Twilight Sparkle danced.
Which was to say: Dance. Verb. To move one’s body in a way that goes with the rhythm and style of music that is being played. Because that’s what she was doing. The music was pumping, her hooves were jumping, and the whole Canterlot Garden Party had stopped to watch. She was dancing harder now than she’d ever dared dance before, because prior to this moment she’d never worn a dress so plain and so practical.
It was so her, and her hips knew it.
"Wowzers, Twilight!" said Pinkie Pie, between eating plates of hors d’ouerves. "You go, girl!"
"Sweet Celestia, Sugarcube!" said Applejack, cutting a rug of her own, so she could keep her apples on it. "Them’s fancy hoofwork."
“That’s awe-full!” cried a random noblemare. As in, literally, the scene was full of awe while Twilight’s dancing continued to inspire respect, wonder, and/or fear.
But Twilight Sparkle paid no attention to any of them. She was far too busy shaking her groove-thing, and could do no more than get down on the floor. So down on the floor was she, in fact, that she’d already gone straight through the grass and had begun to splatter mud everywhere.
That’s how down on the floor she was.
She continued to jam out with her best custom dance moves, developed in secret from hours of research and statistical analysis. The Schrodinger Shuffle. The Quantum Foxtrot. THE SUPERPOSITION. Perhaps a laypony would think it improbable for a pony’s body to split like that, but with the power of peer-reviewed-research, anything was possible.
Except where it conflicted with known scientific laws, of course.
What Twilight Sparkle did not realize, however, was that she was quickly approaching the hitherto-unknown barrier of eighty-eight sweet moves per hour. Every party, after all, puts out some residual levels of funk energy—usually a safe and reasonable ‘tubular.’ But the funk energy that Twilight alone was putting out had surpassed 1.21 jig-awatts—crossing into ‘sicknasty’—and she would ultimately come to regret that.
Blue sparks began to coalesce around her dress as she danced. The air itself crackled with a mystifying quantum energy. The crowd around her held its collective breath, and on the mind of every pony watching hung the question: Why in Celestia’s name was she wearing a dress so ugly?
The disco-rd built around Twilight’s deliriously incredible dancing, groove waves growing in intensity with every move she bust out. It was all building toward a critical mass-shaking, which finally burst when the suspense just gave up and Twilight disappeared outright.
"Eh," declared Rainbow Dash, turning away from the smoldering crater left in the grass. "It’s a gnarly, at best."
Twilight stumbled from the warp-collapse in a slight daze. When finally she regained her bearings and got a good look around, she gasped—shocked by the scene in which she’d finally landed: It looked precisely like the Canterlot Garden Party, except that everyone was now wearing gold chains around their necks.
"Whazza what?" she mumbled, her rhythm briefly disrupted by being subject to an explosive temporal anomaly. "Where am I?"
"Oh my stars and garters!" A pony who looked just like Rarity gasped, her bling jangling wildly. “It’s Twilight Sparkle!”
“We never thought we’d see you again!” said a pony who looked just like Pinkie Pie. The primary difference was an exceptionally shiny diamond grill on her teeth. Which did look pretty fly, Twilight had to admit. “Welcome to the dance-future!”
“The dance-what?” said Twilight. “I can’t have—I mean that’s probably improba—”
“No, diggity-darling!” said the dance-future Rarity. “After you disappeared ten groove-years ago, Equestria learned how to harness the power of the beat. Many things have changed since you left. Even our names.” She held her nose up high. “For instance: your humble friend Rarity is now referred to by the distinguished name of Shake-your-Rearity.”
“Yup!” said Applewack, shimmying up to get a closer look. “It’s a right dance-topia all right. We’re so glad to have ya back, Twilight. You’re the only one who can save us.”
“Save you from... who?” asked Twilight. She was beginning to wonder if perhaps she’d danced just a little bit too hard. She looked again at Applewack, who appeared to be wearing a stetson hat made of solid gold.
It was a distinct possibility she’d danced too hard.
“What am I supposed to save you from, again?” she repeated.
“Him!” whispered Shake-your-Rearity. “The most powerful dancer of the new regime. He who overthrew Dancess DanCelestia and claimed Dancerlot as his own. We tried to resist him, but with you gone and the Elements of Synth-Harmony missing...” She sighed. “We’re so glad to have you back, Twilight!”
“Yeah!” cheered Funky Pie. “With you here, we can totally out-dance him and take the dance-crown back for the rightful dance-ruler of Dance-questria!”
Twilight blinked. “...This might be a little more dancing than I’d really signed up for. Girls, if I was dancing a little too hard, you only have to—”
“Oh, you’ll have to dance hard, partner,” said Applewack. “You ain’t never seen moves like his. When he took over the farm, he danced Granny Smooth right off the floor. In fact, Ah’d say he—”
“H-he’s here!” cried Fluttershimmy overhead. “Twilight! You have to r-run for it!”
But it was too late to run for it, and in any case Twilight wasn’t entirely sure why she needed to run in the first place. Or why running was still a concept that existed in the so-called dance-future. It seemed as though she should have been told to dance away, or maybe conga-line out.
"Yo, yo, and whatnot, eh wot," rang a Trottingham-accented voice through the air. The dance-crowd parted to let through a dazzlingly white stallion with an electric-blue mustache. He looked vaguely like Fancy Pants, save for his shaded monocle and suit made entirely out of diamonds. "Who could this be up in my crib?"
“Okay, thank goodness. Maybe I can ask you,” said Twilight, walking up to the stallion. She smiled her friendliest smile. “So, mister Fancy Pants, my friends are all telling me that I’m in some kind of dystopian dance-future, and I was just wondering what the hay is going o—”
"The name is Dancy Pants," said the stallion curtly. He pointed to an white mare behind him clad only in baggy jeans. "And that’s Fly de Lis. But we don’t speak much of her."
Twilight nodded dumbly. She had no idea what was going on anymore.
Nobody did.
"You are on my turf," continued Dancy Pants, "and you’d best be prepared to jive with me if you wish to leave with your credibility intact."
"Don’t do it, Twilight," whispered Rearity. "Not here. Not now. Oh, I'd thought we'd have more time to train you..." She bit her lip. "This is Dancy Pants we’re talking about, though. You can't dance against him! He has more bling than all the rest of us together."
Twilight shook her head, trying to make sense of all that was going on around. “I... I don’t even...”
"Well, young missy?" demanded Dancy Pants. "Wellity-well?"
Twilight looked up at Dancy Pants, and down at her dress. The dress Rarity had made for her on her own birthday, with all the time, effort, and devotion a good friend would presumably have spent on a hoofmade gift. The only dress that had ever been simple enough for her to dance in it.
She looked back at her friends—her extremely shiny and blinged-up friends. She’d do anything for her friends, no matter where they were or what weird alternate timelines they inhabited. She’d save them from this dance-future just as surely as they would have if she were trapped in the regular future, or the pants-future, or the book-future.
No, wait—on second thought, they wouldn’t need to save her from the book-future. But for the rest of them, they’d probably be there to save her, no matter what the risk.
“Don’t, Twilight!” Applewack begged. “Ya can’t dance in a dress like that. It ain’t even made-a gold!”
"No," said Twilight Sparkle. "I will. I have to do this. For you. For the Rarity who made me this dress. For all of you." She took a deep breath, stepped forth, and prepared for the dance of her life.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” said Dancy Pants smugly. “But what hope do you think the likes of yiggity-you can stand against miggity-me?”
“We’ll just siggity-see now, wiggity-won’t we?” said Twilight.
Rearity put a hoof on her shoulder. “No, please, dearie,” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t work like that. Just... just don’t even try.”
Twilight blinked. “Oh. Okay then... I guess.” She turned back to Dancy Pants. “Let’s go!”
“Go, Twilight!” called Funky Pie, between plates of hors d’ances. “You can do it!”
“Beat!” Dancy demanded, motioning a subordinate to drop a phat bassline. He stepped forth, and with nary a pause busted out some of the sickest moves Twilight had ever seen. The Gentry Getdown. The Bourgeois Backstep. Even Le Chassé de Lingot D'or—a move so fancy its true name had been rendered unspeakable. The crowd was blown away by the ambient funk energy, unable to withstand Dancy Pants’ majestic moveset.
Twilight, however, stood firm. “Are you done?” she yawned, pretending to be unimpressed. Truth be told, she was incredibly impressed, but she had to look strong for her friends. “Then it’s time for me to shine!”
She stepped onto the dance floor, taking a moment to sync herself up with the beat. She looked back worriedly at Rearity and the rest of her friends, uncertain of what would happen if she failed. What moves did she have that could possibly save them, and what hope did she have of pulling them off? Dancy Pants’ performance had been incredible. How could she top that?
“Are you here to stance or are you here to dance?” jeered Dancy. “Come on, then!”
“A-all right,” said Twilight. She started off with a few of her better moves. The Continental Drift. The Golden Spiral. She grimaced as she missed the landing on one of the steps—that definitely wasn’t a logarithmic ratio. And then another step missed, and another. She winced as she realized that she was spiralling—and not in a good way.
“Boo!” yelled the crowd. “Those weak stunts don’t jive around these locales, madame!”
“Ha!” said Dancy Pants. “Give it up! Not even Dancess Cadance could upstep me, and she didn’t even have to change her name to try! What hope do you have, with that egregious poppin’?”
Twilight came to a stop, panting from the exertion. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps Dancy Pants simply was the best dancer in this whole weird dance-future. “I’m sorry, Rearity,” she called to her friends, whom she’d let down with her wiggity-wack dancing. “I couldn’t do it. I’ve failed you.”
“No!” declared Rearity. “No, you haven’t failed us, Twilight! Your example has inspired me!” She ripped the chains off her neck. “And my name is not Shake-your-Rearity. It is Rarity! I make clothes sometimes that are not solid gold and/or diamonds!” She pointed to Twilight’s dress, colored now beyond recognition by mud and grass stains. “The prime example of which is that dress you’re wearing right now!”
“You be quiggity-quiet!” shouted Dancy Pants. “So long as I am dance-master of this dance-topia, you all shall dance down to my dance-whims!”
“No...” said Twilight, picking herself up from the ground. “You leave my friends alone...” She felt energized now by Rear—Rarity’s words of encouragement. Yes, the dress was the symbol of her ever-lasting friendship. The connection they shared across time and dance. She couldn’t let it end here.
“Beat!” she called, and Pinkie Pie laid down the line. Twilight grinned triumphantly. It was time.
Twilight Sparkle danced. She danced harder than she’d ever danced before. She could feel the shame leaving her body as she unlocked ever fresher and more forbidden dance moves. Moves she’d made up just now and named for her friends. The Applesnap. The Pinkie Powershuffle. Dash Dash Revolution.
“Y-your moves don’t ski-skiggity... I don’t even know. They don’t scare me!” cried Dancy Pants. “You shall not topple my regime!”
Twilight’s eyes shone with light as her dancing grew ever more rockin’. In little more than a beat, her funk energy shot past tubular and exceeded even sicknasty.
The air glowed white around her as she unleashed her final move: The Friendshake.
She had achieved mondo.
“Okay, okay! I concede!” cried Dancy Pants, cowering before her. “I’ll step off! I promise! Let it be known that Dancy Pants has been topped!”
The crowd cheered and removed their heavy golden chains, freed at last from the oppressive dance-regime of the dance-future.
“You did it, Twilight!” said Pinkie Pie. “You really, really did it!”
“Yeah!” Applejack whistled. “But you can stop dancin’ now, partner—we need to work on rebuildin’ the horrible ruins of Dancy Pants’ crumbled empire before civilization collapses altogether.”
But Twilight could not hear them. Her groove-thing had gone far beyond the groove-thing of any groove-thing ever to groove before her own groove-thing, and when that happens, the petty whisperings of mere mortals are far beneath your notice. She gave one last smile in the direction of her dance-future friends as she rose into the air, surrounded by the terrible booty-shaking forces she’d unleashed. She had brought precisely 6.83 megabizniz to bear on an unready world, and once more the boundaries of time itself were torn asunder.
Which again caused her to disappear without further fanfare.
“So long, Twilight,” whispered Rarity. “We’ll never forget your incomparable dancing.”
“Eh,” said Rainbow Dope beside her. “She was a’ight, I guess.” She turned away from the smoking crater her amazingly fly friend had left behind and wiped a tear away before Rarity could see. “A gnarly, at best.”
The End.
