Slightly More Adult Gifts, Flashfics, Etc.
Bookworm's consciousness slowly drifted back to him like an incoming tide. He was barely conscious of the world around him, and even with his eyes closed the sensations slowly trickling into his brain threatened to overwhelm him. After what seemed like centuries, he was finally able to control the stream of incoming messages, separating and organizing them into sight, touch, sound. It was then he felt secure enough to open his eyes.
To his surprise, he regretted it less than he feared he might. He couldn't make out the particulars of the room he was in, but he could tell it was dimly lit by a single candle. As his eyes fluttered open, he could hear a rustling from the other end of the room.
"Oh, he's waking up!" The voice was high an clear as a bell, and Bookworm recognized it immediately as that of his dear friend Midnight Love.
"Shh, easy now, take it slow." The second voice he didn't recognize, a rich baritone that was distinctly marked by an accent that Bookworm couldn't quite place. He tried to scan the room for the source, but was rewarded only with a flood of pain to his temples.
"I said take it easy, chap. The Voltaran Vortex isn't something you just trot away from. You've had serious damage done to you Identic field, and it will take some repairing."
Bookworm wasn't sure if his lack of understanding stemmed from the unfamiliar words or his seeming lack of ability to form coherent thoughts himself, but he struggled to force a question out of his throat.
"Wh...who?" Before he could continue, the stallion's voice piped up.
"Oh, right, the amnesia. Of course, you wouldn't remember me, but we know each other well. I'm The Doctor."
"The Doctor just showed up on our doorstep." Midnight's voice was tinged with an air of concern. "Well, actually IN our doorstep."
"Yes, I seem to have wedged the TARDIS in a bit, but no matter. I'm sure you're wondering where you are"
"Wh...Where..?"
"Yes, I was just getting to that. You've been exposed to a bit of nastiness that has, unfortunately, given you a teensy, tiny bit of lack of soul. Purely reversible, of course, if you know the trick. And that trick happens to be, uh, breaking one of the fundamental laws of time and space that should never be broken under any circumstance ever."
"Wh...What..?"
"What law is that you ask? Uh, the minor law about never meeting your past self. You see, the only way to repair the damage to your "soul" is to get you in close proximity to your soul, and the only way to do that, for time travelers at least, is to visit your past self. So here we are. In your past. With you."
"Wh...When?"
"Ah, clever chap, you are! Jumping right to the pertinent questions. Well, the answer to that is, um, perhaps a BIT of an interesting one, you might agree. In all my travels, Equestria's Magic is one I've never quite found a match for. But, I'm not answering your question, so perhaps I'd be best off letting, uh, you answer your questions."
"Hello Bookworm." A third voice joined the first two, a soft, feminine thing, breathy yet rich. Much like Bookworm's own voice, save that it was raised a few octaves. In fact, so similar that the voice might have come from...
"Violet?" Bookworm finally managed to clear the burning sensation in his throat enough to spit out the word, and turning his head to look at the mare who was standing alongside Midnight confirmed his fears.
"Yes, well, it seems you were being a bit... adventurous at this point in your personal history. Not that I can't sympathize, my dear chap, but I never thought of using magic, I just preferred to wait for a regeneration... Ah, but we should leave you two to get better... acquainted." Bookworm wasn't quite sure what made that last word sound so ominous, but his vision was clearing, and the look of concern on his... on Violet's face took his thoughts of pretty much everything else. Including the pain that had previously wracked through his body.
He heard the clopping of hooves and the closing of a door as he took in her.. his... her face. Violet, or at least that was the name he had taken on as he allowed Midnight to turn him briefly into a mare, had his same steel gray coat, his same blue-and-violet mane, and even his blue eyes. She didn't wear the glasses that he affected, and she was much younger even then he had been when Midnight cast the spell, a little "extra" she had tacked on to the version that Bookworm found in the magic tome. He could remember having been her, but he certainly never remembered encountering his then-future self. At least, he didn't think he did...
"Ahem." The Doctor cleared his throat. "So, all you two need to do is spend some time together, and the self-ness will bleed from one of you into the other, which should stabilize you enough for us to get you some proper medical attention." He looked over slyly at Midnight, then back at the pair of identical-yet-gender swapped ponies. "What say we give them some room, shall we? He needs his rest, and he won't find it with a whole herd of ponies in his room." With that, he escorted Midnight out the door, and closed it behind them.
The two ponies left in the room stared at each other for a good long time. Bookworm had the sensation of staring into a funhouse mirror, one that reflected his image but bent and twisted out of shape.
He blinked. She blinked. He looked left, she looked right. Then they reversed the motion, unconsciously matching each other's movements almost exactly.
"So." Bookworm tried to break the silence.
"So." Violet's voice had the exact same inflection, but rather than sounding course and dark, it floated through the air like a butterfly. Bookworm had to admit to himself - though he felt like the definition of a narcissist doing so - he made a darn good filly.
It was at this moment that Violet giggled and - he remembered, he never had gotten used to the sound of giggles coming from his own throat at the time, though now they sounded positively charming - and Bookworm suddenly had the notion that she probably had a good idea of what was running through his head at that moment, and felt his own face turning red.
Violet seemingly couldn't take anymore and broke of her gaze, turning towards the far end of the room.
"Can I get you anything, Book? Something to drink?" Bookworm had to admit that his throat was still raw and burning, and accepted gratefully. As Violet crossed the room to the pitcher of water that had been left on the dresser, Bookworm suddenly felt weaker and nauseated. The pain in his temple increased, and he let out a soft moan without even realizing he had let out a breath.
"What is it?" Violet's voice was edged with concern as she galloped the length of the room back to Bookworm's side. As if somepony had flipped a switch, Bookworm felt better the moment Violet drew near. Swallowing to clear his throat, a thought came to him.
"Violet, could you... take a few steps back?" Bookworm wanted to test his theory, but had the feeling he might regret doing so.
With a short nod, Violet did as asked, slowly backing away with a look of concern mixed with puzzlement on her face. The effect was just as immediate as Bookworm had suspected; with each step backward his pain increased, and he began sweating profusely.
"Come... stop! Come back!" Violet, a look of understanding creeping on to her face, complied quickly, coming to her knees as close to the bedside as she could manage.
"it's distance, isn't it?" Bookworm nodded at Violet's conclusion.
"I think so. The closer we are, the better I feel."
"I thought so. Move aside fatty!"
"Fatty!" Bookworm tried to sound outraged, but the fatigue was evident in his voice. Violet ignored him just the same, and climbed into bed next to him, wrapping her forelegs around his neck and pulling him close. Bookworm shuffled aside as best he could to give her room, but the bed was small and only meant for a single pony.
Bookworm had to admit, despite the fact that most of his mind was telling him that she was, in fact, him - a younger, and more foolish him to be sure, but very much his own being - it felt good to be pressed up alongside her. Comfortable. Right. Like she knew just the parts of him to curl up against to make him feel the safest, ad he supposed she probably did.
There was another part of his brain speaking as well, that he did his best to suppress. The part that told him he was curled up in bed with a young, and to his eyes at least beautiful mare. That part bothered him, and he willed it to go away as best he could, but it persisted, and began making itself present in other, more... physical ways.
He could hear Violet giggle, and knew that in all likelihood her mind was thinking along the same lines. He had, after all, some experience with her mind. He also remembered that, at the time of his transformation, he was unaccustomed to all the filly hormones running through his bloodstream. That, combined with the fact that he - she - seemed to turn heads wherever she went, had caused a rather unexpected level of desire in her young filly body. As a mare, his devotion to his then-marefriend Aloe had prevented him from acting on those urges, but...
"You know, it wouldn't be cheating." Violet's soft whisper took him by surprise, and when he looked in her eyes, he could clearly see that her thoughts had been mirroring his all along, even without the gift of foresight that he had. "It's no different then, say... 'clopping'."
The use of the adolescent slang term made him laugh shortly and blush at the same time.
"But, you're... me! You're like my sister!" Bookworm almost convinced himself that it was a bad idea to pursue this line of thought. Almost.
Violet just giggled and smacked him on the forehead. "I'm not your sister, I'm you, you foal. You, but younger and prettier. I know as well as you do that you take matters into your own hooves often enough. I've done it too," Bookworm nodded slowly at the memory of the one experiment he had allowed himself as a filly. "How is this any different?"
Bookworm would have been abhorred by the suggestion had it come from anypony else. But of course he couldn't deny that the curiosity had been running around his brain, and Violet's line of reasoning was exactly the same as the one his brain was feeding him.
Bookworm sighed in acquiescence. "You already knew I was going to say yes."
"No, no I didn't. You're older than I am, I don't know what you've seen and what you've done. I know how you used to think though." She smiled. "And you always did have a dirty mind."
Bookworm held her even more closely. "And who knows, maybe this will help me heal faster." She smelled like cinnamon and hayseed, and her fur was soft against his cheek. He felt perfectly safe with her, and he gave her a soft kiss on the forehead.
She giggled. "Only one way to find out."
Outside the door, Midnight and the Doctor shared a cup of tea, looking at each other from across the dining room table. Finally, Midnight spoke up.
"Why, Doctor, of all the times in his life did you bring him here? And don't give me any lines about your TARDIS choosing the time and place. I'm not unfamiliar with power, and I could sense yours from the moment you landed on my doorstep."
"I thought I landed in your doorstep?" The Doctor's voice had a coltish mischievousness to it. "My dear Midnight, what do you think? Am I that clever?"
Midnight had no answer, but simply sipped her tea and stared at him knowingly.
Slightly More Adult Gifts, Flashfics, Etc.
Zecora donned her cape and stepped outside. The early morning mist clung to every blade of grass and every leaf, and though the morning sun was beginning to filter through the trees, its warmth had not yet dispelled the dampness that hovered just above the ground in a gentle mist. Wrapping the cloak around her more tightly with a forehoof, Zecora once again visualized that morning's goal in her head. She had been waiting and planning for this day for several weeks, ever since she had come to the realization of what had to be done. It hadn't been easy to accept her fate as the one chosen to perform the task at hoof. But accept it she did. For the good of Zebrakind, for the future of Zebronica, she would do as she had been tasked to. Today was the day she had been called upon by the spirits of her ancestors.
Today was the day that Double Click would die.
When she first heard the voices, she was afraid. They seemed to be coming from everywhere, and nowhere. It took her a few days before she realized the voices were coming from her ceremonial masks, carved in the likeness of her ancestors, and carrying a message of welcome and gratitude to those who would see them hanging on her wall. They also carried, as Zecora was surprised to learn, the spirits of the ancestors themselves, spirits that had ancient wisdom and knowledge that they were all too willing to share with Zecora.
Of course she assumed at first that the voices were coming from her own head, that she was perhaps losing her mind. But the spirits easily convinced her that they were, in fact, their own entity, by revealing to her ancient secrets and hidden information that Zecora herself could have never known. They also showed her, through stories, riddles, and signs, the line of history, extending into the past and the future, and how she could read the lines and see things that had passed, as well as that were to come.
It was by following these lines, under the tutelage of the spirits, that she was able to foresee the coming conflict between Zebra and Ponykind. She saw the confluence of events that would eventually lead to war, and to the death of many good Zebras and Ponies alike. She could easily see the threads of the lives of those in Ponyville cut short by a strategic assault by her fellow Zebras in an attempt to claim the capital. And she could see the counterstrike that would leave her own native land in ruins, annexed and controlled by the Empire of Equestria.
She could not allow these things to pass, and she knew it fell upon her to change the course of history before it could take from her her home, her family, and her new-found friends.
Sadly, though she did not want to accept it at first, she could find only one way to prevent this war from happening. The lines of history all converged on one pony, a green unicorn who was living in Ponyville. A unicorn by the name of Double Click.
The lines of history could not tell her the exact event that would lead to his causing the war. She thought it might have something to do with his connection to the royal family, but she could not bee certain. Therefore, there was no way she could feasibly intervene to prevent whatever event served as a catalyst for the catastrophe. The only solution, and the only way the spirits could say for certain the threads would be unraveled, was to cut the binding point out altogether. Double Click had to die.
Her plan was simple. A bit of poison in his tea would leave him paralyzed, a quick knife cut to his throat would sever his carotid artery, causing him to bleed out in seconds. He was alone in his cottage, his two fiancees currently enjoying their honeymoon together. She knew she only had one shot of this, and though her hooves trembled as she cooked up the batch of poison in her hut, her nerves were steel now, as she trotted into Ponyville. She avoided the main thoroughfares, most ponies still nervous in her presence, as she made her way to Double Click's cottage.
Stealthily, she made her way to the back of Double Click's cottage, locating the window that opened into the kitchen. Glancing in, she saw that Double Click was not in the room, and the running water she could hear faintly in the depths of the cottage told her he was still under the shower. She quickly opened the back door - unlocked, as most the doors in Ponyville were, crime being almost unheard of among the colorful ponies - and emptied her vial of poison into the kettle, already full and sitting on the stove, ready to be boiled for tea. Her mission accomplished, she retreated to the bushes, and waited.
She expected to be nervous, but instead found herself growing calmer and calmer as the sounds of the pony entering the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil, and finally the whistle of the steam reached her ears.
She finally stood as one final sound emanated from the kitchen - the dull "thud" of a lifeless pony's body hitting the floor.
The poison was a clever one. Activating on heat, paralyzing and slowly killing the victim, she was certain that even if she could not complete her task, the chances of Double Click surviving were almost zero. But almost zero was not enough for Zecora. She needed to be certain. Which is why she re-entered the cottage. It was as she had foreseen, as she had pictured it countless times up to that morning. The green unicorn was sprawled on the floor, legs in varying directions, some unnaturally so, head lolling on the floor, with only a slight flicker of the eyes telling Zecora that he was still conscious, if unable to move or use his horn. The ceramic cup lay shattered on the floor by his head, the levitation magic having cut out mid-sip.
Zecora drew near to him. She could smell the fear coming from his body, barely masked by the floral smell of shampoo from the recently completed shower. Slowly, carefully, she drew her knife. Double Click's eyes grew fractionally wider, his breathing increasing slightly, as she came into his eyeliner with the gleaming metal knife. Slowly, deliberately, she brought the knife to his throat and, saying a few words in her native tongue in supplication to the ancestor spirits, she cut into his neck. The blade went in smoothly, and hot, sticky red blood shot out of the gash, coating Zecora and the kitchen floor. As she continued to drag the blade across the skin, a second, lighter fountain shot out as she cut the second artery. The blood spurted out, once, twice, then a third time, growing weaker with each beat of Double Click's quickly fading heart. Then, the blood stopped, pooling out rather than gushing. Double Click's breathing grew ragged, and then stopped. His eyes stopped moving, lying lifeless in his skull.
Her job done, Zecora dropped the knife, used a kitchen towel to wipe off a small amount of the blood from her coat, and left the cottage behind. She only hoped that the lines of history wouldn't reconfigure themselves to make another killing necessary. The voices of the spirits were already calling to her, and she eagerly awaited their wisdom.