balanced posture that wasn't like anything a pony would have ever wanted to try to manage. In the distance, a mass of platonic solids arranged in a vaguely equine fashion dwarfed a nearby parapet of a palace that was not unlike -- but not the same -- as the one they had been in before going to sleep. Applebloom trotted about in the sky on the unseen plane holding them up, "This is the best dream ever! I'm flying without trying!" Sweetie Belle recalled a story she had heard somewhere in her past and checked herself for diaphanous wings, not wanting to risk losing them to some over-indulgence. Prince Blueblood cleared his throat, "What are *you all* doing in my dream?" They were all interrupted by a screaming ray of cold, blue light blazing past them from the distant behemoth. They weren't touched by it, nor did they feel the cold, other-worldly wrath bound up in the light, but they all shared a sensation which belied the danger. "This is.... the game, that your wishes will come from," said the thing pretending it was a pony, "You take turns and fight. And win... to continue the game, that is. You... don't want to lose. This is more real than you might want to think." They felt themselves move forward, conveyed along with the strange, bipedal steps of the towering statue-like structure they were either on top of, inside, or somehow near. Like most dreams, much of the individual facts were fuzzy and hard to focus directly on for analysis. Whatever the details, the main sum of the particulars was that this oddly-shaped thing was advancing towards the other, smashing buildings and paths in its wake without regard for the damage, one of its legs -- which wasn't being used for walking at all -- outstretched menacingly, ending in a wicked point. Most of the ponies flinches and looked away as the point was driven into the other statue with a crunch, then a slice, then a pop. In the center of the other behemoth, a large sphere, pierced by that wicked point, steamed and hissed in the night. The pony seemed to level its gaze, though its eyes were indistinct from the rest of its murky visage, "You pilot this thing, and.... must break the core at the heart of the other. They *all* have cores." Diamond Tiara sounded unusually small when she asked, "This is... really happening? We're all together?" "What about the wishes, then?" Miss Cherilee asked, sounding less mature than the filly. "Oh, it's real... you'll have your wishes soon enough, if you keep winning," the almost-pony confessed, "I wish I could---" and it was then all cut off, like an umbilical cord. The morning came hard and fast, and the day had an awkwardness to it that came from none of the ponies neither understanding nor discussing what had happened. There was something strange to it all which kept their minds busy patching up the holes, filling the gaps, mending the loose seams whenever they thought about it, and it was easy enough to do so if they didn't talk about it. Self-preservation kept it from being a shared experience throughout the day as the field-trip continued; news from Ponyville reported the damage was more extensive than originally assessed, and there was no shortage of things to visit, see, and earn in Canterlot, so it was made into a three-day excursion. That evening, they all again retired to their lodging exhausted. In addition to a healthy round of exercise going about the capitol, there was also the burden of normalizing everything, of avoiding saying certain things, of fearing certain thoughts, of staying on top of their curiosities. There was also an accident involving the knocking-over of one of the larger tables during lunch, but everyone knew it wasn't on purpose and had no desire to make the perpetrator feel any worse about it. Again, their slumber was interrupted, though they did not meet that same pony from before in the odd, cave-like sort of chamber they stood about in a circle within. Instead, all that remained were a pair of very odd looking socks with five short little shoots coming out of them, perhaps for decoration or something. Before they could mention it, a small yet noisy creature the shape, size, and color of a parasprite descended on them. "Oh ... nevermind that," it said in a quirky female voice as the socks vanished with a brief hiss not unlike a steaming kettle, "Let's see who gets to go first. It's game time, remember?" The ponies all expressed different things: some disbelief, some fear, and for the youngest, even excitement. But it was Fancypants whose expression was the oddest, for he turned to look at something unseen. "Huh? Did someone call me?" He asked, looking about. "Ha ha! Lucky you! Going first is probably the best position. Except last... but we'll see who that is," the spritely thing half-giggled. "I don't... what.... is that?" Fancypants began to try to get more information, but as the surrounding bled away to a bleak, desert landscape with naught but a giant, hostile-looking dragon made of hard, solid shapes and orthogonal lines, he found himself dumbfounded. A dull thud accompanied by brief tremors filled the area as the statuesque... thing they found themselves associated with drooped to stand, properly, on all its legs, as Fancypants thought it should have in the first place. "I ... think I get the hang of it," he said, as he narrowed his eyes at their opponent. If this was going to be a game, he was going to win it with poise and without any doubt. He had a lot of people to impress, after all. But most of all, he really wanted his wish to come true.
Fancypants' Last DanceThe air purred with tension and potential. The landscape was barren, sand-crested dunes going on in rolling waves from horizon to horizon. Amidst it all was a fractal, draconic figure menacingly imposing its silhouette against the sun-bleached, cloudless sky. Their own automaton, an awkward sort of thing trundling about on four legs, was equally geometric though it bore some passing resemblance to a pony in its current configuration. Fancypants tried to understand the situation as best he could. He was dreaming, but it was a shared dream of some kind. It felt more real and more vivid than dreams usually do. Could it be some form of magic? He thought back to last night, and to two day's ago, and recalled the dialogs. There was some kind of a wishing well, and he along with Prince Blueblood and a bunch of schoolchildren and chaperons from Ponyville had made some kind of a deal. Could this be the game they had to play for their wishes? There was a palpable sense of danger that betrayed the truth to any benign facade to the whole affair. Here it was, at last, though. For all the confusion, all the undefined risks, and all the unknowns, it might not turn out that bad. If this were a dream, he would just wake up, but if it were more than that, he would have it, finally... he found his thoughts drifting with the fluidity of disconnected consciousness. A past conversation filtered through the confusion to his waking ears. “You're a good one, Fancypants. You've even been able to make me look decent.” “Come come, Blueblood, there's a difference between self-deferential and self-detrimental. You needn't be so hard on yourself; really, all you did was make some incorrect guesses. No one can fault anyone for that. I'm sure she'll be back in Canterlot and in your presence, not throwing cake at you, before you know it.” “It is my duty to find and provide guidance, the compass for our future... it happens to be my cutie mark, you know. That means I shouldn't make such careless errors.” “Ah, but mine, you know, is a series of crowns. Aiding the royal family is my special talent, and where would I be if you gave me no opportunities to do so, hmm?” It was good enough a point to ease both their minds. Fancypants wasn't royalty, no, but he made a habit of being indispensable to them. Likewise, Prince Blueblood was indeed being trained to provide the kind of foresight other more famous members of the royal family were lauded for, but he himself was just as imperfect as any other pony. Maybe a little more imperfect, for all the poor socialization his cloistered upbringing afforded him; when you only knew one type of person and they all fell head over hooves to demonstrate their loyalty, you don't really find yourself expecting anything different from strangers. Fancypants was one of those rare ponies who didn't judge him for it, and furthermore, he was a unique pony in that he didn't let that stop them from being able to carry on a conversation. He was a forgiving one, even to someone like Prince Blueblood who couldn't find the courage to ask right-out for forgiveness. “Even if I'm supposed to be the one who charts our course, you always seem to have a knack for seeing things clearly,” Prince Blueblood complimented – something he found made him nervous, as it was not something that he found people reacted calmly to in the past. They tended to fawn. “Seeing things clearly? Not really; it's more about poise. Even when you're confused, scared, troubled... someone, somewhere, might be watching you. It's important to maintain your grace, or else you're going to just pass those bad things on to them.” “I see what you mean. Is that why you were so cool around that pink mare?” “Hardly! I was 'cool' around here because I find her attractive, oh prescient one!” “Oh … I see. That should work out well for you,” Prince Blueblood attempted to sound like an authority on the subject. Why he thought of that conversation, of the mare, he wasn't sure. As for Prince Blueblood and the matter of poise under pressure, however, there was little mystery. He was confused and scared half-to-death – he could feel his heart squeezing as if there were suddenly much more of him to keep alive – and barely attentive enough to the situation to notice a gout of flame the dark orange color of pumpkins leaping towards the group from the direction of the dragon-like beast, obscured now by its fiery breath. “Egads!” He declared, as the flame impacted their own automaton hard and spun it about with brute force. The group spun in kind, the world turning around with a swirling, lingering sort of inertia that lends itself to vertigo and being underwater. “Something like that won't do as much damage as your daydreaming will,” the parasprite from earlier cooed, floating down from some unseen perch onto the scene. “Focus, or it's gaaaaame over,” it giggled malevolently. The air around the front right shoulder of their own device, which bore the brunt of the flames, distorted with heat radiating invisibly off the unharmed exterior of the thing, some kind of material which had to be metal or very well-worked stone or... something else. Fancypants found his thoughts wandered and seemed to find information easier, making it all the more distracting to let his mind wander. “I'm aware of that much,” he said, maintaining his balance even as it was becoming more difficult to do so. “But what I do not know is whatever we are to do about this.” “Use your limited little mind! … To fight, I mean. You're the pilot, haven't you even noticed?” The parasprite did a little loop in the air as it spoke, which was not something expected of a parasprite. “It responds to my thoughts...?” The parasprite couldn't exactly nod, but it did rotate a little in ascent. “What else do you think it responds to?! There isn't much to yours, I know, but yes, you control it with your mind, and you had better hurry up and get controlling it before that one gets any closer,” in a tone that was at once angry, disappointed, and bored. Fancypants did not need to be told twice. With a trundling gallop, the horse-like beast under his command advanced over the sands and flew towards the dragon, in a statuesque pose not unlike some immortalized in Canterlot's gardens, and knocked it over, then stamped at its chest in a most methodical manner which by some standards could almost be called primal, if not distasteful. Scales were sheared away and fell with heavy impact on the sand, casting little dustclouds of fine particulate out from underneath them. Beneath the scales, there was no blood, no unsightly gore, but instead, stone and metal and strands, and then, beneath that, a sphere-shaped sort of oddly-discolored haziness. The core. Fancypants wasted no time in willing it trampled, and so trampled it was. There came a stillness to the air as Fancypants finally realized he was not alone. The rest of the ponies – Prince Blueblood, who he knew as a well-meaning neophyte, the Ponyville contingent, they all were standing in something of a circle, watching the scene with diverse shades of amazement, anxiety, and just a little fear in their faces. He opened his mouth to speak, to address them, hoping to rejoice in the victory. But no words came. His chest wrenched, heavily, and he gasped an exhalation as if he had been dealt a heavy blow. He felt his veins pulse, a tight beating of his heart sending his humor all astir in a cacophony of life and heat and surprise. “Kehehehe, it's starting, it's starting! The quickening!” Fancypants steeled himself and asked the little parasprite even as he felt his vision going a little fuzzy around the edges, “..What?” “You're still plugged in; you should be able to figure it out! Oh, the first time is always the most entertaining. The expressions....” the little parasprite cackled to itself, spinning about in a high orbit around Fancypants, but looking towards all the other ponies. He took the advice, immediately wary, and immediately weary. Closing his eyes and stilling his thoughts, he became acutely aware of something sliding out of him towards the great beast itself. He wasn't sure, exactly, what was happening... but the consequences came upon him like an anvil does the ground when dropped. He was dying. “No. Not.... like this, not where they will see,” he looked towards the fillies, thinking quietly to himself. There were parts of Equestria which were not given to the young. Truths of this world not lied about, but not paraded forth, either. They did not need to learn from this, from what he felt was happening, from death. It just was not how things happened. It was not normal, not harmonious, and scarcely elegant at all. “It's too late, it's too late! You played your round, your coin's already at the bottom of the well!” “I still draw air, do I not, you... thing, you?” Fancypants' eyes scanned about in desperation, in search of some way out, some solution, some idea. “Ohhhh,” the parasprite hovered in close, its expression plain and only but an inch away from Fancypants' eyes, “I can feel your thoughts, you know. I'm part of this thing, too. I know what you're going to try to do... it won't work, you know. I won't let it let you. This borrowed power will not bow to your primitive little wishes, ha! Ha, ha, ha! You may as well give up now and spare yourself the trouble! I won't give you permission to do it! You're not taking their little screams away from me!” The solution came to him like a bolt of lightning. Fancypants did not glare, though sweat dotted his brow and he found his balance difficult to maintain, “You must be new to Equestria, parasprite. I am Fancypants, the most important pony in Canterlot, a stallion of the first order and a unicorn at that. I...” he quickly threw out a hoof, maintaining balance and keeping himself from falling, “I do not NEED your permission.” His eyes were, but for the smallest moment, full of ire and spite. “Wha--” The little impish creature was stopped short and driven back by what happened next. With a magical warmth, Fancypants' horn emitted a field of light which expanded outward from him and encompassed the circle of ponies standing therein. The parasprite – if it even was a parasprite – was driven back with a hiss at the thing. Fancypants cleared his throat and spoke with the last of his breath and bravado in his sing-song refined tone, “Blueblood! I'm afraid this problem passes to you... take care of them. Tell her... she's beautiful,” he found his last thoughts drifting to the mare from his earlier recollection. The world went white for everypony, and dawn found almost all of them soon after.
