Beauty Will Tear Us Apartby Meta FourChapters1. Beauty is difficult to judge.2. I'm not prepared yet.3. Beauty is a mystery.1. Beauty is difficult to judge.A year ago ... “No, don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as performance art!” “That’s even worse. I’m a neo-modernist.” “... Aaaand?” “Among many other things, I’m morally opposed to so-called ‘performance art.’” “Okay, scratch that. Don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as art preservation.” “Alright, I’m listening.” Today ... Ditzy Doo glanced at the mirror in her hoof, confirming the street behind her was still empty. She resumed reading her newspaper. She was outside a Canterlot cafe, seated at the patio table nearest the restaurant’s entrance. She faced the wall. It was quite lovely, for a wall. Though it lacked the blue and gold trim of the royal palace—or the countless city blocks catering to the tourists—the absence made it easier to appreciate the artistry of the unadorned white stones. The mason who set them clearly cared about her job, as did whoever had last scrubbed them. The stones were so clean, the sunlight cast a slight iridescent glitter wherever it struck. Few outsiders would see these walls, and certainly no tourists would; it was for the sake of Canterlot’s natives that these workers kept walls like this one beautiful. The other pony—the one Ditzy was waiting for—had been born and raised in Canterlot. She had suggested this particular cafe as a meeting place, allegedly because of the small crowd this time of week. However, Ditzy suspected this cafe’s fried mushroom sandwiches, reputedly the best in the city, also influenced the decision. Ditzy read her newspaper to distract herself from worries about where the other pony was. An article about a rash of vandalism at the Goggle Heights Art Museum caught her eye, but it wasn’t quite enough to keep her mind occupied. So, as she read about the renowned works of modern art that some unknown criminals had irreparably damaged, Ditzy thought, I need to remember that she runs on O.C.D. Time, not Guard Time. When she says to meet somewhere at six o’clock, she means exactly six, not quarter-till. In the distance, a clock tower rang. Ditzy raised her mirror again, but nopony was approaching. Her dinner date was late. When she set the mirror down, Twilight Sparkle was across the table from her—not late after all. “Hi, Ditzy!” “Bah!” Ditzy jumped back, causing her chair to lean precariously. She wildly flapped her wings to regain balance, and held her hooves over her eyes. “Where did you come from?” “There’s another entrance from the other side of the cafe. So ... notice anything different about me?” Ditzy snuck a glance from behind her hooves. Then she dropped her hooves to the table and gaped. Twilight looked like an ordinary purple unicorn. Her entire body didn’t glow, and her horn certainly didn’t shine with the light of a miniature sun. “Your aura,” Ditzy said. “Where’s your aura?” “Haha, it worked!” Twilight beamed—figuratively, not literally, for a change. “What worked? Did you do something to your ley lines?” “Not quite. It’s a modified version of an old spell by Resonius the Fourth. He thought that all the magic flowing out of a pony’s body—what you see as auras—was terribly inefficient. His theory was that unicorns could cast more powerful magic if they’d just stop all that leaking first.” Twilight reached across the table to pick up Ditzy’s hoof-mirror. “It never worked, at least not for the purpose he wanted. His spell did a pretty good job blocking the ambient magic loss, but that had no effect on his spellcasting power. But ...” She set the mirror down. “When I learned about your, um, unique ability, I remembered that old spell. Just a few tweaks, and now you can actually look at me, instead of my reflection!” “That’s pretty cool,” Ditzy said. “But is it safe to play around with your own body’s magic like that?” “It’s only a temporary spell. Besides, would I cast it on myself if it wasn’t safe?” Ditzy shifted her eyes, then picked up her glass and took a long drink. “Yeah ...” Twilight said. “I probably would. Oh, and while we’re on the subject ...” She poked her snout into her saddlebag and pulled out a magazine. She fumbled it in her hooves for a few seconds before sliding it across the table, to Ditzy. Like so many other peer-reviewed scientific journals, Medical Magic’s cover was violently boring. If the solid maroon and plain text of the cover didn’t scare away the laypony readers, the article titles certainly would. “Look at the third article,” Twilight said. Ditzy read, “Mutation of the visual cortex as a potential origin of ley line malformation and thaumaturgical synesthesia: the first pegasus case study. By T. Sparkle and D. R. Morningdew.” She looked back up at Twilight. “Kind of burying your lede, don’t you think?” Twilight shrugged. “That’s scientific writing for you.” Her eye twitched. “So …” Ditzy said, “any progress on tracking our architect?” “Oh, yes! In fact, I hit the mother lode.” Twilight pulled her saddlebags off. Awkwardly, with her hooves, she turned over the bag, dumping a three-ring binder on the table. Her left ear flopped a few times as she opened it. Twilight continued, “You know why I had so much trouble finding the blueprints in the libraries? Because a collector in Los Pegasus is buying them all! She’s convinced that Mr. Buttress is the most important architect of our time, so she’s trying to build a museum in his honor. I said I was researching to write a book about him, and she couldn’t wait to give me copies of every blueprint she had.” “Really? The guy who …” Ditzy paused and considered her words. She could not refer to Flying Buttress as the guy who designed a building to summon a monster from outside time and space in public; the entire incident was classified Top Secret. Besides, he might not have done it intentionally. She continued, “The guy who designed Ponyville Town Hall is some kind of big name in architecture?” “Ponyville nabbed him before he became famous. Just look what else he designed …” Twilight flipped open pages at random. “L’Arc de l’Alliance. The Maretropolitan Museum of Art. Sydneigh Opera House of Pancakes.” “Wow.” Ditzy shifted in her chair. “Sorry I couldn’t help you with looking this up, Twilight. It’s just …” “I know, I know.” Twilight twitched. “Those courses full of top secret information you can’t share with anypony, not even me.” “Sorry. If it’s any consolation, most of it’s really boring. So many lectures about how to fill out paperwork—” “What?” Twilight twitched again, harder, and both of her ears flopped. “You mean you get to do paperwork, too? Aaaargh!” She fell forward, dropping her face onto the binder’s pages. Her withers and back muscles twitched. “Twilight, are you okay?” She looked up at Ditzy without raising her head. “Just a bit frustrated, but not with you. It’s not your fault.” “No, I mean, you keep twitching like you’re having a seizure.” “Twitching? I’m not twitching.” “You just did it again.” “Whatever.” Twilight sat back up. “Anyway, I looked through half of these blueprints last night. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, but maybe you’ll find something I missed.” “Sure, I can double-check those.” Twilight fumbled with the tabs to open the binder’s rings. Ditzy reached across and pulled the binder to herself. “Why don’t I do this?” she said. Ditzy was not particularly more dextrous with her hooves than Twilight was, but at least she did not have to deal with twitching and spasming. Within two minutes, the binder was open. She pushed a stack of pages back to Twilight, then examined the first blueprint in her own stack. A few minutes later, movement caught Ditzy’s attention. “Did you need something, Twilight?” “What?” Both of Twilight’s ears kept flopping in no particular pattern, and her eyes glowed faintly purple. “I thought you were ... Never mind.” Ditzy turned to the side, so Twilight’s movement would not distract her, and resumed examining the blueprints. A few minutes passed this way. The table started vibrating. “O-o-o-h, no-o-o!” Twilight said. “E-e-ear-r-th-th-qua-a-ake!” Ditzy’s gaze darted around the patio and down the street. All the other scenery was completely still. The sole other pony visible—a unicorn seated at the far end of the patio—was completely calm. Only Twilight and the table in front of her shook—and as soon as Twilight lifted her hoof from it, the table went still. Twilight was now vibrating like a box full of angry rodents. Her eyes glowed brightly. “Di-i-i-it-zy-y-y, w-we-e-e-e n-nee-ee-eed—” “Twilight! Are you sure that spell you cast on yourself was safe?” Twilight opened her mouth, but no words came out—only a light as bright as the one from her eyes. She bolted from the table and ducked into the nearest alley. Ditzy turned her gaze downward, just in time. A bolt of concentrated magic blasted out of the alley, straight into the sky. Half the ponies in Canterlot felt its passing, but the sole pegasus who could have seen it was looking elsewhere at that second. “Hmm?” Ditzy said. Three pages from Twilight’s stack had fluttered free during her abrupt departure, then landed near Ditzy. She picked one of them up. She looked up as Twilight returned to the table. “Are you okay?” “I’m fiiiiiiiine ...” Twilight’s mane and tail were frazzled, and every hair of her coat stood on end. She leaned back and forth slightly, but she smiled. “I feel great! ... So, where were we?” “Does this look familiar?” Ditzy slid the page across the table, to Twilight. “Hmm ... a spiral, almost but not completely unlike a nautilus shell ...” Twilight squinted at the page. “Wait, is this the Goggle Heights? It is! Don’t tell me there’s something wrong with the Goggle Heights!” “Maybe. Doesn’t the wall arrangement look like the ... umm, that echo maze? I forget the name ...” Twilight slumped back in her chair. “Darn it, you’re right. It really does. Except ...” She leaned forward and jabbed her hoof at the page. “The Hyperborean Echo Labyrinth had another wall, right here! The Goggle Heights has a gap there, one that completely compromises the autoacoustic feedback loop. Ha!” “Yeah ...” Ditzy said, as she looked at the page one last time. “Crisis averted, I guess.” “Great! I’d hate to have to blow up my favorite art museum.” “You have a favorite museum? Wait, of course you would ...” Twilight looked into the distance. “The Goggle Heights is just such an elegant solution to the ‘how to see every exhibit without backtracking’ problem ...” “I’d never really thought about that ... Oh! I forgot!” Ditzy rummaged in her saddlebag and pulled out an object in bright wrapping paper. “Happy early Birthday! Since I’ll be stuck here in Canterlot on the day of ...” “Thank you!” Twilight took the gift and held it up, judging its weight. “Is this ...” She fumbled with the wrapping in her hooves for nearly a minute. Eventually, she grabbed a corner with her teeth and tore the paper off. “It is! Transcriptions of Dusty Old Tomes from the Terrelicorno Library, Volume 37! Thank you, Ditzy!” Twilight stepped around the table and hugged Ditzy. Then she twitched. “Um ...” Ditzy said, “I really appreciate that you went to all the trouble of making that spell so your ambient magic wouldn’t bother me. But, could you never cast it again? The side effects are kinda creeping me out.” Two hours later, Ditzy was alone again at the table. She and Twilight had reviewed the blueprints and eaten dinner—the fried mushroom sandwich definitely lived up to its reputation. Then Twilight had to catch her train back to Ponyville, leaving Ditzy to clean up the debris of the research session. The blueprints went back into the binder, which went into Ditzy’s saddlebag. Then Ditzy grabbed the newspaper and paused. Once more, she read the article about the unsolved vandalism cases at the Goggle Heights. Coincidence? she thought. When she returned to her hotel room, she immediately wrote a letter. Ditzy was examining a painting when Dr. Time Turner Hooves arrived. One second, she was alone in the stark white, curved corridor of Twilight’s favorite art museum; the next, the stallion was behind her. “What’s that a painting of?” he said. “Not sure,” Ditzy said, continuing to squint at the painting. “The title is Shaved Pony Descending a Staircase, No. 2 ... but I don’t see any pony, shaved or otherwise.” Time Turner stepped up to her side. “Interesting. Well, I got your letter, so here I am. But you didn’t just call me here to look at paintings, right?” “I wish.” “So ... Why are you wearing a paper bag on your head?” Ditzy flicked her ears, crinkling her headgear slightly, and spun to face Time Turner. “To match the ones on my hooves, of course.” Smiling, she lifted one foreleg to show off her hoofwear. “Oh, yes, of course.” Time Turner rolled his eyes. “Now, forgive my ignorance, but why are you wearing bags on your hooves?” “To act as sound channeling foci.” “... Do I want to know?” Ditzy snorted. “I need to muffle my hoofsteps, and I left my sneakers back in Ponyville, and all the shops I could find here only sell ‘designer sneakers’ that cost a wing and a leg, and you can’t even run in them!” “Yes, but won’t the bags make just as much noise?” Ditzy pranced in place, then jumped into the air and landed—all without making a single sound. “I’m deflecting the sound waves into the eight dimension. Pretty cool, huh?” Time Turner’s eyes widened. “You learn something every day.” Leaning forward, he smiled. “I almost thought the bags were some baffling new fashion trend.” “Oh, you know me. Always on the cutting edge.” “Of course, of course.” Time Turner raised one of his hooves. “I hope my own sneakers aren’t too embarrassing for a fashion-forward mare like you?” “Ugh ...” Ditzy twisted her face into an exaggerated sneer, but her eyes were smiling. “That shade of green is so last week. I shouldn’t be seen within ten feet of a faux pas like that. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” “You’re so gracious.” Time Turner furrowed his brow as he looked at Ditzy. “Hmm ... Can you wait one second?” Ditzy nodded. There was a green burst of time travel magic, and Ditzy was once again alone. Exactly one second later, another green burst brought Time Turner back. “Here, this is for you.” He pushed a box over to Ditzy. Inside it was a pearl necklace. “Whaaa ...” “Hurry, put it on.” Ditzy complied. “But why ...” A group of ponies came around the bend. From a single glance, it was clear the white unicorn in front was the leader, and the rest were her entourage. It took another glance for Ditzy to recognize that white unicorn. Rarity looked like a completely different pony in her ensemble: a black turtleneck sweater, a maroon beret, and her mane much less curly than usual. Rarity met Ditzy’s eyes. A look of confusion passed over her face as she took in Ditzy’s paper bag ensemble. However, she gave Ditzy a smile as she walked past. Her entourage also smiled—most of them significantly less sincerely than Rarity. The mass of ponies stopped to examine Shaved Pony Descending a Staircase, No. 2. Ditzy trotted up the hall, the direction the other ponies came from, and motioned for Time Turner to follow. They stopped in front of a large ceramic urn, decorated with an ornate floral design. “I’m surprised,” Time Turner said. “I thought modern art was all abstract and conceptual pieces. But that is a very nice vase.” Ditzy read the plaque to the side. “Odd. It says the art isn’t the urn, it’s what’s inside the urn.” “Oh. Well then, dare I ask what’s inside?” “Ashes. Allegedly from bank notes.” “What.” “Worth a million bits, before they were burned.” Time Turner squinted at the urn. “Modern art is stupid.” “Yeah, that’s what Wild Drummer and Vinyl Scratch thought, too.” “Who?” “They’re the ones who burned a million bits. Because they were trying to say ‘Modern art is stupid.’” “What ... But ... I ... That ... What?” Down the hall, Rarity and her entourage moved on. They passed around the bend of the hallway. “As I was trying to say...” Ditzy faced Time Turner and found him still staring, numbly, at the urn. She waved her hoof in his face. “Hey, Earth to Time Turner!” He shook his head and looked at Ditzy. “Sorry. You were saying?” Ditzy pointed at the pearls on her neck. “This is way too expensive for you to give me for no reason. What’s the deal?” “Oh! It’s a matter of blending in. An outfit can say a lot about a pony, Ditzy. A mare in a bunch of paper bags says, ‘I might bite your ear off if you look at me wrong.’ But give that mare a pearl necklace, and suddenly her ensemble says, ‘These bags cost more than most ponies make in a year.’” “But they didn’t,” Ditzy said, raising one hoof. “I bought, like, fifty of these for two bits.” “Great, because I didn’t pay very much for the necklace. Pearls may be expensive, but live oysters are cheap.” “Oh. Okay.” Ditzy and Time Turner sat on a wooden museum bench, with several pages spread between them. Time Turner glanced between the Goggle Heights visitor’s pamphlet and the blueprint. “I was never very good at those ‘spot the difference’ puzzles ...” he said. Ditzy tried to point at the pamphlet. With the bag on her hoof, she just covered half the map. Instead, she indicated the correct spot with her nose, then said, “This spot right here. This wall. The original design has a large gap there.” “And you think the change is connected to ...” “Well, I’d much rather be proven wrong.” A new voice cut in: “Ahem.” The speaker’s shadow fell over the papers on the bench. She held her head high, glaring down at Ditzy and Time Turner. Even in the ill-fitting, black uniform of a museum guard, this light blue unicorn was unmistakable. “Do not sit on the Art,” she said. Ditzy boggled. “What are you doing here?” The guard flipped her hair. “The Great and Powerful Trrrrrrixie is stopping patrons from leaving butt-prints on a priceless piece of Contemporary Art!” Time Turner shifted and glanced under his torso. “Priceless art? The only thing we’re sitting on is a bench.” “Wrong!” Trixie pointed to an informative plaque mounted to the right of the bench. “You’re sitting on Whitemane’s Opus sixty-seven: Wooden museum patron’s bench. So it’s Art. That, over there,”— she pointed at another bench, completely identical to the one they sat on, directly facing them—“is just a bench. You’re allowed to sit on it.” Ditzy’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” “Trixie must warn you ...” She pulled a billy club out of her uniform. “... that she is authorized to use force in the defense of Art.” By the time she finished speaking, Ditzy and Time Turner had already relocated to the other bench. With their ears folded back, they both gave Trixie sheepish grins. “Very good.” Smirking, she returned the club to her uniform. Then she rushed over and threw her forelegs around Ditzy. “Trixie is so happy to see you again, Dizzy!” Ditzy paused, then returned the embrace. Time Turner smirked. “‘Dizzy’?” “It’s kind of a long story,” Ditzy said. “Dizzy and Trixie met while traveling a few years ago. She made the road to Baltimare a great deal less boring!” “Okay, not that long a story.” Trixie stepped back. “So, what brings you to Canterlot, besides this glorious Art?” She glanced at Time Turner, then back to Ditzy. “Are you two ... together?” “Umm ...” Ditzy said. “Well,” Time Turner said, “we’re just—” Ditzy’s hoof covered his mouth, cutting him off. “Yep! Time Turner here is totally my boyfriend!” Time Turner shot Ditzy a quizzical look from behind her hoof. Ditzy leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I’ll explain later.” She pulled her hoof back and said aloud, to Trixie, “He’s a doctor! And you know what they say about doctors ...” “Yes ...” Trixie looked back and forth. “Trixie knows exactly what they say about doctors, of course. And Trixie, likewise, has found somepony else.” “How nice!” “But you can’t meet her now, because she’s getting a degree in Vanhoofer.” “Of course, of course.” “Anyway! No doubt you’re wondering how Trixie wound up working here. Well, there was an unfortunate incident involving a bear in some backwater town. Ponyville. You’ve probably never heard of it.” Time Turner and Ditzy exchanged glances as they both bit back laughs. Trixie didn’t notice. “But it became clear to Trixie that Equestria just isn’t ready for her stage show yet. So she’s been working odd jobs. Saving up money, gathering information ... waiting for the right time to show that stupid lavender unicorn who’s really the greatest magician in Equestria ...” “‘Lavender unicorn’?” Time Turner said. “You don’t mean Twilight Sparkle, do you? Because she’s really more purple.” Trixie spun and planted her forehooves on Time Turner’s shoulders. “You know Twilight Sparkle?” “Not really,” Ditzy said. “I mean, we just live in the same town as her, but that doesn’t—” “By the way,” Time Turner cut in, smirking, “how did she like that birthday present you got for her?” Ditzy clapped one hoof to her forehead and groaned. “Not helping ...” Trixie drew near to Ditzy. “So you’re close to Twilight! Wonderful! You can tell Trixie how to destroy her!” “What.” “How much does she know about Trixie? What does she say about Trixie?” “She doesn’t talk about you. As far I can tell, all of Ponyville just collectively forgot about you as soon as they fixed the bear damage.” “That’s terrible! No, wait, that’s great!” Trixie stepped back, spinning and gesticulating as she declared. “Twilight will be caught completely off-guard by Trixie’s triumphant return!” Ditzy sighed. “Look, I don’t want anything to do with your weird, one-sided rivalry. I’m just here for business.” “Oh, maybe Trixie can help you with that, Dizzy. In fact, she can definitely help! Trixie is the best at helping!” “I don’t know if you can—” “She could give us some inside information about the museum,” Time Turner interrupted. “But not for free!” Trixie declared. “For every question Trixie answers, you must answer one of hers.” “Deal.” Time Turner extended a hoof. Trixie bumped it. Ditzy looked back and forth between the two. “What is happening?” “Trixie goes first!” Trixie raised a hoof dramatically. “What ... is Twilight Sparkle’s favorite food?” “Nachos, of course,” Time Turner said. “Excuse us!” Ditzy grabbed Time Turner’s ear and dragged him off the bench. “Ouch ouch ouch, alright I’m coming!” He trotted after Ditzy. They walked until the curve of the hallway hid Trixie from them. “Alright, what is your problem?” “My problem?! What is your problem? Why are you suddenly selling out Twilight Sparkle?” “Is that it? No, I’m not selling Twilight out. I’m giving useless information, like ‘favorite food’, to a showmare with an inflated ego. You don’t seriously think Trixie could actually pose a threat to Twilight, do you?” “I don’t know! I don’t get Trixie, not anymore. So I have no idea what she’s capable of.” “In that case, I’m invoking my rank. And I say we’re going to play Trixie’s little game to get the information we need.” “You can’t pull rank! I asked for your help, but this is still my case.” “But you haven’t finished your R.S.S. classes yet. You can’t officially take any cases yet.” Ditzy smirked. Leaning back, she threw a hoof to her forehead and said in a wavery voice, “Oh dear, however will I handle a case without my official R.S.S. certification? It’s not like I’ve been doing this sort of thing all by myself for years, or anything!” Time Turner glared at her. Ditzy forced her eyes to align and glared back. Time Turner furrowed his brow and leaned closer. Ditzy furrowed her brow, and her left eye snapped to the upper right. Time Turner stepped back. “What if I give you veto rights? Any question that you think might legitimately give Trixie an edge against Twilight, you say the word and we won’t answer it. Deal?” “Only if I retain the right to throw you under the bus if this comes back to bite us in the rump.” “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Then let’s go.” When they walked back, they found Trixie keeping herself busy. She swung her billy club back and forth, simultaneously ducking and twirling to dodge imaginary counterattacks. “Whoosh!” she said under her breath with each swing. “Whoosh!”For every imaginary wrongdoer she bludgeoned into submission, she paused and posed dramatically. “Whoosh! Whoosh!” Then, noticing Ditzy and Time Turner’s return, she snapped to attention and hid the club. “So,” she said, “what pressing business did you two have?” “We had a vigorous disagreement about what Twilight’s actual favorite food is,” Time Turner said. “But after much debate, we’ve decided to stick with our initial answer.” “Yes,” Ditzy said. “Tacos.” “Nachos.” “What he said. Anyway, time for our question.” Ditzy pointed her hoof. “That modular wall over there. When did it get set up, and why?” “That’s two questions!” Trixie smirked. “But as for your first question, it went up about three weeks ago. Now! What is Twilight Sparkle’s favorite color?” Ditzy looked at Time Turner. “Purple?” “Yeah,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it’s purple.” Trixie produced a notepad and wrote in it at a furious speed. Ditzy said, “Alright—” “They added that wall,” Trixie said without looking up from her writing, “because they needed more space to hang paintings. That new Zebrican Art collection completely exhausted the available space. So ...” Trixie looked up from the notepad. “What is Twilight Sparkle’s preferred branch of magic and/or special talent?” Ditzy gave Time Turner a nod. He smiled and said, “Magic.” Trixie sighed. “Don’t play stupid, doctor. You know what magic is.” “I wasn’t asking for clarification. I was answering you. Twilight doesn’t have a preferred branch because magic itself is her special talent.” Trixie boggled. Ditzy cut in, “When did the art vandalism start?” Shaking her head, Trixie regained her voice. As she returned to writing in her notepad, she said, “The unknown vandal or vandals first struck about three weeks ago. Come to think of it ...” She stopped writing. “That was right after the new Zebrican Art exhibit opened up! Are you implying the two are connected?” “It’s a hypothesis we’re considering. So, on the nights that the vandals struck—” “Hold it! Trixie hasn’t asked her question yet.” “No, you did. You said, ‘Are you implying the two are connected?’ which is definitely a question.” Trixie ground her teeth but said nothing. “So, assuming you were on duty the nights the vandals struck, did you ever hear them?” “Yes. In fact, Trixie came closer than any other guard to catching them in the act! It was a dark and stormy night, last week. Trixie was halfway through her circuit of the museum exterior. Suddenly, she heard the ghastly scraping sound of metal against the marble floor. Trixie rushed inside! In a commanding voice, she shouted, ‘Halt, enemies of Art, or face the wrath of Trixie!’” “Very intimidating,” Time Turner said. “Of course! Those interlopers certainly thought so, too. When Trixie reached the source of the scraping sound—which was right here, in fact—the craven criminals were nowhere to be seen! Trixie searched the entire museum and found no more traces of them. They didn’t even trip Trixie’s alarm spell.” Ditzy quirked an eyebrow. Trixie noticed. “Don’t give Trixie that look! She found Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench had been unscrewed from the floor! The Art desecrators were here, and they doubtless would have done unspeakable things to it, if not for Trixie’s timely intervention!” Ditzy furrowed her brow. “Hmm. Very interesting. Maybe we really aren’t dealing with—” “Ahem! Trixie’s turn! What is the secret behind Twilight’s seemingly endless knowledge?” “She just reads a lot,” Time Turner answered. “Bah! Trixie also reads.” Scratch, scratch, scratch, went the quill in Trixie’s notepad. “She reads for fun,” Ditzy added. “She lives in a library and thinks it’s the best home in the world. Her last birthday wish list was organized by Dewey Decimal Numbers. She reads a lot.” “Bah! Trixie has a life.” “Anyway,” Ditzy said, “on the nights the vandals were successful, did any guards see anything?” “No, nothing. It was the same story each time: The guard completed the interior circuit and saw nothing out of place. The guard completed the exterior circuit and again found nothing unusual. The guard began another interior circuit, only to discover the horrifying act of sacrilege that happened in the interim.” “Hmmm ...” Ditzy placed a hoof to her chin. Trixie closed her eyes. “Now for Trixie’s next question—” “Nope! No more questions.” “—how did Twilight ...” Trixie’s eyes snapped back open. “What?” “I don’t have any more questions to ask you, so I’m not answering any more. Thank you, Trixie, you’ve been informative. But we’re done here.” Ditzy trotted away, and Time Turner went with her. Trixie threw her quill and notebook in the air and rushed after Ditzy. “But, but ... there’s so much more Trixie needs to know! Such as, where did Twilight get her dragon familiar? How often does she wear socks? When did—” “Trixie!” Ditzy spoke over her shoulder and continued walking. “I must have been sending mixed signals again, so let me make it very plain: Twilight Sparkle is my friend. I am not going to help you destroy my friend.” “And why not?” “You’re hopeless.” “Please!” Trixie threw herself on the ground in front of Ditzy. “Trixie will do anything you ask, anything! She just needs some more—” “Can you get us into the museum after hours?” Time Turner interrupted. “Don’t encourage her!” Ditzy said. “Yes!” Then Trixie folded her ears back. “I mean, no. That would get Trixie fired, and she needs this job. You’ll have to talk it over with the head of security.” “Head of security, huh?” Time Turner turned to Ditzy. “When I get written permission from the security guy, where should I leave it to find?” “What?” Ditzy cocked her head, then smiled. “Oh! Right, um ... over here!” A ceremonial Zebrican mask was on display to the side. Ditzy stuck her head behind its pedestal and emerged with a slip of paper in her mouth. Time Turner grabbed the paper and brandished it at Trixie. “What do you say to this? Haha!” Trixie stood up. She glanced at the paper, then back at Time Turner, confused. “That’s just some nonsense. What do you expect Trixie to say to that?” “What do you mean ...” Time Turner read the page: No dice. Head of security is too recalcitrant. —TT “‘Too recalcitrant’?!” Time Turner flung the paper to the ground and stomped on it. “You ne’er-do-well negotiator! Don’t blame the other party for your incompetence, mud-for-brains!” “Hey, hey.” Ditzy placed a hoof on Time Turner’s shoulder. “It’s not that big a deal. Calm down.” “Yes.” He sighed. “You’re right.” Trixie looked at them, incredulity written across her face. “You said you’re here on ‘business.’ Trixie really should have asked sooner, but what exactly is your business?” Time Turner looked at Ditzy. She said, “Umm ... Well, when we met before, do you remember the last thing you said to me before we went our own ways?” “Yes. Something along the lines of ‘That was your cue to leave, dummy!’” “No, no. Right before that.” Trixie glanced at Time Turner, then smirked at Ditzy. “Are you sure you want to talk about that right in front of your boyfriend?” Ditzy boggled for a second, then facehoofed. “Not that, darn it! You said I should find a place where I can pursue my calling without other ponies thinking I’m crazy. Well, I did it. And that brought me here.” Trixie raised a hoof to her chin. “So, you got society to stop questioning your sanity ... by hanging out with ponies even crazier than you?” Ditzy facehoofed again, this time with both her fore hooves. Time Turner laughed. Ditzy returned her hooves to the ground and said, “You got it in one, Trixie.” She smirked and resumed trotting away, speaking as she went. “These days, I only hang out with ponies who remind me of you.” Trixie smiled. “And it's working out so well for ... Hey!” 2. I'm not prepared yet.Writers frequently compared the Goggle Heights Art Museum’s floor plan to a nautilus shell. Most of those writers had never even seen a nautilus shell and, if pressed to describe one, would say, “Um ... like the Goggle Heights?” The museum had two floors, each laid out as a single, spiraling hallway. At the very center, a large, sunlit atrium linked the two. As Twilight Sparkle had alluded, Flying Buttress’ design for the Goggle Heights had solved the “ideal museum path” problem—by offering its visitors only one path. Ponies started on the outer edge of the upper floor and followed the spiral inward. At the atrium, they descended to the lower floor, then followed the spiral outward, until they reached the exit stairs. However, before exiting, they needed to pass through the museum gift shop. In the Goggle Heights’ ocean of class and subtlety, the gift shop remained an island of unrestrained tackiness. Hats, paperweights, toys, refrigerator magnets, lawn ornaments, and office supplies—gaudy knickknacks in every conceivable and inconceivable color—competed for the eyes and wallets of museum patrons. Ditzy thought she saw some prints and art supplies, but those were well-hidden in another corner. She and Time Turner were tucked away in the T-shirt corner. She was whispering in his ear. As Ditzy finished, Time Turner bit back his laughter as best he could. “Really?” he said. “Believe me,” she said, rolling her eyes, “if I had any idea I would see her again like this ... No, scratch that. If I’d given it any more thought, at all, I wouldn’t have done it.” “Ah, the follies of youth ...” “It wasn’t that long ago, you know.” Ditzy’s eyes wandered, scanning the racks and shelves of T-shirts surrounding her. Some bore the Goggle Heights logo; others had reproductions of paintings. Ditzy trotted a few feet and grabbed one shirt off the rack. “You like that?” Time Turner asked. “Maybe.” She held up the shirt so he could better see the art printed on its front. “I’d like to see this painting in person.” “It’s by Blue Rider, and ...” He skimmed the visitor’s pamphlet. “Ah, yes. They do have some Blue Rider compositions here.” “Alright, we can check it out when this is all over.” Ditzy returned the shirt. “So,” Time Turner said, “do you have a plan to get us into the museum after closing?” “I can scope for some higher-dimensional holes in the walls. If that doesn’t work, we can just hide in a bathroom until closing time. Do you have a better idea?” “Well, I wouldn’t want to impose, but my special talent could be useful ...” “Of course!” Ditzy slapped her own forehead. “That’s much simpler. I knew there was some reason I brought you along on this.” “You mean my charming personality isn’t reason enough?” Time Turner staggered back, holding a hoof over his chest. ”You wound me, Dizzy.” Ditzy rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start that now, too. ‘Bubbles’ was bad enough.” “Oh, right. Heh heh ...” Time Turner glanced to the side. “Say, I’m a bit hungry. Can we stop by the museum coffee shop before we get down to business?” “Sounds good.” They trotted to the gift shop exit. Ditzy paused at a display rack advertising rubber bathtub ducks. She picked one up—a white duck with black lines and a few rectangles of primary colors. It squeaked loudly when Ditzy squeezed it with her wing. “How much do these cost?” she asked the cashier. They descended the staircase of the Goggle Heights’ central atrium. Sparing a glance at the atrium’s centerpiece, Ditzy and Time Turner ducked into the low-ceilinged alcove beneath the stairs. “Did anypony see us?” Time Turner asked. “I don’t think so.” Ditzy peeked out and scanned the atrium. All the other museum patrons were focused on the massive mobile—a piece Sandy Stream constructed specifically for the Goggle Heights—hanging from the ceiling. There were no security guards in sight. She ducked back. “Yeah, we’re good.” Time Turner extended a hoof, and Ditzy took it. He bucked his hind legs. Only empty air was behind him, but his hooves connected with something all the same. A crack pealed, like a miniature thunderclap. Magic—a green aura—moved over Time Turner. It started at his rear hooves and engulfed him and Ditzy in less than a second. Two images from the transition stuck in Ditzy’s mind. The first was Time Turner’s hoof, still firmly grasping her own, but now apparently disembodied: the limb stopped at a ring of green magic just past the elbow. The second was an endless green void—a swirled mass of shades from emerald to lime, celadon to malachite, olive to verdigris—visible for the briefest instant as the magic swept over Ditzy’s head. Ditzy found herself in a dark room, and she stepped back from Time Turner to shake her head. “Unpleasant?” Time Turner whispered. “Does it ever get easier?” she whispered back. “Much. These days, I find it rather refreshing.” “Great.” Ditzy shook her head again. “I’ve got something to look forward to.” The two were in precisely the same place as before—under the staircase of the central atrium—but several hours had passed in that flash of green magic. The atrium was deserted. The only light came from the moon, shining through the skylight. The massive mobile spun lazily just below the skylight, its metal discs and crescents casting large shadows on the floor. Ditzy finished shaking her head and noticed something behind Time Turner. “Hey, there’s a painting in here.” “What?” He turned to look at it. “Why would they stick a painting here, where hardly anypony will see it?” Ditzy held up a firefly lamp, and her eyes went wide. “Oh,” Time Turner said. “That’s why.” “It’s certainly ... striking.” “Oh, there’s a plaque.” Dr. Hooves leaned in to examine it. “Says this piece is on loan from the Museum Of Balmy Art.” Ditzy shook her head yet again. “That just raises more questions.” “Oh, well. Shall we begin?” They ascended the stairs in complete silence. At the first landing, Time Turner stopped and turned. “What is it?” Ditzy said. She followed his gaze, up to the atrium roof. “Do you think that skylight opens?” Time Turner asked. “Would that cut down on the echoes?” Ditzy spread her wings. “Good idea. It’s worth a try.” She soared up, towards the ceiling’s center. Just below the height of the mobile, she stopped. Hovering in place, she glanced back and forth between the skylight and the atrium floor. The glass of the skylight looked pink, but the moonlight through the window was white. She rose again, stopping at the same height as the mobile. From there, it was clear the pink color was an aura around the glass—a unicorn spell. Ditzy turned back to Time Turner and shook her head. The mobile spun a little further. One of its discs bumped Ditzy’s rear. Ditzy flinched. The sheet of metal rang, a low booonnng, as it bounced off her rump. She zipped to the edge of the disc. Pressing her torso to the edge, she clamped all four hooves against the two sides. The vibrations persisted for a few seconds, rattling Ditzy’s teeth, but they soon stopped. Silence fell on the atrium again as Ditzy bolted down to Time Turner’s side, but it only lasted a few seconds. Heavy hoofsteps echoed through the building, and a wobbling light approached from the lower hallway. A guard had heard them. Ditzy grabbed Time Turner’s forehoof and lifted just off the ground. “Come on, this way!” she whispered. She flew to her hlåv side, and Time Turner followed. After a few feet, she landed, her hooves crunching in the black sand below. “Well ...” Time Turner said, his eyes wide. “Another dimension, I presume?” Ditzy nodded. Her coat reflected the changing light in the sky, rapidly switching from red to blue to green and back again. “Amazing,” Time Turner continued. His own coat cycled through different shades of brown and black. “Another realm, completely outside the reach of Celestia or Luna. So whose domain is this? Summer Dawn, Princess of Disco?” “Ha!” The sky above resembled a puddle in the rain—if puddles were multicolored and luminescent. Dozens of circles, each a different shade of neon color, rapidly expanded across the sky, and were themselves covered by other circles mere seconds later. The landscape below was a jagged badlands of black stone and black sand. Time Turner said, “So, what do we do here?” “Oh, we just wait thirty minutes or so.” Ditzy sat down. “Maybe longer. Enough time for the guard to search, find nothing, and decide they were just hearing things.” “I see.” Time Turner sat down as well. “What was that you were trying to tell me, right before that gong hit you?” “I was trying to say I can’t open the skylight. There’s an alarm spell on it.” “Drat.” “Come to think of it ...” Ditzy groaned. “There are at least two guards on duty tonight. Because the one who heard us was not Trixie. Much too subtle. But that alarm spell was definitely Trixie’s ...” Ditzy squinted into the distance, towards the base of a stone bluff, and said, “What’s that over there?” Time Turner shrugged. “I assumed you knew.” Ditzy scratched an “X” into the sand, then both ponies trotted over to the bluff. The unknown object turned out to be a tarp. Underneath it were a set of wood crates—each several feet tall and wide, but only a few inches deep. The crate in front had a note taped to it: don’t open till you-know when! Time Turner squinted. “That writing looks familiar. Is that ...” “Yep.” She met Time Turner’s eyes. “This is a good sign, right?” Ditzy and Time Turner reentered the dimension of the art museum without incident. In silence, they followed the upper floor’s hallway outward. As the atrium disappeared around the curve, the corridor plunged into complete darkness—except for Ditzy’s lantern. “You’re listening for the guards, right?” Ditzy whispered around the lamp handle. “Yes, yes.” Time Turner’s head was low, and his ears swiveled rapidly, pointing every which way. “Hrmmm ...” “Getting creeped out?” Ditzy said. “Honestly, so am I.” The dim light of Ditzy’s lamp, swaying back and forth in her grip, did strange things to the artwork they passed. A looming, bat-like silhouette, glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, turned out to be the shadow of an abstract wooden sculpture. The snarling face of some predator, examined more closely, revealed itself to be an indistinct swirl of paint. A massive, staring eye turned out to be ... “Now just one minute!” Time Turner hissed and marched up to the clock whose face had looked so much like an eye. “What is this, this ... travesty?” Ditzy took a few seconds to realize what was wrong with the clock. The hands were completely missing. It appeared a functioning clock in every other regard: its pendulum swung, and its tick-tick-tick was very audible in the museum’s silence. “Are there real art thieves at work as well?” Time Turner asked. “Did they steal this clock’s hands?” “No ...” Ditzy scanned the plaque to the clock’s side. “It says the artist deliberately built a clock without hands. He wanted to make a statement about—” “Hmph. Anypony who missed the point that badly can’t have anything worth saying.” Time Turner snorted and resumed walking. Ditzy shrugged and caught up with him. They reached the modular wall. “Oh, right.” Ditzy waved a hoof at the art pieces hanging on the wall. “We need to do something about those before we move this wall.” “Eh,” Time Turner said. “Just lean them against another wall. The museum can figure out where to put them.” “Works for me.” It took a few minutes for Ditzy to examine the paintings and make certain they wouldn’t trigger any sort of alarm. That done, it was quick work for her and Time Turner to take them down and carefully set them to the side. Ditzy scrunched her face as she looked back at the wall. “We’ll need to do the same for the ones on the other side.” They resumed trotting outward along the hall. A few minutes later, the corridor grew lighter, so Ditzy covered the lamp. They had reached the outermost loop. Tall, thin windows were set into the wall every dozen feet or so. Moonlight filtered through their curtains, illuminating the hall. Time Turner pointed at the nearest window. “Are there alarm spells on those, too?” Ditzy nodded. Time Turner chuckled. “Well. I guess this would be no fun if it were too easy.” They reached the other side of the modular wall. One painting came down from the wall without incident. Another painting joined it. Ditzy and Time Turner pulled a third piece off the wall—a mixed-media composition with machine parts glued to a painted canvas. Time Turner’s hoof slipped. There was a crack, as his corner of the canvas fell to the floor. Then there was another, as Ditzy flinched and dropped her side as well. The impact knocked most of the metal parts loose, and they rang and clattered onto the floor. Then there was a ting, ting, ting as one gear bounced across the floor—towards the nearest window. Ditzy dove for the bouncing gear. She pressed it to the floor, beneath her forehooves, but she continued sliding forward. Ditzy had too much momentum and, thanks to the bags on her hooves, not enough grip on the floor. Her eyes wide, she leaned back and spread her wings. She only had time to flap once. Her forehooves struck the wall. Her body pitched forward, and her head struck the window. “Aw, horsefeathers,” Ditzy said, her voice muffled by the curtain. Trixie had once described her alarm spell as “not a very subtle alarm”. This was true in the same way that a monsoon is “not very dry.” A klaxon wailed, a deafening, chest-rattling sound. Every window in the museum strobed a bright red light that even Time Turner could see. “This is bad?!” Time Turner shouted over the klaxon, barely. “The worst!” Ditzy staggered back from the window. “Then let’s go!” He offered his hoof. Ditzy batted it away. “No! First we have to shut off—” “Freeze!” An earth pony stallion in a black uniform approached. Ditzy could not make out his face, but his shape was clear even in the strobing light. He was of the same mold as Big Macintosh, or the chief of Ponyville’s police. Ditzy and Time Turner, together, might have been able to take him in a fair fight, but she would much rather not find out. “It’s not what it looks like!” Ditzy shouted at him. “Shut that alarm off and we can explain!” “I’ll be the judge of that!” the guard answered. “Now are you two going to come quietly?!” “Yes! The quietest! We’ll make the winners of the Quiet Game sound like a rock concert! Just please shut off that alarm!” “Well, you see, little lady—” “Cower in fear, evildoers! The fury of Trrrrrrixie is upon you!” All three ponies facehoofed. Ditzy looked up just in time to see Trixie, billy club raised, leaping through the air ... towards the other guard. She swung hard, striking his head with a meaty thunk. He staggered a few steps and collapsed. Trixie landed and turned around. “So you see that Trixie will always triumph over evil, for ...” She dropped her club as she saw the slumped form of the other guard. “Oh, sh’cl’bl’zh. Trixie is so fired.” “Trixie!” Ditzy shouted. “Please shut the alarm off!” “What?!” Trixie looked at Ditzy and Time Turner for the first time. “Dizzy! What’s the meaning of this?!” “I’ll explain everything if you shut the alarm off!” “Oh no! You’re in league with the vandals!” “Trixie!” Ditzy grabbed Trixie’s shoulders. “For the love of Celestia and Friendship and Harmony—in the name of everything you hold dear—if you ever want to get your revenge on Twilight Sparkle—SHUT! OFF! THAT! ALARM!” “Dizzy, You sicken Trixie! How could you?!” “Aargh!” Ditzy stepped back. “Forget it! It’s too late!” “Dizzy! Trixie can’t hear a thing you’re saying! She’s gonna turn off the alarm!” Trixie’s horn lit up, and the alarm lights stopped flashing, plunging the hall back into pale half-light. The klaxon went silent, but its wails continued to echo. Flicking her ringing ears, Ditzy said, “We all need to get out of here. Now.” Time Turner was crouched at the other guard’s side. “And this pony needs a doctor,” he said. Trixie snorted. “Trixie thought you were a doctor!” “I have a Ph.D in chronometry, not medicine!” With Ditzy’s help, he loaded the unconscious stallion on his back and stood up. “Ohhh ... You’re a psychologist.” Time Turner rolled his eyes. The echoes of the klaxon faded and distorted into something that sounded almost bestial. This was not an absolute change in volume, but just the source moving further away. As Ditzy realized that, sweat broke out on her brow, and her stomach went into a free fall. “Less talking, more leaving!” Ditzy said. “I’ll explain everything when we’re outside!” GRRRRROWWWWR The sound came from the interior of the museum. The echoes of the klaxon had changed into a growl unlike any Ditzy had ever heard—and had flared up almost as loud as before. “What ...” Trixie said, her eyes wide, “is that?” “It’s why we need to leave,” Ditzy said, pulling on Trixie’s shoulder. Time Turner was already trotting outward, to the entrance. Trixie followed a few steps, then stopped. “Is that another Ursa Minor?” she said. “It kind of sounds like one.” “It’s worse.” Ditzy hovered behind Trixie and pushed the unicorn towards the door. “Much worse.” “A chance for Trixie to redeem herself?” “What? ... No!” It was too late. Trixie slipped around Ditzy. “For gloryyyyy!” she shouted as she ran in, towards the museum center. Ditzy groaned. To Time Turner, she said, “I’ll go save her butt. You get him to—” With a green magic burst, another Time Turner appeared—and with him, a mare in a nurse’s uniform. The first Time Turner, with the unconscious guard on his back, grabbed her forehoof. The nurse glanced around and said, “Whaaaaaaa ...” With another green burst, the first Time Turner, the guard, and the nurse all disappeared. “Works for me!” Ditzy said. “Come on!” They rushed down the hall. Time Turner paused only to pick up the discarded club. Ditzy caught up with Trixie at the top of the atrium staircase. The unicorn just stood and stared down, so it was no trouble for Ditzy to grab her from behind and cover her mouth. Trixie’s yelp came out as a faint muffled sound, completely drowned out by the continuous growls from below. “Shhh ...” Ditzy leaned into Trixie’s ear. “Don’t make a sound.” Ditzy followed Trixie’s gaze. The atrium below was barely recognizable. Most of the mobile lay in pieces on the floor, its cables severed and its metal sheets gashed and torn. The walls and floor were carved with the same gashes. The cuts were irregular: some clean, some jagged, some running parallel—marks carved by a predator with an ever-changing number of claws. As Time Turner silently approached behind Ditzy and Trixie, the final cable broke in three places, and the final piece of the mobile fell to the floor. The clang of sheet metal echoed and grew louder instead of diminishing—until it merged with the background noise into a fierce roar. All three ponies backed away. Trixie gulped and wiggled her head until her mouth was free. “What is that … invisible creature?” she whispered. “Not invisible. Not like you think.” Ditzy released her. “It’s a chladni. A monster made of sound waves. The Killing Echo.” Trixie continued backing away. “Sounds lovely. How do we dispose of it?” “We don’t do anything,” Time Turner said. His voice was quite clear, in spite of the billy club strap he grasped in his teeth. “We just get out of here.” Ditzy nodded. “This chladni’s self-sustaining—strong enough that opening a door or knocking down a wall won’t take it out. But I don’t think it’s strong enough yet to leave the museum. So we just need to get out and find somepony who knows the right sound magic to dispel it.” “Trixie knows sound magic.” “Whatever. We can talk about it outside. Can you teleport yourself there? It would be safer than walking.” “Of course not,” Trixie hissed. “Why would Trixie know how to teleport?” “Sorry. Twilight teleports all the time, so I just assumed …” “If you love Twilight Sparkle so much, why don’t you just marry her!” The three ponies cringed as Trixie’s shout echoed, growing louder and louder. “Come on, Trixie,” Ditzy said. “Take my hoof.” Trixie froze, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the offered hoof. The echoes of Trixie’s shout distorted into another roar. The six steps at the top of the staircase exploded. Pebbles and clouds of marble dust flew towards the three ponies. Trixie turned and bolted. “No!” Ditzy and Time Turner both shouted and followed her. Ditzy took wing. She flapped as hard as she could, but could not catch up with Trixie. Fear gave the unicorn surprising speed. Trixie’s hooves pounded on the marble floor. Each step echoed, then merged with the amplifying feedback of every step before, until the sound was just a continuous roar. “Trixie!” Ditzy shouted. “Come back here! I can—” “Nope!” The roar grew louder from behind. Ten feet behind Ditzy, jagged slashes appeared in the floor and ceiling. “Ditzy!” Time Turner pulled alongside the pegasus, on her right. “Can we outrun this?” “It’s not recommended!” A wall panel exploded five feet behind them, obliterating an abstract impressionist painting. “Trixie!” Time Turner called. “We can get you out of here safely! Just let us—” “Nope nope nope nope!” “Time Turner! Get over here!” Ditzy called. The roar grew louder to the right. Time Turner moved away from that wall, closer to Ditzy. A gash cut into the right wall. It destroyed a wooden bench and the floor, right where Time Turner would have stepped. “Trixie!” Ditzy called out between pants. “You can’t outrun this!” “Anything you can do, Trixie can do better!” “Time Turner, go right!” Time Turner and Ditzy both moved away from the left wall. The ceiling exploded on that side. Heavy stones fell right where Ditzy would have flown. “No, Trixie!” Ditzy called. “We can’t! ... Trixie! Help! Save us!” Time Turner shot her an incredulous look. “What?” Trixie spared a glance over her shoulder. “Yes, Trixie! If you keep running like this, we’ll—” A podium on the right side exploded into splinters. The explosion blasted an urn full of burnt money across the hall. It shattered against Ditzy’s head. The blow clouded her brain; the ashes and dust blinded her eyes. Before either could clear, she collided with the left wall and rolled to a stop on the floor. Her paper bag hat landed a foot away. “Ditzy!” Time Turner skidded to a stop and kneeled at her side. “Ditzy!” Trixie ran to her other side. “Wait a second ...” Ditzy shook her head. “Trixie. Sound magic. Can you magically amplify a sound?” Trixie nodded. The roar grew louder. Ditzy grabbed the paper bag. “Then get it ready. Time Turner?” “Yes?” Ditzy reached into the bag. “Batter up!” Three slashes appeared in the floor, cutting directly towards the three ponies. Ditzy pulled her hoof out—holding the rubber duck. She lobbed it at Time Turner. With a flick of his head, he spun the club by its strap. Trixie’s horn flared. The club struck true. The duck, amplified by Trixie’s magic, produced the loudest squeak ever heard in Canterlot. The slashes in the floor stopped, inches away from the ponies. The roars silenced. As the echoes from the rubber duck died down, stillness descended on the hall. Trixie and Time Turner stood rigid, their eyes darting every which way. “Don’t move,” Ditzy said, righting herself and lifting into the air. “And don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.” Ditzy flew down the hall until she reached the outermost loop. It took her a few minutes to open every window. When she finished, she sighed and took the paper bags off her hooves. “Alright ...” 3. Beauty is a mystery.“No, no, nooooo!” Trixie wailed. “This is terrible, too terrible to contemplate!” She was crouched, scooping the dust and ashes back into the urn she had reassembled from its shards. As soon as she looked at Ditzy, the urn fell apart again. “Well,” Ditzy said, “I removed the modular wall that started this whole mess. And Time Turner and I are going to have a talk with the museum president about keeping that gap open. So at least this won’t ever happen again ...” There were tears in Trixie’s eyes as she said, “Thank you, Dizzy, but that’s cold comfort after the losses we’ve already suffered.” She gestured at the pile of pottery and ash on the ground. “Just think of the future generations who will never be able to see this! Think of their deprivation!” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “And it happened under Trixie’s watch! There’s no way she won’t get fired for that.” “I’m sorry,” Ditzy said. “Maybe we could put in a good word for you with the head of security?” Trixie rolled her eyes. “You mean the head of security who Trixie bludgeoned unconscious less than an hour ago?” “The hospital says he’ll make a full recovery, by the way,” Time Turner said as he approached. “Wait,” Ditzy said, “that was ...?” “The same!” Trixie snorted. “Firing is too good for Trixie. No, they’ll fire her, then re-hire her just so they can fire her again!” “Can they do that?” Time Turner asked. Ditzy trotted down the hall, further into the region damaged by the chladni. She spared a glance at the remains of Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench. She ran a hoof along one the gashes in the ceiling, then sniffed it. She picked up a scrap of canvas—the largest piece of an obliterated painting—and her eyes widened. A glance at the plaque next to the bare space on the wall confirmed her worst suspicion. “Darn it!” Time Turner was soon at her side. “What’s wrong?” “This is that painting by Blue Rider. What’s left of it.” Ditzy tossed the scrap back onto the debris pile. “The painting you wanted to see? I’m sorry.” “Can we save them? Use your special talent to go back ...” Time Turner scratched the back of his head. “I wish we could, but—” “Right, right.” Ditzy turned away. “You can only make stable time loops. I’m just ... just...” Ditzy squinted at the debris. She grabbed the scrap of canvas again and examined its back side. “Is this what I think it is?” She shoved the scrap into Time Turner’s face. “Well, it says ‘hi!’, and it’s definitely your writing, Ditzy.” “Great,” Ditzy said. She was sifting through the debris, grabbing every scrap of canvas she could find. “Because from my perspective, I haven’t written that yet. Aha! You see, Time Turner, this painting ...” She slapped two scraps onto the floor, next to each other. Each bore half of a signature: not Blue Rider, but Broad Strokes. “... is a forgery.” “Oh.” Time Turner said. “So the real painting is presumably fine, but it’s in the hooves of thieves and may never see the light of day again. Kind of a lateral move, if you ask me.” “But since I wrote something on the back of this forgery, then maybe the original is ... Let me check something.” Ditzy rushed back up the hall. She passed Trixie, mourning over the remains of Wooden museum bench. Upon reaching the broken urn, Ditzy turned over the shard that had been its bottom. On the underside, clear as day, was the signature of Broad Strokes. Ditzy rushed back down the hall, stopping at the shattered bench. She dug into the splinters and broken planks. “What are you doing?!” Trixie grabbed her and telekinetically pulled her away. “Hasn’t it already suffered enough already?” “Hold that thought.” Ditzy darted across the hall, to the identical, undamaged bench. She poked her head underneath. “Ha-ha! Trixie, take a look at this!” Trixie followed. “Trixie doesn’t see what could possibly be so important ...” she muttered as she glanced under the bench. Then she stared. Gasping, she took several steps back. “Whitemane’s signature! But ... but that means ...” Ditzy smiled. “It means that pile of scrap over there is just a bench. And this fine piece, completely undamaged except for a few butt marks, is Art. And that means uurrrk!” Trixie threw herself at Ditzy, hugging her so tightly the pegasus could barely breathe. “I’m sorry,” Time Turner said as he trotted up. “Am I interrupting something?” Trixie glanced between him and Ditzy. Blushing, she jumped back several paces. “Trixie is just so thankful! Dizzy ... she, um ... Trixie isn’t sure what Dizzy just did. But Art was saved and Dizzy was there, so she must have done something!” “We all did something.” Ditzy said. “And, in an equally true but more important manner, we still need to do that something.” “Now you’re not making any sense, Dizzy.” “We’re going to save all the artwork. All three of us. Trixie, I need you to get us a list of the pieces that were vandalized and the dates. Also ...” Ditzy pointed a hoof at the Wooden museum bench. “... the socket wrench that the museum used to bolt that to the floor.” Trixie stood up straight. “The Great and Powerful Trixie will not let you down!” She rushed away. “As for us,” Ditzy said to Time Turner, “we need to track down this Broad Strokes and commission some forgeries.” A year ago ... “Okay, scratch that.” Ditzy shook her head, then met the artist’s disapproving stare. “Don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as art preservation.” Broad Strokes tilted his threadbare beret back slightly. “Alright, I’m listening.” Time Turner stepped forward. “Well, we liaise with museum security at the Goggle Heights. We have intel about a vandal who intends to irreparably damage a number of artworks there.” Broad Strokes rested his stubbled chin in one hoof and said nothing. “Our best bet is to catch him in the act,” Ditzy said. “Obviously, we don’t want to use the originals as bait.” Broad Strokes smiled. “You want me to make the bait.” He turned away from Ditzy and Time Turner, sighing. “So why ask a complete nopony like me?” “Because we’ve seen your work,” Time Turner said. “It’s good. We know you can pull it off.” “Funny, that.” Broad Strokes turned back around. “You say my work is good, but you want me to copy other artists, so my copies can be destroyed.” “What if ...” Ditzy shifted on her hooves slightly. “... When this is all over, we could rent you space for an art show in our hometown. And make sure that everypony we know comes to see it.” “Including ...” Time Turner leaned closer. “... a fashion designer who, this time next year, will be making waves in Canterlot high society. I’m told she’s very good at the old ‘Scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ routine.” Broad Strokes blinked. “Really? You’d do that for me?” Ditzy nodded. “Alright! Oh, where is your hometown?” “Ponyville!” “... Never heard of it.” Three weeks ago ... Ditzy studied the painting. She leaned forward until her eye was mere inches from the canvas. She stepped back a few feet until she could take in its entire scope. Then she nodded to Time Turner. “Alright, I’m finished.” Quickly and silently, they wrapped the painting in layers of bubble wrap. “So,” Time Turner said, “why that painting? Why did you want to see it so much?” They lifted the wrapped canvas and slid it into the transport crate. “It reminds me of the inside of a rift,” Ditzy said. “I wonder if Blue Rider could see them.” As Time Turner latched the crate shut, Ditzy reviewed Trixie’s list. “I think that’s the last piece,” he said as they loaded the crate on the cart. “Yep.” Ditzy pushed the cart to the hlåv, and it rolled a few feet before its wheels sank into the sand. Fortunately, she had entered this dimension much closer to the base of the rock bluff—only a few feet away from the designated storage spot. After unloading the crates, Ditzy slapped a note on the one in front: don’t open till you-know-when! She spread a tarp over the crates, and dragged the cart fjoth, back into the museum. When she found Time Turner, he was about to hang up the ersatz Blue Rider painting. He waited long enough for Ditzy to write “hi!” on the back with a marker. After the painting went up, Ditzy said, “We didn’t see or hear any guards tonight. Isn’t that a bit odd?” “Yes, it is. Although ...” Time Turner scratched his chin. “I bet they stepped up their vigilance in response to what we’ve just done.” One week ago ... The night was significantly less stormy than advertised. “One, two, three, push!” The metal brackets screeched against the floor as Ditzy and Time Turner pushed the bench across the hall. “Darn it,” Ditzy said. “I hope all these loud noises tonight haven’t damaged our hearing.” “Maybe we should carry the other one instead?” Time Turner said. So they carried Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench to the opposite side of the hall, rather than pushing. Before they could bolt either bench to the floor, a voice cried from up the hallway: “Halt, enemies of Art, or face the wrath of Trixie!” “And that’s our cue to leave,” Time Turner said. Ditzy took his hoof, and they disappeared just as Trixie’s hoofsteps echoed around the bend. Tonight ... Weighed down with crates, the cart would barely roll in the sand. But with Time Turner’s help, Ditzy managed to get it back from the other dimension, into the Goggle Heights. “Trixie!” Ditzy called. “You wanna look these over?” “Trixie just needs another minute!” Trixie attached the final cable to the atrium ceiling. Dispelling her telekinesis, she flinched. But the Sandy Streams mobile held secure. Trixie relaxed. “Coming!” She cantered over to the cart. The smile fell from her face as she counted the crates. “There’s one missing.” “But ...” Ditzy glanced between the cart, the list, and Trixie. “We got everything on the list! I checked twice!” Trixie snatched the list. “Oh dear. It seems Trixie forgot all about Pole Lock’s Composition No. 5.” Ditzy groaned. “Great!” Time Turner said. “So now we’ve gotta go through that entire rigamarole again, for one painting! And not even a good one—just a bunch of paint spatters! I could have made that one!” “But you didn’t,” Trixie shot back, “and Pole Lock did! Several times, in fact. That’s why he’s an Artist and you ... Oh. Oh!” Her eyes went wide. She crumpled the list into a ball and threw it straight up. “Of course! We don’t need to save Composition No. 5 at all! Haha!” “Aaaand why not?” Ditzy asked. Trixie answered without pausing her celebratory dance. “Because Pole Lock has never been satisfied with old No. 5! Every month or so, he takes it down and completely repaints it. So he’ll be ecstatic about another opportunity to make a new one from scratch!” “Huh,” was all Ditzy could say. “Well,” Time Turner said, “that’s pretty odd, but it means less work for us, so I’m not complaining!” Trixie ran up to envelope both of them in a tight hug. “Thank you so much, both of you! You’ve saved Art, and probably Trixie’s employment as well. Trixie doesn’t know how to repay you!” “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Time Turner said. “Yeah, all in day’s work,” Ditzy said. “Fighting monsters, saving jobs, saving priceless art, saving Twilight’s favorite museum ...” Trixie recoiled. “Saving Twilight’s what?” “Um ...” “Are you implying Twilight Sparkle likes the Goggle Heights Art Museum? That it is, in fact, her favorite?” “Um, yes?” With a burst of telekinesis, Trixie tore off her uniform and threw it on the floor. She stomped the pile of black fabric several times before turning and marching away. “Trixie quits!” Author's Note Mad props to these fine fellows for helping me beyond just pre-reading: Kuroi Tsubasa Tenshi, for suggesting Trixie's joke from the end of Ch 1, for suggesting a better explanation for why Ditzy wore those paper bags on her hooves, and for naming Broad Strokes. Justanotherbrony, for introducing me to Wassily Kandinsky. cleverpun, for introducing me to Alexander Calder, and for suggesting Sandy Streams as Calder's ponified name. ——— Artistic inspiration: Marcel Duchamp: Nude Descending a Staircase Wassily Kandinsky: Composition VI Piet Mondrian Alexander Calder Jackson Pollock: No. 5, 1948 Remodernism The Museum of Bad Art The K Foundation Art Award & "K Foundation Burn a Million Quid" ——— See here for the backstory.
1. Beauty is difficult to judge.A year ago ... “No, don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as performance art!” “That’s even worse. I’m a neo-modernist.” “... Aaaand?” “Among many other things, I’m morally opposed to so-called ‘performance art.’” “Okay, scratch that. Don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as art preservation.” “Alright, I’m listening.” Today ... Ditzy Doo glanced at the mirror in her hoof, confirming the street behind her was still empty. She resumed reading her newspaper. She was outside a Canterlot cafe, seated at the patio table nearest the restaurant’s entrance. She faced the wall. It was quite lovely, for a wall. Though it lacked the blue and gold trim of the royal palace—or the countless city blocks catering to the tourists—the absence made it easier to appreciate the artistry of the unadorned white stones. The mason who set them clearly cared about her job, as did whoever had last scrubbed them. The stones were so clean, the sunlight cast a slight iridescent glitter wherever it struck. Few outsiders would see these walls, and certainly no tourists would; it was for the sake of Canterlot’s natives that these workers kept walls like this one beautiful. The other pony—the one Ditzy was waiting for—had been born and raised in Canterlot. She had suggested this particular cafe as a meeting place, allegedly because of the small crowd this time of week. However, Ditzy suspected this cafe’s fried mushroom sandwiches, reputedly the best in the city, also influenced the decision. Ditzy read her newspaper to distract herself from worries about where the other pony was. An article about a rash of vandalism at the Goggle Heights Art Museum caught her eye, but it wasn’t quite enough to keep her mind occupied. So, as she read about the renowned works of modern art that some unknown criminals had irreparably damaged, Ditzy thought, I need to remember that she runs on O.C.D. Time, not Guard Time. When she says to meet somewhere at six o’clock, she means exactly six, not quarter-till. In the distance, a clock tower rang. Ditzy raised her mirror again, but nopony was approaching. Her dinner date was late. When she set the mirror down, Twilight Sparkle was across the table from her—not late after all. “Hi, Ditzy!” “Bah!” Ditzy jumped back, causing her chair to lean precariously. She wildly flapped her wings to regain balance, and held her hooves over her eyes. “Where did you come from?” “There’s another entrance from the other side of the cafe. So ... notice anything different about me?” Ditzy snuck a glance from behind her hooves. Then she dropped her hooves to the table and gaped. Twilight looked like an ordinary purple unicorn. Her entire body didn’t glow, and her horn certainly didn’t shine with the light of a miniature sun. “Your aura,” Ditzy said. “Where’s your aura?” “Haha, it worked!” Twilight beamed—figuratively, not literally, for a change. “What worked? Did you do something to your ley lines?” “Not quite. It’s a modified version of an old spell by Resonius the Fourth. He thought that all the magic flowing out of a pony’s body—what you see as auras—was terribly inefficient. His theory was that unicorns could cast more powerful magic if they’d just stop all that leaking first.” Twilight reached across the table to pick up Ditzy’s hoof-mirror. “It never worked, at least not for the purpose he wanted. His spell did a pretty good job blocking the ambient magic loss, but that had no effect on his spellcasting power. But ...” She set the mirror down. “When I learned about your, um, unique ability, I remembered that old spell. Just a few tweaks, and now you can actually look at me, instead of my reflection!” “That’s pretty cool,” Ditzy said. “But is it safe to play around with your own body’s magic like that?” “It’s only a temporary spell. Besides, would I cast it on myself if it wasn’t safe?” Ditzy shifted her eyes, then picked up her glass and took a long drink. “Yeah ...” Twilight said. “I probably would. Oh, and while we’re on the subject ...” She poked her snout into her saddlebag and pulled out a magazine. She fumbled it in her hooves for a few seconds before sliding it across the table, to Ditzy. Like so many other peer-reviewed scientific journals, Medical Magic’s cover was violently boring. If the solid maroon and plain text of the cover didn’t scare away the laypony readers, the article titles certainly would. “Look at the third article,” Twilight said. Ditzy read, “Mutation of the visual cortex as a potential origin of ley line malformation and thaumaturgical synesthesia: the first pegasus case study. By T. Sparkle and D. R. Morningdew.” She looked back up at Twilight. “Kind of burying your lede, don’t you think?” Twilight shrugged. “That’s scientific writing for you.” Her eye twitched. “So …” Ditzy said, “any progress on tracking our architect?” “Oh, yes! In fact, I hit the mother lode.” Twilight pulled her saddlebags off. Awkwardly, with her hooves, she turned over the bag, dumping a three-ring binder on the table. Her left ear flopped a few times as she opened it. Twilight continued, “You know why I had so much trouble finding the blueprints in the libraries? Because a collector in Los Pegasus is buying them all! She’s convinced that Mr. Buttress is the most important architect of our time, so she’s trying to build a museum in his honor. I said I was researching to write a book about him, and she couldn’t wait to give me copies of every blueprint she had.” “Really? The guy who …” Ditzy paused and considered her words. She could not refer to Flying Buttress as the guy who designed a building to summon a monster from outside time and space in public; the entire incident was classified Top Secret. Besides, he might not have done it intentionally. She continued, “The guy who designed Ponyville Town Hall is some kind of big name in architecture?” “Ponyville nabbed him before he became famous. Just look what else he designed …” Twilight flipped open pages at random. “L’Arc de l’Alliance. The Maretropolitan Museum of Art. Sydneigh Opera House of Pancakes.” “Wow.” Ditzy shifted in her chair. “Sorry I couldn’t help you with looking this up, Twilight. It’s just …” “I know, I know.” Twilight twitched. “Those courses full of top secret information you can’t share with anypony, not even me.” “Sorry. If it’s any consolation, most of it’s really boring. So many lectures about how to fill out paperwork—” “What?” Twilight twitched again, harder, and both of her ears flopped. “You mean you get to do paperwork, too? Aaaargh!” She fell forward, dropping her face onto the binder’s pages. Her withers and back muscles twitched. “Twilight, are you okay?” She looked up at Ditzy without raising her head. “Just a bit frustrated, but not with you. It’s not your fault.” “No, I mean, you keep twitching like you’re having a seizure.” “Twitching? I’m not twitching.” “You just did it again.” “Whatever.” Twilight sat back up. “Anyway, I looked through half of these blueprints last night. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, but maybe you’ll find something I missed.” “Sure, I can double-check those.” Twilight fumbled with the tabs to open the binder’s rings. Ditzy reached across and pulled the binder to herself. “Why don’t I do this?” she said. Ditzy was not particularly more dextrous with her hooves than Twilight was, but at least she did not have to deal with twitching and spasming. Within two minutes, the binder was open. She pushed a stack of pages back to Twilight, then examined the first blueprint in her own stack. A few minutes later, movement caught Ditzy’s attention. “Did you need something, Twilight?” “What?” Both of Twilight’s ears kept flopping in no particular pattern, and her eyes glowed faintly purple. “I thought you were ... Never mind.” Ditzy turned to the side, so Twilight’s movement would not distract her, and resumed examining the blueprints. A few minutes passed this way. The table started vibrating. “O-o-o-h, no-o-o!” Twilight said. “E-e-ear-r-th-th-qua-a-ake!” Ditzy’s gaze darted around the patio and down the street. All the other scenery was completely still. The sole other pony visible—a unicorn seated at the far end of the patio—was completely calm. Only Twilight and the table in front of her shook—and as soon as Twilight lifted her hoof from it, the table went still. Twilight was now vibrating like a box full of angry rodents. Her eyes glowed brightly. “Di-i-i-it-zy-y-y, w-we-e-e-e n-nee-ee-eed—” “Twilight! Are you sure that spell you cast on yourself was safe?” Twilight opened her mouth, but no words came out—only a light as bright as the one from her eyes. She bolted from the table and ducked into the nearest alley. Ditzy turned her gaze downward, just in time. A bolt of concentrated magic blasted out of the alley, straight into the sky. Half the ponies in Canterlot felt its passing, but the sole pegasus who could have seen it was looking elsewhere at that second. “Hmm?” Ditzy said. Three pages from Twilight’s stack had fluttered free during her abrupt departure, then landed near Ditzy. She picked one of them up. She looked up as Twilight returned to the table. “Are you okay?” “I’m fiiiiiiiine ...” Twilight’s mane and tail were frazzled, and every hair of her coat stood on end. She leaned back and forth slightly, but she smiled. “I feel great! ... So, where were we?” “Does this look familiar?” Ditzy slid the page across the table, to Twilight. “Hmm ... a spiral, almost but not completely unlike a nautilus shell ...” Twilight squinted at the page. “Wait, is this the Goggle Heights? It is! Don’t tell me there’s something wrong with the Goggle Heights!” “Maybe. Doesn’t the wall arrangement look like the ... umm, that echo maze? I forget the name ...” Twilight slumped back in her chair. “Darn it, you’re right. It really does. Except ...” She leaned forward and jabbed her hoof at the page. “The Hyperborean Echo Labyrinth had another wall, right here! The Goggle Heights has a gap there, one that completely compromises the autoacoustic feedback loop. Ha!” “Yeah ...” Ditzy said, as she looked at the page one last time. “Crisis averted, I guess.” “Great! I’d hate to have to blow up my favorite art museum.” “You have a favorite museum? Wait, of course you would ...” Twilight looked into the distance. “The Goggle Heights is just such an elegant solution to the ‘how to see every exhibit without backtracking’ problem ...” “I’d never really thought about that ... Oh! I forgot!” Ditzy rummaged in her saddlebag and pulled out an object in bright wrapping paper. “Happy early Birthday! Since I’ll be stuck here in Canterlot on the day of ...” “Thank you!” Twilight took the gift and held it up, judging its weight. “Is this ...” She fumbled with the wrapping in her hooves for nearly a minute. Eventually, she grabbed a corner with her teeth and tore the paper off. “It is! Transcriptions of Dusty Old Tomes from the Terrelicorno Library, Volume 37! Thank you, Ditzy!” Twilight stepped around the table and hugged Ditzy. Then she twitched. “Um ...” Ditzy said, “I really appreciate that you went to all the trouble of making that spell so your ambient magic wouldn’t bother me. But, could you never cast it again? The side effects are kinda creeping me out.” Two hours later, Ditzy was alone again at the table. She and Twilight had reviewed the blueprints and eaten dinner—the fried mushroom sandwich definitely lived up to its reputation. Then Twilight had to catch her train back to Ponyville, leaving Ditzy to clean up the debris of the research session. The blueprints went back into the binder, which went into Ditzy’s saddlebag. Then Ditzy grabbed the newspaper and paused. Once more, she read the article about the unsolved vandalism cases at the Goggle Heights. Coincidence? she thought. When she returned to her hotel room, she immediately wrote a letter. Ditzy was examining a painting when Dr. Time Turner Hooves arrived. One second, she was alone in the stark white, curved corridor of Twilight’s favorite art museum; the next, the stallion was behind her. “What’s that a painting of?” he said. “Not sure,” Ditzy said, continuing to squint at the painting. “The title is Shaved Pony Descending a Staircase, No. 2 ... but I don’t see any pony, shaved or otherwise.” Time Turner stepped up to her side. “Interesting. Well, I got your letter, so here I am. But you didn’t just call me here to look at paintings, right?” “I wish.” “So ... Why are you wearing a paper bag on your head?” Ditzy flicked her ears, crinkling her headgear slightly, and spun to face Time Turner. “To match the ones on my hooves, of course.” Smiling, she lifted one foreleg to show off her hoofwear. “Oh, yes, of course.” Time Turner rolled his eyes. “Now, forgive my ignorance, but why are you wearing bags on your hooves?” “To act as sound channeling foci.” “... Do I want to know?” Ditzy snorted. “I need to muffle my hoofsteps, and I left my sneakers back in Ponyville, and all the shops I could find here only sell ‘designer sneakers’ that cost a wing and a leg, and you can’t even run in them!” “Yes, but won’t the bags make just as much noise?” Ditzy pranced in place, then jumped into the air and landed—all without making a single sound. “I’m deflecting the sound waves into the eight dimension. Pretty cool, huh?” Time Turner’s eyes widened. “You learn something every day.” Leaning forward, he smiled. “I almost thought the bags were some baffling new fashion trend.” “Oh, you know me. Always on the cutting edge.” “Of course, of course.” Time Turner raised one of his hooves. “I hope my own sneakers aren’t too embarrassing for a fashion-forward mare like you?” “Ugh ...” Ditzy twisted her face into an exaggerated sneer, but her eyes were smiling. “That shade of green is so last week. I shouldn’t be seen within ten feet of a faux pas like that. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” “You’re so gracious.” Time Turner furrowed his brow as he looked at Ditzy. “Hmm ... Can you wait one second?” Ditzy nodded. There was a green burst of time travel magic, and Ditzy was once again alone. Exactly one second later, another green burst brought Time Turner back. “Here, this is for you.” He pushed a box over to Ditzy. Inside it was a pearl necklace. “Whaaa ...” “Hurry, put it on.” Ditzy complied. “But why ...” A group of ponies came around the bend. From a single glance, it was clear the white unicorn in front was the leader, and the rest were her entourage. It took another glance for Ditzy to recognize that white unicorn. Rarity looked like a completely different pony in her ensemble: a black turtleneck sweater, a maroon beret, and her mane much less curly than usual. Rarity met Ditzy’s eyes. A look of confusion passed over her face as she took in Ditzy’s paper bag ensemble. However, she gave Ditzy a smile as she walked past. Her entourage also smiled—most of them significantly less sincerely than Rarity. The mass of ponies stopped to examine Shaved Pony Descending a Staircase, No. 2. Ditzy trotted up the hall, the direction the other ponies came from, and motioned for Time Turner to follow. They stopped in front of a large ceramic urn, decorated with an ornate floral design. “I’m surprised,” Time Turner said. “I thought modern art was all abstract and conceptual pieces. But that is a very nice vase.” Ditzy read the plaque to the side. “Odd. It says the art isn’t the urn, it’s what’s inside the urn.” “Oh. Well then, dare I ask what’s inside?” “Ashes. Allegedly from bank notes.” “What.” “Worth a million bits, before they were burned.” Time Turner squinted at the urn. “Modern art is stupid.” “Yeah, that’s what Wild Drummer and Vinyl Scratch thought, too.” “Who?” “They’re the ones who burned a million bits. Because they were trying to say ‘Modern art is stupid.’” “What ... But ... I ... That ... What?” Down the hall, Rarity and her entourage moved on. They passed around the bend of the hallway. “As I was trying to say...” Ditzy faced Time Turner and found him still staring, numbly, at the urn. She waved her hoof in his face. “Hey, Earth to Time Turner!” He shook his head and looked at Ditzy. “Sorry. You were saying?” Ditzy pointed at the pearls on her neck. “This is way too expensive for you to give me for no reason. What’s the deal?” “Oh! It’s a matter of blending in. An outfit can say a lot about a pony, Ditzy. A mare in a bunch of paper bags says, ‘I might bite your ear off if you look at me wrong.’ But give that mare a pearl necklace, and suddenly her ensemble says, ‘These bags cost more than most ponies make in a year.’” “But they didn’t,” Ditzy said, raising one hoof. “I bought, like, fifty of these for two bits.” “Great, because I didn’t pay very much for the necklace. Pearls may be expensive, but live oysters are cheap.” “Oh. Okay.” Ditzy and Time Turner sat on a wooden museum bench, with several pages spread between them. Time Turner glanced between the Goggle Heights visitor’s pamphlet and the blueprint. “I was never very good at those ‘spot the difference’ puzzles ...” he said. Ditzy tried to point at the pamphlet. With the bag on her hoof, she just covered half the map. Instead, she indicated the correct spot with her nose, then said, “This spot right here. This wall. The original design has a large gap there.” “And you think the change is connected to ...” “Well, I’d much rather be proven wrong.” A new voice cut in: “Ahem.” The speaker’s shadow fell over the papers on the bench. She held her head high, glaring down at Ditzy and Time Turner. Even in the ill-fitting, black uniform of a museum guard, this light blue unicorn was unmistakable. “Do not sit on the Art,” she said. Ditzy boggled. “What are you doing here?” The guard flipped her hair. “The Great and Powerful Trrrrrrixie is stopping patrons from leaving butt-prints on a priceless piece of Contemporary Art!” Time Turner shifted and glanced under his torso. “Priceless art? The only thing we’re sitting on is a bench.” “Wrong!” Trixie pointed to an informative plaque mounted to the right of the bench. “You’re sitting on Whitemane’s Opus sixty-seven: Wooden museum patron’s bench. So it’s Art. That, over there,”— she pointed at another bench, completely identical to the one they sat on, directly facing them—“is just a bench. You’re allowed to sit on it.” Ditzy’s eyes went wide. “Oh.” “Trixie must warn you ...” She pulled a billy club out of her uniform. “... that she is authorized to use force in the defense of Art.” By the time she finished speaking, Ditzy and Time Turner had already relocated to the other bench. With their ears folded back, they both gave Trixie sheepish grins. “Very good.” Smirking, she returned the club to her uniform. Then she rushed over and threw her forelegs around Ditzy. “Trixie is so happy to see you again, Dizzy!” Ditzy paused, then returned the embrace. Time Turner smirked. “‘Dizzy’?” “It’s kind of a long story,” Ditzy said. “Dizzy and Trixie met while traveling a few years ago. She made the road to Baltimare a great deal less boring!” “Okay, not that long a story.” Trixie stepped back. “So, what brings you to Canterlot, besides this glorious Art?” She glanced at Time Turner, then back to Ditzy. “Are you two ... together?” “Umm ...” Ditzy said. “Well,” Time Turner said, “we’re just—” Ditzy’s hoof covered his mouth, cutting him off. “Yep! Time Turner here is totally my boyfriend!” Time Turner shot Ditzy a quizzical look from behind her hoof. Ditzy leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I’ll explain later.” She pulled her hoof back and said aloud, to Trixie, “He’s a doctor! And you know what they say about doctors ...” “Yes ...” Trixie looked back and forth. “Trixie knows exactly what they say about doctors, of course. And Trixie, likewise, has found somepony else.” “How nice!” “But you can’t meet her now, because she’s getting a degree in Vanhoofer.” “Of course, of course.” “Anyway! No doubt you’re wondering how Trixie wound up working here. Well, there was an unfortunate incident involving a bear in some backwater town. Ponyville. You’ve probably never heard of it.” Time Turner and Ditzy exchanged glances as they both bit back laughs. Trixie didn’t notice. “But it became clear to Trixie that Equestria just isn’t ready for her stage show yet. So she’s been working odd jobs. Saving up money, gathering information ... waiting for the right time to show that stupid lavender unicorn who’s really the greatest magician in Equestria ...” “‘Lavender unicorn’?” Time Turner said. “You don’t mean Twilight Sparkle, do you? Because she’s really more purple.” Trixie spun and planted her forehooves on Time Turner’s shoulders. “You know Twilight Sparkle?” “Not really,” Ditzy said. “I mean, we just live in the same town as her, but that doesn’t—” “By the way,” Time Turner cut in, smirking, “how did she like that birthday present you got for her?” Ditzy clapped one hoof to her forehead and groaned. “Not helping ...” Trixie drew near to Ditzy. “So you’re close to Twilight! Wonderful! You can tell Trixie how to destroy her!” “What.” “How much does she know about Trixie? What does she say about Trixie?” “She doesn’t talk about you. As far I can tell, all of Ponyville just collectively forgot about you as soon as they fixed the bear damage.” “That’s terrible! No, wait, that’s great!” Trixie stepped back, spinning and gesticulating as she declared. “Twilight will be caught completely off-guard by Trixie’s triumphant return!” Ditzy sighed. “Look, I don’t want anything to do with your weird, one-sided rivalry. I’m just here for business.” “Oh, maybe Trixie can help you with that, Dizzy. In fact, she can definitely help! Trixie is the best at helping!” “I don’t know if you can—” “She could give us some inside information about the museum,” Time Turner interrupted. “But not for free!” Trixie declared. “For every question Trixie answers, you must answer one of hers.” “Deal.” Time Turner extended a hoof. Trixie bumped it. Ditzy looked back and forth between the two. “What is happening?” “Trixie goes first!” Trixie raised a hoof dramatically. “What ... is Twilight Sparkle’s favorite food?” “Nachos, of course,” Time Turner said. “Excuse us!” Ditzy grabbed Time Turner’s ear and dragged him off the bench. “Ouch ouch ouch, alright I’m coming!” He trotted after Ditzy. They walked until the curve of the hallway hid Trixie from them. “Alright, what is your problem?” “My problem?! What is your problem? Why are you suddenly selling out Twilight Sparkle?” “Is that it? No, I’m not selling Twilight out. I’m giving useless information, like ‘favorite food’, to a showmare with an inflated ego. You don’t seriously think Trixie could actually pose a threat to Twilight, do you?” “I don’t know! I don’t get Trixie, not anymore. So I have no idea what she’s capable of.” “In that case, I’m invoking my rank. And I say we’re going to play Trixie’s little game to get the information we need.” “You can’t pull rank! I asked for your help, but this is still my case.” “But you haven’t finished your R.S.S. classes yet. You can’t officially take any cases yet.” Ditzy smirked. Leaning back, she threw a hoof to her forehead and said in a wavery voice, “Oh dear, however will I handle a case without my official R.S.S. certification? It’s not like I’ve been doing this sort of thing all by myself for years, or anything!” Time Turner glared at her. Ditzy forced her eyes to align and glared back. Time Turner furrowed his brow and leaned closer. Ditzy furrowed her brow, and her left eye snapped to the upper right. Time Turner stepped back. “What if I give you veto rights? Any question that you think might legitimately give Trixie an edge against Twilight, you say the word and we won’t answer it. Deal?” “Only if I retain the right to throw you under the bus if this comes back to bite us in the rump.” “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Then let’s go.” When they walked back, they found Trixie keeping herself busy. She swung her billy club back and forth, simultaneously ducking and twirling to dodge imaginary counterattacks. “Whoosh!” she said under her breath with each swing. “Whoosh!”For every imaginary wrongdoer she bludgeoned into submission, she paused and posed dramatically. “Whoosh! Whoosh!” Then, noticing Ditzy and Time Turner’s return, she snapped to attention and hid the club. “So,” she said, “what pressing business did you two have?” “We had a vigorous disagreement about what Twilight’s actual favorite food is,” Time Turner said. “But after much debate, we’ve decided to stick with our initial answer.” “Yes,” Ditzy said. “Tacos.” “Nachos.” “What he said. Anyway, time for our question.” Ditzy pointed her hoof. “That modular wall over there. When did it get set up, and why?” “That’s two questions!” Trixie smirked. “But as for your first question, it went up about three weeks ago. Now! What is Twilight Sparkle’s favorite color?” Ditzy looked at Time Turner. “Purple?” “Yeah,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it’s purple.” Trixie produced a notepad and wrote in it at a furious speed. Ditzy said, “Alright—” “They added that wall,” Trixie said without looking up from her writing, “because they needed more space to hang paintings. That new Zebrican Art collection completely exhausted the available space. So ...” Trixie looked up from the notepad. “What is Twilight Sparkle’s preferred branch of magic and/or special talent?” Ditzy gave Time Turner a nod. He smiled and said, “Magic.” Trixie sighed. “Don’t play stupid, doctor. You know what magic is.” “I wasn’t asking for clarification. I was answering you. Twilight doesn’t have a preferred branch because magic itself is her special talent.” Trixie boggled. Ditzy cut in, “When did the art vandalism start?” Shaking her head, Trixie regained her voice. As she returned to writing in her notepad, she said, “The unknown vandal or vandals first struck about three weeks ago. Come to think of it ...” She stopped writing. “That was right after the new Zebrican Art exhibit opened up! Are you implying the two are connected?” “It’s a hypothesis we’re considering. So, on the nights that the vandals struck—” “Hold it! Trixie hasn’t asked her question yet.” “No, you did. You said, ‘Are you implying the two are connected?’ which is definitely a question.” Trixie ground her teeth but said nothing. “So, assuming you were on duty the nights the vandals struck, did you ever hear them?” “Yes. In fact, Trixie came closer than any other guard to catching them in the act! It was a dark and stormy night, last week. Trixie was halfway through her circuit of the museum exterior. Suddenly, she heard the ghastly scraping sound of metal against the marble floor. Trixie rushed inside! In a commanding voice, she shouted, ‘Halt, enemies of Art, or face the wrath of Trixie!’” “Very intimidating,” Time Turner said. “Of course! Those interlopers certainly thought so, too. When Trixie reached the source of the scraping sound—which was right here, in fact—the craven criminals were nowhere to be seen! Trixie searched the entire museum and found no more traces of them. They didn’t even trip Trixie’s alarm spell.” Ditzy quirked an eyebrow. Trixie noticed. “Don’t give Trixie that look! She found Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench had been unscrewed from the floor! The Art desecrators were here, and they doubtless would have done unspeakable things to it, if not for Trixie’s timely intervention!” Ditzy furrowed her brow. “Hmm. Very interesting. Maybe we really aren’t dealing with—” “Ahem! Trixie’s turn! What is the secret behind Twilight’s seemingly endless knowledge?” “She just reads a lot,” Time Turner answered. “Bah! Trixie also reads.” Scratch, scratch, scratch, went the quill in Trixie’s notepad. “She reads for fun,” Ditzy added. “She lives in a library and thinks it’s the best home in the world. Her last birthday wish list was organized by Dewey Decimal Numbers. She reads a lot.” “Bah! Trixie has a life.” “Anyway,” Ditzy said, “on the nights the vandals were successful, did any guards see anything?” “No, nothing. It was the same story each time: The guard completed the interior circuit and saw nothing out of place. The guard completed the exterior circuit and again found nothing unusual. The guard began another interior circuit, only to discover the horrifying act of sacrilege that happened in the interim.” “Hmmm ...” Ditzy placed a hoof to her chin. Trixie closed her eyes. “Now for Trixie’s next question—” “Nope! No more questions.” “—how did Twilight ...” Trixie’s eyes snapped back open. “What?” “I don’t have any more questions to ask you, so I’m not answering any more. Thank you, Trixie, you’ve been informative. But we’re done here.” Ditzy trotted away, and Time Turner went with her. Trixie threw her quill and notebook in the air and rushed after Ditzy. “But, but ... there’s so much more Trixie needs to know! Such as, where did Twilight get her dragon familiar? How often does she wear socks? When did—” “Trixie!” Ditzy spoke over her shoulder and continued walking. “I must have been sending mixed signals again, so let me make it very plain: Twilight Sparkle is my friend. I am not going to help you destroy my friend.” “And why not?” “You’re hopeless.” “Please!” Trixie threw herself on the ground in front of Ditzy. “Trixie will do anything you ask, anything! She just needs some more—” “Can you get us into the museum after hours?” Time Turner interrupted. “Don’t encourage her!” Ditzy said. “Yes!” Then Trixie folded her ears back. “I mean, no. That would get Trixie fired, and she needs this job. You’ll have to talk it over with the head of security.” “Head of security, huh?” Time Turner turned to Ditzy. “When I get written permission from the security guy, where should I leave it to find?” “What?” Ditzy cocked her head, then smiled. “Oh! Right, um ... over here!” A ceremonial Zebrican mask was on display to the side. Ditzy stuck her head behind its pedestal and emerged with a slip of paper in her mouth. Time Turner grabbed the paper and brandished it at Trixie. “What do you say to this? Haha!” Trixie stood up. She glanced at the paper, then back at Time Turner, confused. “That’s just some nonsense. What do you expect Trixie to say to that?” “What do you mean ...” Time Turner read the page: No dice. Head of security is too recalcitrant. —TT “‘Too recalcitrant’?!” Time Turner flung the paper to the ground and stomped on it. “You ne’er-do-well negotiator! Don’t blame the other party for your incompetence, mud-for-brains!” “Hey, hey.” Ditzy placed a hoof on Time Turner’s shoulder. “It’s not that big a deal. Calm down.” “Yes.” He sighed. “You’re right.” Trixie looked at them, incredulity written across her face. “You said you’re here on ‘business.’ Trixie really should have asked sooner, but what exactly is your business?” Time Turner looked at Ditzy. She said, “Umm ... Well, when we met before, do you remember the last thing you said to me before we went our own ways?” “Yes. Something along the lines of ‘That was your cue to leave, dummy!’” “No, no. Right before that.” Trixie glanced at Time Turner, then smirked at Ditzy. “Are you sure you want to talk about that right in front of your boyfriend?” Ditzy boggled for a second, then facehoofed. “Not that, darn it! You said I should find a place where I can pursue my calling without other ponies thinking I’m crazy. Well, I did it. And that brought me here.” Trixie raised a hoof to her chin. “So, you got society to stop questioning your sanity ... by hanging out with ponies even crazier than you?” Ditzy facehoofed again, this time with both her fore hooves. Time Turner laughed. Ditzy returned her hooves to the ground and said, “You got it in one, Trixie.” She smirked and resumed trotting away, speaking as she went. “These days, I only hang out with ponies who remind me of you.” Trixie smiled. “And it's working out so well for ... Hey!”
2. I'm not prepared yet.Writers frequently compared the Goggle Heights Art Museum’s floor plan to a nautilus shell. Most of those writers had never even seen a nautilus shell and, if pressed to describe one, would say, “Um ... like the Goggle Heights?” The museum had two floors, each laid out as a single, spiraling hallway. At the very center, a large, sunlit atrium linked the two. As Twilight Sparkle had alluded, Flying Buttress’ design for the Goggle Heights had solved the “ideal museum path” problem—by offering its visitors only one path. Ponies started on the outer edge of the upper floor and followed the spiral inward. At the atrium, they descended to the lower floor, then followed the spiral outward, until they reached the exit stairs. However, before exiting, they needed to pass through the museum gift shop. In the Goggle Heights’ ocean of class and subtlety, the gift shop remained an island of unrestrained tackiness. Hats, paperweights, toys, refrigerator magnets, lawn ornaments, and office supplies—gaudy knickknacks in every conceivable and inconceivable color—competed for the eyes and wallets of museum patrons. Ditzy thought she saw some prints and art supplies, but those were well-hidden in another corner. She and Time Turner were tucked away in the T-shirt corner. She was whispering in his ear. As Ditzy finished, Time Turner bit back his laughter as best he could. “Really?” he said. “Believe me,” she said, rolling her eyes, “if I had any idea I would see her again like this ... No, scratch that. If I’d given it any more thought, at all, I wouldn’t have done it.” “Ah, the follies of youth ...” “It wasn’t that long ago, you know.” Ditzy’s eyes wandered, scanning the racks and shelves of T-shirts surrounding her. Some bore the Goggle Heights logo; others had reproductions of paintings. Ditzy trotted a few feet and grabbed one shirt off the rack. “You like that?” Time Turner asked. “Maybe.” She held up the shirt so he could better see the art printed on its front. “I’d like to see this painting in person.” “It’s by Blue Rider, and ...” He skimmed the visitor’s pamphlet. “Ah, yes. They do have some Blue Rider compositions here.” “Alright, we can check it out when this is all over.” Ditzy returned the shirt. “So,” Time Turner said, “do you have a plan to get us into the museum after closing?” “I can scope for some higher-dimensional holes in the walls. If that doesn’t work, we can just hide in a bathroom until closing time. Do you have a better idea?” “Well, I wouldn’t want to impose, but my special talent could be useful ...” “Of course!” Ditzy slapped her own forehead. “That’s much simpler. I knew there was some reason I brought you along on this.” “You mean my charming personality isn’t reason enough?” Time Turner staggered back, holding a hoof over his chest. ”You wound me, Dizzy.” Ditzy rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t you start that now, too. ‘Bubbles’ was bad enough.” “Oh, right. Heh heh ...” Time Turner glanced to the side. “Say, I’m a bit hungry. Can we stop by the museum coffee shop before we get down to business?” “Sounds good.” They trotted to the gift shop exit. Ditzy paused at a display rack advertising rubber bathtub ducks. She picked one up—a white duck with black lines and a few rectangles of primary colors. It squeaked loudly when Ditzy squeezed it with her wing. “How much do these cost?” she asked the cashier. They descended the staircase of the Goggle Heights’ central atrium. Sparing a glance at the atrium’s centerpiece, Ditzy and Time Turner ducked into the low-ceilinged alcove beneath the stairs. “Did anypony see us?” Time Turner asked. “I don’t think so.” Ditzy peeked out and scanned the atrium. All the other museum patrons were focused on the massive mobile—a piece Sandy Stream constructed specifically for the Goggle Heights—hanging from the ceiling. There were no security guards in sight. She ducked back. “Yeah, we’re good.” Time Turner extended a hoof, and Ditzy took it. He bucked his hind legs. Only empty air was behind him, but his hooves connected with something all the same. A crack pealed, like a miniature thunderclap. Magic—a green aura—moved over Time Turner. It started at his rear hooves and engulfed him and Ditzy in less than a second. Two images from the transition stuck in Ditzy’s mind. The first was Time Turner’s hoof, still firmly grasping her own, but now apparently disembodied: the limb stopped at a ring of green magic just past the elbow. The second was an endless green void—a swirled mass of shades from emerald to lime, celadon to malachite, olive to verdigris—visible for the briefest instant as the magic swept over Ditzy’s head. Ditzy found herself in a dark room, and she stepped back from Time Turner to shake her head. “Unpleasant?” Time Turner whispered. “Does it ever get easier?” she whispered back. “Much. These days, I find it rather refreshing.” “Great.” Ditzy shook her head again. “I’ve got something to look forward to.” The two were in precisely the same place as before—under the staircase of the central atrium—but several hours had passed in that flash of green magic. The atrium was deserted. The only light came from the moon, shining through the skylight. The massive mobile spun lazily just below the skylight, its metal discs and crescents casting large shadows on the floor. Ditzy finished shaking her head and noticed something behind Time Turner. “Hey, there’s a painting in here.” “What?” He turned to look at it. “Why would they stick a painting here, where hardly anypony will see it?” Ditzy held up a firefly lamp, and her eyes went wide. “Oh,” Time Turner said. “That’s why.” “It’s certainly ... striking.” “Oh, there’s a plaque.” Dr. Hooves leaned in to examine it. “Says this piece is on loan from the Museum Of Balmy Art.” Ditzy shook her head yet again. “That just raises more questions.” “Oh, well. Shall we begin?” They ascended the stairs in complete silence. At the first landing, Time Turner stopped and turned. “What is it?” Ditzy said. She followed his gaze, up to the atrium roof. “Do you think that skylight opens?” Time Turner asked. “Would that cut down on the echoes?” Ditzy spread her wings. “Good idea. It’s worth a try.” She soared up, towards the ceiling’s center. Just below the height of the mobile, she stopped. Hovering in place, she glanced back and forth between the skylight and the atrium floor. The glass of the skylight looked pink, but the moonlight through the window was white. She rose again, stopping at the same height as the mobile. From there, it was clear the pink color was an aura around the glass—a unicorn spell. Ditzy turned back to Time Turner and shook her head. The mobile spun a little further. One of its discs bumped Ditzy’s rear. Ditzy flinched. The sheet of metal rang, a low booonnng, as it bounced off her rump. She zipped to the edge of the disc. Pressing her torso to the edge, she clamped all four hooves against the two sides. The vibrations persisted for a few seconds, rattling Ditzy’s teeth, but they soon stopped. Silence fell on the atrium again as Ditzy bolted down to Time Turner’s side, but it only lasted a few seconds. Heavy hoofsteps echoed through the building, and a wobbling light approached from the lower hallway. A guard had heard them. Ditzy grabbed Time Turner’s forehoof and lifted just off the ground. “Come on, this way!” she whispered. She flew to her hlåv side, and Time Turner followed. After a few feet, she landed, her hooves crunching in the black sand below. “Well ...” Time Turner said, his eyes wide. “Another dimension, I presume?” Ditzy nodded. Her coat reflected the changing light in the sky, rapidly switching from red to blue to green and back again. “Amazing,” Time Turner continued. His own coat cycled through different shades of brown and black. “Another realm, completely outside the reach of Celestia or Luna. So whose domain is this? Summer Dawn, Princess of Disco?” “Ha!” The sky above resembled a puddle in the rain—if puddles were multicolored and luminescent. Dozens of circles, each a different shade of neon color, rapidly expanded across the sky, and were themselves covered by other circles mere seconds later. The landscape below was a jagged badlands of black stone and black sand. Time Turner said, “So, what do we do here?” “Oh, we just wait thirty minutes or so.” Ditzy sat down. “Maybe longer. Enough time for the guard to search, find nothing, and decide they were just hearing things.” “I see.” Time Turner sat down as well. “What was that you were trying to tell me, right before that gong hit you?” “I was trying to say I can’t open the skylight. There’s an alarm spell on it.” “Drat.” “Come to think of it ...” Ditzy groaned. “There are at least two guards on duty tonight. Because the one who heard us was not Trixie. Much too subtle. But that alarm spell was definitely Trixie’s ...” Ditzy squinted into the distance, towards the base of a stone bluff, and said, “What’s that over there?” Time Turner shrugged. “I assumed you knew.” Ditzy scratched an “X” into the sand, then both ponies trotted over to the bluff. The unknown object turned out to be a tarp. Underneath it were a set of wood crates—each several feet tall and wide, but only a few inches deep. The crate in front had a note taped to it: don’t open till you-know when! Time Turner squinted. “That writing looks familiar. Is that ...” “Yep.” She met Time Turner’s eyes. “This is a good sign, right?” Ditzy and Time Turner reentered the dimension of the art museum without incident. In silence, they followed the upper floor’s hallway outward. As the atrium disappeared around the curve, the corridor plunged into complete darkness—except for Ditzy’s lantern. “You’re listening for the guards, right?” Ditzy whispered around the lamp handle. “Yes, yes.” Time Turner’s head was low, and his ears swiveled rapidly, pointing every which way. “Hrmmm ...” “Getting creeped out?” Ditzy said. “Honestly, so am I.” The dim light of Ditzy’s lamp, swaying back and forth in her grip, did strange things to the artwork they passed. A looming, bat-like silhouette, glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, turned out to be the shadow of an abstract wooden sculpture. The snarling face of some predator, examined more closely, revealed itself to be an indistinct swirl of paint. A massive, staring eye turned out to be ... “Now just one minute!” Time Turner hissed and marched up to the clock whose face had looked so much like an eye. “What is this, this ... travesty?” Ditzy took a few seconds to realize what was wrong with the clock. The hands were completely missing. It appeared a functioning clock in every other regard: its pendulum swung, and its tick-tick-tick was very audible in the museum’s silence. “Are there real art thieves at work as well?” Time Turner asked. “Did they steal this clock’s hands?” “No ...” Ditzy scanned the plaque to the clock’s side. “It says the artist deliberately built a clock without hands. He wanted to make a statement about—” “Hmph. Anypony who missed the point that badly can’t have anything worth saying.” Time Turner snorted and resumed walking. Ditzy shrugged and caught up with him. They reached the modular wall. “Oh, right.” Ditzy waved a hoof at the art pieces hanging on the wall. “We need to do something about those before we move this wall.” “Eh,” Time Turner said. “Just lean them against another wall. The museum can figure out where to put them.” “Works for me.” It took a few minutes for Ditzy to examine the paintings and make certain they wouldn’t trigger any sort of alarm. That done, it was quick work for her and Time Turner to take them down and carefully set them to the side. Ditzy scrunched her face as she looked back at the wall. “We’ll need to do the same for the ones on the other side.” They resumed trotting outward along the hall. A few minutes later, the corridor grew lighter, so Ditzy covered the lamp. They had reached the outermost loop. Tall, thin windows were set into the wall every dozen feet or so. Moonlight filtered through their curtains, illuminating the hall. Time Turner pointed at the nearest window. “Are there alarm spells on those, too?” Ditzy nodded. Time Turner chuckled. “Well. I guess this would be no fun if it were too easy.” They reached the other side of the modular wall. One painting came down from the wall without incident. Another painting joined it. Ditzy and Time Turner pulled a third piece off the wall—a mixed-media composition with machine parts glued to a painted canvas. Time Turner’s hoof slipped. There was a crack, as his corner of the canvas fell to the floor. Then there was another, as Ditzy flinched and dropped her side as well. The impact knocked most of the metal parts loose, and they rang and clattered onto the floor. Then there was a ting, ting, ting as one gear bounced across the floor—towards the nearest window. Ditzy dove for the bouncing gear. She pressed it to the floor, beneath her forehooves, but she continued sliding forward. Ditzy had too much momentum and, thanks to the bags on her hooves, not enough grip on the floor. Her eyes wide, she leaned back and spread her wings. She only had time to flap once. Her forehooves struck the wall. Her body pitched forward, and her head struck the window. “Aw, horsefeathers,” Ditzy said, her voice muffled by the curtain. Trixie had once described her alarm spell as “not a very subtle alarm”. This was true in the same way that a monsoon is “not very dry.” A klaxon wailed, a deafening, chest-rattling sound. Every window in the museum strobed a bright red light that even Time Turner could see. “This is bad?!” Time Turner shouted over the klaxon, barely. “The worst!” Ditzy staggered back from the window. “Then let’s go!” He offered his hoof. Ditzy batted it away. “No! First we have to shut off—” “Freeze!” An earth pony stallion in a black uniform approached. Ditzy could not make out his face, but his shape was clear even in the strobing light. He was of the same mold as Big Macintosh, or the chief of Ponyville’s police. Ditzy and Time Turner, together, might have been able to take him in a fair fight, but she would much rather not find out. “It’s not what it looks like!” Ditzy shouted at him. “Shut that alarm off and we can explain!” “I’ll be the judge of that!” the guard answered. “Now are you two going to come quietly?!” “Yes! The quietest! We’ll make the winners of the Quiet Game sound like a rock concert! Just please shut off that alarm!” “Well, you see, little lady—” “Cower in fear, evildoers! The fury of Trrrrrrixie is upon you!” All three ponies facehoofed. Ditzy looked up just in time to see Trixie, billy club raised, leaping through the air ... towards the other guard. She swung hard, striking his head with a meaty thunk. He staggered a few steps and collapsed. Trixie landed and turned around. “So you see that Trixie will always triumph over evil, for ...” She dropped her club as she saw the slumped form of the other guard. “Oh, sh’cl’bl’zh. Trixie is so fired.” “Trixie!” Ditzy shouted. “Please shut the alarm off!” “What?!” Trixie looked at Ditzy and Time Turner for the first time. “Dizzy! What’s the meaning of this?!” “I’ll explain everything if you shut the alarm off!” “Oh no! You’re in league with the vandals!” “Trixie!” Ditzy grabbed Trixie’s shoulders. “For the love of Celestia and Friendship and Harmony—in the name of everything you hold dear—if you ever want to get your revenge on Twilight Sparkle—SHUT! OFF! THAT! ALARM!” “Dizzy, You sicken Trixie! How could you?!” “Aargh!” Ditzy stepped back. “Forget it! It’s too late!” “Dizzy! Trixie can’t hear a thing you’re saying! She’s gonna turn off the alarm!” Trixie’s horn lit up, and the alarm lights stopped flashing, plunging the hall back into pale half-light. The klaxon went silent, but its wails continued to echo. Flicking her ringing ears, Ditzy said, “We all need to get out of here. Now.” Time Turner was crouched at the other guard’s side. “And this pony needs a doctor,” he said. Trixie snorted. “Trixie thought you were a doctor!” “I have a Ph.D in chronometry, not medicine!” With Ditzy’s help, he loaded the unconscious stallion on his back and stood up. “Ohhh ... You’re a psychologist.” Time Turner rolled his eyes. The echoes of the klaxon faded and distorted into something that sounded almost bestial. This was not an absolute change in volume, but just the source moving further away. As Ditzy realized that, sweat broke out on her brow, and her stomach went into a free fall. “Less talking, more leaving!” Ditzy said. “I’ll explain everything when we’re outside!” GRRRRROWWWWR The sound came from the interior of the museum. The echoes of the klaxon had changed into a growl unlike any Ditzy had ever heard—and had flared up almost as loud as before. “What ...” Trixie said, her eyes wide, “is that?” “It’s why we need to leave,” Ditzy said, pulling on Trixie’s shoulder. Time Turner was already trotting outward, to the entrance. Trixie followed a few steps, then stopped. “Is that another Ursa Minor?” she said. “It kind of sounds like one.” “It’s worse.” Ditzy hovered behind Trixie and pushed the unicorn towards the door. “Much worse.” “A chance for Trixie to redeem herself?” “What? ... No!” It was too late. Trixie slipped around Ditzy. “For gloryyyyy!” she shouted as she ran in, towards the museum center. Ditzy groaned. To Time Turner, she said, “I’ll go save her butt. You get him to—” With a green magic burst, another Time Turner appeared—and with him, a mare in a nurse’s uniform. The first Time Turner, with the unconscious guard on his back, grabbed her forehoof. The nurse glanced around and said, “Whaaaaaaa ...” With another green burst, the first Time Turner, the guard, and the nurse all disappeared. “Works for me!” Ditzy said. “Come on!” They rushed down the hall. Time Turner paused only to pick up the discarded club. Ditzy caught up with Trixie at the top of the atrium staircase. The unicorn just stood and stared down, so it was no trouble for Ditzy to grab her from behind and cover her mouth. Trixie’s yelp came out as a faint muffled sound, completely drowned out by the continuous growls from below. “Shhh ...” Ditzy leaned into Trixie’s ear. “Don’t make a sound.” Ditzy followed Trixie’s gaze. The atrium below was barely recognizable. Most of the mobile lay in pieces on the floor, its cables severed and its metal sheets gashed and torn. The walls and floor were carved with the same gashes. The cuts were irregular: some clean, some jagged, some running parallel—marks carved by a predator with an ever-changing number of claws. As Time Turner silently approached behind Ditzy and Trixie, the final cable broke in three places, and the final piece of the mobile fell to the floor. The clang of sheet metal echoed and grew louder instead of diminishing—until it merged with the background noise into a fierce roar. All three ponies backed away. Trixie gulped and wiggled her head until her mouth was free. “What is that … invisible creature?” she whispered. “Not invisible. Not like you think.” Ditzy released her. “It’s a chladni. A monster made of sound waves. The Killing Echo.” Trixie continued backing away. “Sounds lovely. How do we dispose of it?” “We don’t do anything,” Time Turner said. His voice was quite clear, in spite of the billy club strap he grasped in his teeth. “We just get out of here.” Ditzy nodded. “This chladni’s self-sustaining—strong enough that opening a door or knocking down a wall won’t take it out. But I don’t think it’s strong enough yet to leave the museum. So we just need to get out and find somepony who knows the right sound magic to dispel it.” “Trixie knows sound magic.” “Whatever. We can talk about it outside. Can you teleport yourself there? It would be safer than walking.” “Of course not,” Trixie hissed. “Why would Trixie know how to teleport?” “Sorry. Twilight teleports all the time, so I just assumed …” “If you love Twilight Sparkle so much, why don’t you just marry her!” The three ponies cringed as Trixie’s shout echoed, growing louder and louder. “Come on, Trixie,” Ditzy said. “Take my hoof.” Trixie froze, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the offered hoof. The echoes of Trixie’s shout distorted into another roar. The six steps at the top of the staircase exploded. Pebbles and clouds of marble dust flew towards the three ponies. Trixie turned and bolted. “No!” Ditzy and Time Turner both shouted and followed her. Ditzy took wing. She flapped as hard as she could, but could not catch up with Trixie. Fear gave the unicorn surprising speed. Trixie’s hooves pounded on the marble floor. Each step echoed, then merged with the amplifying feedback of every step before, until the sound was just a continuous roar. “Trixie!” Ditzy shouted. “Come back here! I can—” “Nope!” The roar grew louder from behind. Ten feet behind Ditzy, jagged slashes appeared in the floor and ceiling. “Ditzy!” Time Turner pulled alongside the pegasus, on her right. “Can we outrun this?” “It’s not recommended!” A wall panel exploded five feet behind them, obliterating an abstract impressionist painting. “Trixie!” Time Turner called. “We can get you out of here safely! Just let us—” “Nope nope nope nope!” “Time Turner! Get over here!” Ditzy called. The roar grew louder to the right. Time Turner moved away from that wall, closer to Ditzy. A gash cut into the right wall. It destroyed a wooden bench and the floor, right where Time Turner would have stepped. “Trixie!” Ditzy called out between pants. “You can’t outrun this!” “Anything you can do, Trixie can do better!” “Time Turner, go right!” Time Turner and Ditzy both moved away from the left wall. The ceiling exploded on that side. Heavy stones fell right where Ditzy would have flown. “No, Trixie!” Ditzy called. “We can’t! ... Trixie! Help! Save us!” Time Turner shot her an incredulous look. “What?” Trixie spared a glance over her shoulder. “Yes, Trixie! If you keep running like this, we’ll—” A podium on the right side exploded into splinters. The explosion blasted an urn full of burnt money across the hall. It shattered against Ditzy’s head. The blow clouded her brain; the ashes and dust blinded her eyes. Before either could clear, she collided with the left wall and rolled to a stop on the floor. Her paper bag hat landed a foot away. “Ditzy!” Time Turner skidded to a stop and kneeled at her side. “Ditzy!” Trixie ran to her other side. “Wait a second ...” Ditzy shook her head. “Trixie. Sound magic. Can you magically amplify a sound?” Trixie nodded. The roar grew louder. Ditzy grabbed the paper bag. “Then get it ready. Time Turner?” “Yes?” Ditzy reached into the bag. “Batter up!” Three slashes appeared in the floor, cutting directly towards the three ponies. Ditzy pulled her hoof out—holding the rubber duck. She lobbed it at Time Turner. With a flick of his head, he spun the club by its strap. Trixie’s horn flared. The club struck true. The duck, amplified by Trixie’s magic, produced the loudest squeak ever heard in Canterlot. The slashes in the floor stopped, inches away from the ponies. The roars silenced. As the echoes from the rubber duck died down, stillness descended on the hall. Trixie and Time Turner stood rigid, their eyes darting every which way. “Don’t move,” Ditzy said, righting herself and lifting into the air. “And don’t make a sound. I’ll be right back.” Ditzy flew down the hall until she reached the outermost loop. It took her a few minutes to open every window. When she finished, she sighed and took the paper bags off her hooves. “Alright ...”
3. Beauty is a mystery.“No, no, nooooo!” Trixie wailed. “This is terrible, too terrible to contemplate!” She was crouched, scooping the dust and ashes back into the urn she had reassembled from its shards. As soon as she looked at Ditzy, the urn fell apart again. “Well,” Ditzy said, “I removed the modular wall that started this whole mess. And Time Turner and I are going to have a talk with the museum president about keeping that gap open. So at least this won’t ever happen again ...” There were tears in Trixie’s eyes as she said, “Thank you, Dizzy, but that’s cold comfort after the losses we’ve already suffered.” She gestured at the pile of pottery and ash on the ground. “Just think of the future generations who will never be able to see this! Think of their deprivation!” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “And it happened under Trixie’s watch! There’s no way she won’t get fired for that.” “I’m sorry,” Ditzy said. “Maybe we could put in a good word for you with the head of security?” Trixie rolled her eyes. “You mean the head of security who Trixie bludgeoned unconscious less than an hour ago?” “The hospital says he’ll make a full recovery, by the way,” Time Turner said as he approached. “Wait,” Ditzy said, “that was ...?” “The same!” Trixie snorted. “Firing is too good for Trixie. No, they’ll fire her, then re-hire her just so they can fire her again!” “Can they do that?” Time Turner asked. Ditzy trotted down the hall, further into the region damaged by the chladni. She spared a glance at the remains of Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench. She ran a hoof along one the gashes in the ceiling, then sniffed it. She picked up a scrap of canvas—the largest piece of an obliterated painting—and her eyes widened. A glance at the plaque next to the bare space on the wall confirmed her worst suspicion. “Darn it!” Time Turner was soon at her side. “What’s wrong?” “This is that painting by Blue Rider. What’s left of it.” Ditzy tossed the scrap back onto the debris pile. “The painting you wanted to see? I’m sorry.” “Can we save them? Use your special talent to go back ...” Time Turner scratched the back of his head. “I wish we could, but—” “Right, right.” Ditzy turned away. “You can only make stable time loops. I’m just ... just...” Ditzy squinted at the debris. She grabbed the scrap of canvas again and examined its back side. “Is this what I think it is?” She shoved the scrap into Time Turner’s face. “Well, it says ‘hi!’, and it’s definitely your writing, Ditzy.” “Great,” Ditzy said. She was sifting through the debris, grabbing every scrap of canvas she could find. “Because from my perspective, I haven’t written that yet. Aha! You see, Time Turner, this painting ...” She slapped two scraps onto the floor, next to each other. Each bore half of a signature: not Blue Rider, but Broad Strokes. “... is a forgery.” “Oh.” Time Turner said. “So the real painting is presumably fine, but it’s in the hooves of thieves and may never see the light of day again. Kind of a lateral move, if you ask me.” “But since I wrote something on the back of this forgery, then maybe the original is ... Let me check something.” Ditzy rushed back up the hall. She passed Trixie, mourning over the remains of Wooden museum bench. Upon reaching the broken urn, Ditzy turned over the shard that had been its bottom. On the underside, clear as day, was the signature of Broad Strokes. Ditzy rushed back down the hall, stopping at the shattered bench. She dug into the splinters and broken planks. “What are you doing?!” Trixie grabbed her and telekinetically pulled her away. “Hasn’t it already suffered enough already?” “Hold that thought.” Ditzy darted across the hall, to the identical, undamaged bench. She poked her head underneath. “Ha-ha! Trixie, take a look at this!” Trixie followed. “Trixie doesn’t see what could possibly be so important ...” she muttered as she glanced under the bench. Then she stared. Gasping, she took several steps back. “Whitemane’s signature! But ... but that means ...” Ditzy smiled. “It means that pile of scrap over there is just a bench. And this fine piece, completely undamaged except for a few butt marks, is Art. And that means uurrrk!” Trixie threw herself at Ditzy, hugging her so tightly the pegasus could barely breathe. “I’m sorry,” Time Turner said as he trotted up. “Am I interrupting something?” Trixie glanced between him and Ditzy. Blushing, she jumped back several paces. “Trixie is just so thankful! Dizzy ... she, um ... Trixie isn’t sure what Dizzy just did. But Art was saved and Dizzy was there, so she must have done something!” “We all did something.” Ditzy said. “And, in an equally true but more important manner, we still need to do that something.” “Now you’re not making any sense, Dizzy.” “We’re going to save all the artwork. All three of us. Trixie, I need you to get us a list of the pieces that were vandalized and the dates. Also ...” Ditzy pointed a hoof at the Wooden museum bench. “... the socket wrench that the museum used to bolt that to the floor.” Trixie stood up straight. “The Great and Powerful Trixie will not let you down!” She rushed away. “As for us,” Ditzy said to Time Turner, “we need to track down this Broad Strokes and commission some forgeries.” A year ago ... “Okay, scratch that.” Ditzy shook her head, then met the artist’s disapproving stare. “Don’t think of it as forgery, think of it as art preservation.” Broad Strokes tilted his threadbare beret back slightly. “Alright, I’m listening.” Time Turner stepped forward. “Well, we liaise with museum security at the Goggle Heights. We have intel about a vandal who intends to irreparably damage a number of artworks there.” Broad Strokes rested his stubbled chin in one hoof and said nothing. “Our best bet is to catch him in the act,” Ditzy said. “Obviously, we don’t want to use the originals as bait.” Broad Strokes smiled. “You want me to make the bait.” He turned away from Ditzy and Time Turner, sighing. “So why ask a complete nopony like me?” “Because we’ve seen your work,” Time Turner said. “It’s good. We know you can pull it off.” “Funny, that.” Broad Strokes turned back around. “You say my work is good, but you want me to copy other artists, so my copies can be destroyed.” “What if ...” Ditzy shifted on her hooves slightly. “... When this is all over, we could rent you space for an art show in our hometown. And make sure that everypony we know comes to see it.” “Including ...” Time Turner leaned closer. “... a fashion designer who, this time next year, will be making waves in Canterlot high society. I’m told she’s very good at the old ‘Scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ routine.” Broad Strokes blinked. “Really? You’d do that for me?” Ditzy nodded. “Alright! Oh, where is your hometown?” “Ponyville!” “... Never heard of it.” Three weeks ago ... Ditzy studied the painting. She leaned forward until her eye was mere inches from the canvas. She stepped back a few feet until she could take in its entire scope. Then she nodded to Time Turner. “Alright, I’m finished.” Quickly and silently, they wrapped the painting in layers of bubble wrap. “So,” Time Turner said, “why that painting? Why did you want to see it so much?” They lifted the wrapped canvas and slid it into the transport crate. “It reminds me of the inside of a rift,” Ditzy said. “I wonder if Blue Rider could see them.” As Time Turner latched the crate shut, Ditzy reviewed Trixie’s list. “I think that’s the last piece,” he said as they loaded the crate on the cart. “Yep.” Ditzy pushed the cart to the hlåv, and it rolled a few feet before its wheels sank into the sand. Fortunately, she had entered this dimension much closer to the base of the rock bluff—only a few feet away from the designated storage spot. After unloading the crates, Ditzy slapped a note on the one in front: don’t open till you-know-when! She spread a tarp over the crates, and dragged the cart fjoth, back into the museum. When she found Time Turner, he was about to hang up the ersatz Blue Rider painting. He waited long enough for Ditzy to write “hi!” on the back with a marker. After the painting went up, Ditzy said, “We didn’t see or hear any guards tonight. Isn’t that a bit odd?” “Yes, it is. Although ...” Time Turner scratched his chin. “I bet they stepped up their vigilance in response to what we’ve just done.” One week ago ... The night was significantly less stormy than advertised. “One, two, three, push!” The metal brackets screeched against the floor as Ditzy and Time Turner pushed the bench across the hall. “Darn it,” Ditzy said. “I hope all these loud noises tonight haven’t damaged our hearing.” “Maybe we should carry the other one instead?” Time Turner said. So they carried Whitemane’s Wooden museum bench to the opposite side of the hall, rather than pushing. Before they could bolt either bench to the floor, a voice cried from up the hallway: “Halt, enemies of Art, or face the wrath of Trixie!” “And that’s our cue to leave,” Time Turner said. Ditzy took his hoof, and they disappeared just as Trixie’s hoofsteps echoed around the bend. Tonight ... Weighed down with crates, the cart would barely roll in the sand. But with Time Turner’s help, Ditzy managed to get it back from the other dimension, into the Goggle Heights. “Trixie!” Ditzy called. “You wanna look these over?” “Trixie just needs another minute!” Trixie attached the final cable to the atrium ceiling. Dispelling her telekinesis, she flinched. But the Sandy Streams mobile held secure. Trixie relaxed. “Coming!” She cantered over to the cart. The smile fell from her face as she counted the crates. “There’s one missing.” “But ...” Ditzy glanced between the cart, the list, and Trixie. “We got everything on the list! I checked twice!” Trixie snatched the list. “Oh dear. It seems Trixie forgot all about Pole Lock’s Composition No. 5.” Ditzy groaned. “Great!” Time Turner said. “So now we’ve gotta go through that entire rigamarole again, for one painting! And not even a good one—just a bunch of paint spatters! I could have made that one!” “But you didn’t,” Trixie shot back, “and Pole Lock did! Several times, in fact. That’s why he’s an Artist and you ... Oh. Oh!” Her eyes went wide. She crumpled the list into a ball and threw it straight up. “Of course! We don’t need to save Composition No. 5 at all! Haha!” “Aaaand why not?” Ditzy asked. Trixie answered without pausing her celebratory dance. “Because Pole Lock has never been satisfied with old No. 5! Every month or so, he takes it down and completely repaints it. So he’ll be ecstatic about another opportunity to make a new one from scratch!” “Huh,” was all Ditzy could say. “Well,” Time Turner said, “that’s pretty odd, but it means less work for us, so I’m not complaining!” Trixie ran up to envelope both of them in a tight hug. “Thank you so much, both of you! You’ve saved Art, and probably Trixie’s employment as well. Trixie doesn’t know how to repay you!” “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Time Turner said. “Yeah, all in day’s work,” Ditzy said. “Fighting monsters, saving jobs, saving priceless art, saving Twilight’s favorite museum ...” Trixie recoiled. “Saving Twilight’s what?” “Um ...” “Are you implying Twilight Sparkle likes the Goggle Heights Art Museum? That it is, in fact, her favorite?” “Um, yes?” With a burst of telekinesis, Trixie tore off her uniform and threw it on the floor. She stomped the pile of black fabric several times before turning and marching away. “Trixie quits!” Author's Note Mad props to these fine fellows for helping me beyond just pre-reading: Kuroi Tsubasa Tenshi, for suggesting Trixie's joke from the end of Ch 1, for suggesting a better explanation for why Ditzy wore those paper bags on her hooves, and for naming Broad Strokes. Justanotherbrony, for introducing me to Wassily Kandinsky. cleverpun, for introducing me to Alexander Calder, and for suggesting Sandy Streams as Calder's ponified name. ——— Artistic inspiration: Marcel Duchamp: Nude Descending a Staircase Wassily Kandinsky: Composition VI Piet Mondrian Alexander Calder Jackson Pollock: No. 5, 1948 Remodernism The Museum of Bad Art The K Foundation Art Award & "K Foundation Burn a Million Quid" ——— See here for the backstory.
