Just A Bunch Of Old Ruins
I wake from a deep sleep, pulled out of a fading dream that had seemed to be real. I open my eyes for the first time in what seems to have been hundreds of years, even though it could not have been—Could it? It had certainly been a long time since I had last awoken—nearly that long without dying. I look around and recognize the surroundings. I am exactly where I remember being before I fell asleep, but a large amount of time has clearly passed. No one is here with me. I remember this as having been a rather busy area in its day; always filled with the sound of hooves hitting pavement. I start to question my memories, this place looks as if no one had been here for at least ten years. I should have been dead in ten years, yet here I am. In fact, I should have been dead in two.
I walk through the deserted intersection, no longer bothered by my isolation. I have been walking for nearly two hours. I still haven't found anyone, just empty buildings. I wonder where everyone went and where they are now. There aren't any signs of a disaster; the only damage to the buildings seems to have been entirely perpetuated by years of weather and plant growth. I ask this question audibly, directed at no one. I am surprised by the sound of my voice, it's a bit deeper than I thought it was. I hear my question repeatedly echoing back at me. Somehow, the lack of an answer is almost disappointing. What had I expected, that the trees would answer me?
"It's a secret, kept only from me." I suddenly stop walking at the sound of spoken words. "Hello, is anyone else here?" I hear nothing, and am almost about to walk on, when a rather pale pony walks up to me. She looks directly at me with an expression of surprise. Clearly she didn't expect anyone to be here, yet she also seems relieved. I ask her if she knows what happened here and she doesn't know either. Like myself, she had only woken up today and found herself in an unfamiliar world. I also asked her why she was so pale. She didn't seem at all offended by my question. Apparently, she had always been that color. She was rather suspicious when I told her that I didn't seem to have visibly aged since I last remember "Also, my name is Sweetie Belle. What is your name, may I ask?" This Sweetie Belle, she had a unfamiliar, fancy, way of speech. Her name sounds strangely familiar however."My name is..." Midway through my sentence, I remember the embarrassment that always came with telling ponies my stupid name. I stop and tell her a pseudonym instead.
The unicorn filly before me was lying, I'm sure of that. I had no reason to believe my suspicions, however, I still did. Until I could find proof that she was, somehow, I would just play along. After all, what harm could it do? We seem to be completely alone and she's just a little filly. Memories of when I was her age rush back to me, about 20 years ago, making me feel rather nostalgic. I had two best friends and we had spent many an hour trying to find our cutie marks. To no success, however that didn't mean anything to us because of the fun we had. I have my cutie mark now; it seems so obvious what my talent was now, yet my little filly self couldn't figure it out. I am forcefully dragged back into the present when that little filly starts to say something. "Right now, we're cicadas, we've been dropped into this present without any warning." That metaphor was rather unexpected, but I find myself in agreement. I hesitantly decide to speak, my uncertainty clearly present in my voice. "Yes, we are. Like them, we must still try our hardest to live on."