A Thief at the Gala

Chapters

Prologue: Twilight's Pardon
Chapter One: Sparkling Invitations
Chapter Two: We Get Signal
Chapter Three: Hoof and Claw
Chapter Four: Carbon Fabrications
Chapter Five: The Whispered War
Chapter Six: Uniconformity
Chapter Seven: Who Will Be Best Pony?
Chapter Eight: A White Heart

Prologue: Twilight's Pardon

Azure Nocturne was no stranger to the graveyard shift. In fact she preferred it to the daily irritations of Brazen Heart's constant nagging and chatter. She was a dark, reddish-hued alicorn with a silver-white mane and tail of fine hair and flowing, glossy length. Unlike the average buff grunt in Luna's employ, she had an air of grace uncommon to her station. Her hidden passion was the clarinet, but by the Royal Twins she was favored for her musical talents. Indeed her cutie mark was that of shimmering notes, indicating that her power revolved around the manipulation of sound.

The Palace at night was boring, prime for reflection upon her favorite melodies. In six years since her promotion to palace guard, not a soul had been disturbed. Sleepwalkers and lost foals were a kind exception, and Azure was fond of them all. Criminals were a virtual unknown in Canterlot.

Was it not so long ago that Ponyville designer had made a spectacle of herself at the Gardens? Azure reflected on the event with fond amusement.

Striding the halls long ago memorized, Azure trotted through the garden walkway on a stone path laid with artistically arranged pieces. She often fancied the workponyship that had gone into its making. Tonight the moon was especially bright, and for a moment she winced up at the mighty blue sphere in the heavens.

“You've outdone yourself tonight, Princess,” Azure whispered as her vision cleared. The subtly colored surface of the moon was enhanced by the Princess Luna's magic. “You're in such good form. So joyous, my heart is lifted.”

“Ah-huuuuh.”

Azure spun, revere shattered by the rasping moan of a filly reverberating down the hall to the gaping doors of the garden. Automatically she spun and galloped toward the source, slowing as she neared where she thought it had originated. She raised her head and began to mutter a chant to aid in her search.

“Ah-huuuuh.”

“Ah!” Azure leaped, heart pounding. “What was that? Oh, you silly filly. Get your hooves on the ground. Where did it come from?”

Azure clicked her hooves quickly but gently in chase until she arrived in an unfamiliar hallway. At twenty feet it ended with a seal door clearly marked 'prohibited'. How many years had this been here and she did not know its every detail?

Strange.

Azure made a conscious effort to regulate her breathing. Thorough examination told her the door had not been disturbed, possibly not in many years. Something was most assuredly amiss, but she could not place a hoof on it.

“Ah-huuuuh.”

Again? The sound was behind her, and she repeated her performance, this time regulating her speed so as not to frighten her quarry away. It paced her, several pony-lengths from her nose, and lead her in a circle, right back to the sealed door. There she stood, catching her breath, glaring at the wordless door-ward.

“You're Azure Nocturne, aren't you?” alighted a warm voice. “Is something the matter?”

Azure knew precisely the pony who addressed her. Twilight Sparkle, a purple, almost lavender coated mare with a navy-blue and purple striped mane and tail. She was a unicorn, with the cutie mark of magic, one of Equestria's greatest champions.

“Ms. Sparkle. My humblest apologies. I did not wake you, did I?”

“Twilight, please. Oh, no, of course not,” she demurred with a chuckle. “I was just studying… but that's not important right now. Tell me what's happening.”

“Ah, well. I was chasing a disembodied voice. It sounded that of a mare in distress-”

“Ah-huuuuh.”

“That one? Yes. It's very strange alright. We had better alert Princess Luna,” she decided, beginning to turn around. As she did she bumped into something, and gave a little squeak.

“Yes you had best do that, Twilight Sparkle,” remarked Luna with a slitted, superior grin.

“Oh, you're here…” she muttered, backing away from the slender yet formidable light-blue mare of the moon. She still makes me nervous! What power she has.

“Why would we not be? Our sister will not be disturbed,” she declared, transparent mane swirling, glimmering with the stars that were her allies. “You will tell us.”

“Ah-huuuuh.”

“That,” Twilight gasped, “is it. I've almost had it. It's getting creepier.”

“You have no tolerance for the dark, student of Celestia,” Luna remarked with the condescending arrogance that was her birthright. Twilight made eye contact with abrupt confidence.

“I want to know the truth,” she declared stubbornly. “I am not afraid of the dark.”

“Indeed,” she drawled. “I am sure that you do. Azure, wake Brazen Heart. Search the grounds. Be swift,” Luna ordered, and Twilight was impressed by the clarity and resolution in her eyes. “Twilight?”

“I'm sorry,” she yawned. “I was so tired after that lecture on temporal magics … I was hoping Star Shifter's notes would bore me to sleep … oh! I'm sorry.”

“Star Shifter is not the entertainer, Twilight,” Luna chuckled modestly. “He is incomparable. He need not be both. Now you owe us a favor. Repay it. Assist us in putting an end to this mystery.”

“Ah-huuuuh.”

Twilight tensed, eyes wide, body arcing. She sighed, and then rolled her eyes. “Oooh! What choice do I have? I'm not going to get any sleep with that sorrowful wailing going on!”

“Sorrowful? Yes, I must agree. Come now, for the hunt is on!”

Twilight noticed how quietly she spoke, compared to her usual dramatic tenor. She wondered if Luna was also ill at ease. Minutes became hours, but the sound did not cease whilst the search wore on.

“Do not be ashamed, Twilight. We are grateful for your efforts,” Luna recited in an official tone with sincere meaning. “Nopony is perfect. Let us put our minds to alternatives.”

Twilight was not satisfied with this. “Alternatives? This makes no sense! A mysterious voice-”

“Ah-huuuuh.”

“-and we're not even close to knowing anything about it. Ponyfeathers!”

Azure had another idea, and received approval from Luna to offer the suggestion. “Twilight Sparkle. Do you know what echolocation is?”

Twilight's eyes whirled excitedly. “Ah, yes! A high pitched sound emitted from a single source and-”

“Quite,” Luna interrupted seamlessly. “Azure, please hurry.”

“Yes, Princess. Eh, I've taught myself how to use a magic version of echolocation to pinpoint audio sources. My sisters and I used to play hide-and-seek with it back home …” her voice drifted away as nostalgia wafted over her face. “Oh! With your power you could locate the source of that horrible voice.”

“You think it will work?” Twilight requested, doing her best to ignore the voice, which for some reason made her skin crawl.

“You are a much greater practitioner of magic than I…”

“I suppose all I can do is try. All right. What do I do?”

“Oh, thank you Twilight. The trick behind is creating a tone with the same pitch as the … uh, pony you're looking for.” Azure dipped her head so that her horn was even with her ears and closed her eyes. After a moment of concentration her horn began to radiate an aura with a rose hue. A strong, clear tone energy projected forward and immediate reverberated from the wall to her ears.
Twilight shivered. It felt exactly like the haunting voice. “Owlicious would be proud. I can do that. I know I can.” As she focused, Azure described the emotion and mental state necessary to perform the spell. Twilight's horn flashed to life.

“Ah-huuuuh.”

“Aagh!” Twilight groaned in frustration. “There it is again!”

“Be careful, Twilight! It's a delicate spell!” Azure warned her.

“I know, I know. I just wish I could deduce the truth behind this mystery!” Instantly the purple rays striking out from her horn faded, replaced by a far more intense flare of pure light. Azure watched in alarm as Twilight's erratic talent fixated on the unusual aspect of the spell.

It is the sound by which the spell functions, Azure had explained, not minutes ago.

“What is happening, Azure?” Luna cried, hunkered down against the force of Twilight's magic.

“I'm not sure, but that's not my spell anymore!” Azure almost shouted over the overzealous energy.

The every stone in the courtyard was lit with the frantic manifestation of the young mare's incredible willpower. Luna grounded herself, prepared to take measures should things become dangerous.

Well Tia, this elicits the most vibrant of memories, Luna reflected with irony. Just as she could no longer bear to look into the brilliant spectacle, there was a flash and it was over. Twilight collapsed.

Luna gave a start, lowering her horn as a warning to the pair of intruders, heaped upon each other like loose clothing. A cloud had passed over the moon, obscuring them from direct moonlight. They cursed and groaned in the attempt at disentanglement.

“Your scarf's 'round my leg!”

“Can't you tell your sleeve is over my head?” snapped back a muffled, very male baritone. “Now off with it!”

“You'll stretch it! Be careful!”

As they bickered the moonlight returned, availing the viewers to much desired details. There were two ponies: One chestnut colored with a salt and pepper mane, the other a light blue with black mane in errant disarray, tail to match. The chestnut fellow bore a distinctive cutie mark, an anchor with snakes entwined symmetrically around the handle topped by wings. The latter's cutie mark was hidden by a long pin striped nightgown.

In the midst of tussling, the blue pony took notice of his surrounding and company. “Oh dear. Princess Luna. How embarrassing.”

“Princess Luna?” exclaimed the greyish maned pony. Being once of the service brought him to an instant show of respect, standing at attention as quickly as he could manage. His companion rose to his hooves sluggishly.

“At ease fellow,” Luna drawled officially.

“Thank you Ma'am.”

“Good evening Princess Luna. Peculiar encounter, wouldn't you agree? Pardon me. I'm Forelock Holmes, and this is my assistant, Doctor John Trotson,” he stooped, inclining his head toward the pony who had already moved to examine Twilight Sparkle. “John?”

“What?” he snapped irritably. “A moment, will you?”

“Is she unharmed, Dr. Trotson?” Luna requested, voice surprisingly gentle.

“Just unconscious. A little rest and she'll recover,” he explained. “How did we get here?”

“We were summoned by magic. Clearly the element of magic, greatest source in Equestria. To say it was an accident is an understatement. Twilight Sparkle here was performing an unpracticed spell, judging by the state of her exhaustion. Summoning us from Londun is no small feat. Luna practices no such magic. It was you, I see. What's your name?”

“Azure Nocturne. How did you—I taught Twilight an echolocation spell… nothing more.”

“Just so,” Holmes chimed. “Twilight is an unpredictable mare. Wouldn't you agree, Princess?”

“Hmph. How would you know the nature of our magic?” Luna gaped. “It is our realm. Ours alone.”

“Fah. Your power is indeed great, Princess, yet it is bound to the paradigms of the astral body that you govern. On the other hoof, Twilight Sparkle's mastery of teleportation magic is widely known. Ah. but those are just the obvious facts. I can see that you've been up for four hours searching for your quarry. It is a pony, and yet it is not a pony. You haven't seen this pony, because you haven't given proper chase. Your hooves aren't marked by galloping, but the masonry dust in your coats indicates that you have visited areas of the castle that aren't swept out very often. Come on. Let's have a chance at it.”

“Forelock, we have a question,” Luna interrupted him. He stood with head parallel to his hindquarters.

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing a scarf and nightgown?” she intoned, drawing attention to his curious mode of dress.
Forelock flustered like a foal. “Oh. I was cold. Middle of autumn, you know.”

So you'd rather not tell her you were re-enacting a crime scene in the middle of the night and that you couldn't be bothered to be dressed standing in the middle of the street? Dr. Trotson thought with some amusement. Luna demonstrated no interest in pursuing the matter further. The pair began to leave.

“Forelock! What about Twilight Sparkle?” Trotson reminded him.

“She's not dying, is she? Let her rest. Someone can remove her to her chambers, if you wish. You're the Doctor, Doctor! Now come on! While the dew is still moist!” Forelock was off like cannon shot, unimpeded by his intellectually lackluster audience.
“Let me take care of her,” Azure told John, crouching beside him. He negated at first.

“I'm the physician. Forelock will be … ponyfeathers! Thank you, uh,” he paused, name hunting.

“Azure Nocturne,” she answered sweetly. “You're welcome.”

It was not long before Forelock met the undisturbed, sealed door. There was something different this time. On the floor not inches away from the heavy wooden panel door was an officially sealed scroll. Forelock stooped and retrieved the rolled material, which he then presented to Luna.

“Yes?” she asked, disaffected.

“This is addressed to you, Princess. You were led to it. The voice has done its job,” Forelock enunciated the words clearly. “Let us inform the Princess Celestia.”

A shimmer of sunset broke over the parapet, streaming into Luna's eyes. She bowed her head, defeated.

“Very well.”

Author's Note

This is hopefully the final revision of this chapter. A couple lines of dialogue between Twilight and Luna, and some others needed fleshing out, so there we go. I'm pleased with this.

Chapter One: Sparkling Invitations

Brazen Heart's short reddish tail bobbed as he trotted anxiously through the halls to the Princess' chambers. Two ponies stood outside her door, one light tan colt with burgundy mane, the second a light blue colt with a bubbly deep navy mane. He wanted to know why they were here, but …

“…Widget Dreamer's new apple slicer? Oh I made the most wonderful apple pie with it!” chimed the former, who Blaze remembered was Lucent Acumen. He wore copper rimmed round lens glasses. Another of Dreamer's designs, no doubt. The two were close friends. The other was Frazzle Spark, a scholar under the tutelage of Fire Wire the Grand.

“Uh, what'd you do with all the cores,” asked his companion doubtfully.

“That's a silly question. I have a compost,” he replied, mildly testy. “It's in my back yard.”

“You’ve never shown it to me …” the younger of the pair protested. “I thought friends shared all that.”

“How was I supposed to know you had an interest in gardening?”

“Hey colts, 'sup?” Brazen introduced as he reached a polite distance. The while colt brightened immediately.

“Brazen! 'sup!” replied the white colt with a cheerful click of hoof. They raised their hooves in a familiar greeting and tapped them together.

“How can we help you?” Lucent requested amicably.

“You can't. Going to see the princess.”

“Is it important?” Lucent had tweaked to the oddity of the visit, and wanted in.

Brazen grinned knowingly. “Very. I'm going now.”

“Yeah, door's not locked…” Frazzle remarked with subtle sarcasm. Ah, of course, her open door policy. Brazen knocked, then nudged the door open. Celestia was, predictably, sipping tea. Brazen stooped on his forehooves.

“Good morning, your majesty.”

“Good morning, Brazen Heart. Where is my sister?” she uttered, alert to the irregularity of this appearance.

“M'lady. I've been sent by Captain Nocturne to request your presence in Luna's bedchamber.”

She rose from her pillow, determination narrowing her eyes. “Let's go.”

Twilight Sparkle had never before known such pain. Unless she counted the events of the Usra Minor, Rarity's wing spell… which she had not until the black vacuum between her eyes brought forth the recollection. Light pierced the darkness, but the aura and accompanying shadow wasn't one she recognized. A voice as gentle as the hoof at her mane consulted with regards to her condition:

“How do you feel?”

Twilight moaned, tossing slightly on the bed. “Who are you? Ooh, I’ve got to get back to Ponyville…”

“Doctor John Trotson. Ah, good. Back to coherence. You're a talkative filly, in your sleep. Do you know that? Does your head hurt? You're still very pale.”

“But… Ponyville…” The tornado of events made her head spin, and the world with it. She gulped and swallowed, nausea turning her face green. She groaned again, wriggling her forehooves.

“Shush now. Still a touch queasy, I see. You’re in no condition to travel now. You had a high fever, but it has broken. Tell me, have you ever performed magic of that sort before?”

“Oooh…” she groaned. “No. It was, different.”

“Never you mind that for now. You're looking much better, lie back down. Nurse!” he called. A white gowned unicorn, Twilight's attendant, trotted soundlessly over and applied her healing horn. Her mane and tail swirled in a yellow-white candy cane flow, pale eyes streaming calm and assurance. John wondered if she might also have been a Douala.

“She's out of danger now, Cotton… Gauze, was it?” Dr. Trotson said, measuring the regularity of Twilight's breathing pattern. “Won't be going anywhere for the day, at best. Could be sooner, she's recovering much more quickly than I thought she would. You’ll keep an eye on her, will you?”

“Doctor Stickerbrush is the palace physician. He’s been assigned to her care,” she half-whispered in reply. “I must thank you for taking such fine care of her.”

“Oh, not at all,” John whinnied softly. “Repaying a debt, you might say.”

“So the sleeper wakes,” rumbled a pleasing baritone. Unphased, Trotson did not avert his attention from his patient, yet the micro-expression of ire at his timing could not be missed. Twilight in particular blushed. “What do you remember about last night?”

“Forelock, she's only just awoken,” John rose to his hooves and faced his friend. “You'll not pester her. I won't have it.”
Forelock snorted and began to turn away. “Fine then. I'll eat, if I must.”

“Wait.” Twilight had begun to rise from her bed when Cotton pressed her back down. Unable to resist, she relented. “I just want to talk. I'll rest, I promise.”

“You've a sentence, my dear. Nothing more,” Cotton's paternal authority was definitive.

“Thank you. You. You, yes. I need to say something to you.”

Reading her air of challenge, the dark haired colt made direct eye contact. This is not a filly who lies or cheats. Nor does she abandon those in need. Even among her friends she is of rare self-sacrifice. Her power will one day rival the Princesses, if she can summon John and I from Londun, he thought, tugging at the knot of his scarf.

“Are you… Forelock Holmes?” she panted.

“I am.” He stooped slightly. John had a momentary flash of surprise.

Twilight's eyes fluttered, and she drifted back to sleep. “Yay …”

“Sister, do you believe the threat is serious?” Dark eyes scrutinized a parchment half unrolled upon a small reading table, as though it had begun to spark and sizzle.

“I would not risk a hair on your beautiful mane, my sister,” murmured passionate, glorious voice of Princess Celestia. She lowered her head comfortingly over her sister and for a while like this they remained, until a knock at the chamber door shattered their silence.

“Princess, they have arrived,” announced a throaty, feminine voice.

“Thank you, Azure Nocturne. Permit them entry.”

The double doors parted, opened by the practiced spells of Luna's personal guard. Two colts were admitted. A light-blue colt attired in a long grey-black scarf with gleaming blue eyes was followed by a chestnut coated fellow of a salt-and-pepper mane and genial bearing. He wore a grey sweater and black, shiny shoulder-and-elbow patched jacket. Celestia wanted to smile at the sight of him.

“We're going to see the Princesses, dressed like this?” whispered the second heatedly.

“Her ladyship needs to know about the events of last night,” the dark maned colt retorted.

“Yes, that would only be appropriate. It is nice to have a choice, now.”

“I agree. You’re not used to such esteem,” Forelock remarked.

“What’s that supposed to-ah…” he began crossly and ended just as quickly, the proximity of the royal sisters pricking his gentlecoltly manners. The stopped and stooped deeply at the foreleg.

“Forelock Holmes, Doctor John Trotson, we are pleased by your punctuality. Welcome to Canterlot.”

“It's our honor to be here, even under the unusual circumstances,” Forelock grinned.

“Yes, I had been told about that. How is Twilight, Dr. Trotson?” Celestia requested, gaze steadily upon the pony she addressed. Luna seemed quite fixated on the answer.

“I'm afraid the erratic energy of the teleportation has had a lasting impact on her body. Thankfully her fever has broken, but she's still quite weak.”

“Oh, my…” gasped the Princess. “Will she recover? Do I need to see her now?”

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind, but he was certain of the answer. “No. She was conscious for a few minutes, and lucid. I don't believe there will be any permanent side effects as a consequence. No one can have known this would happen. She is a young mare, and I have every confidence she will recover swiftly.”

“Yes,” Forelock agreed by way of interruption. “On that note, may I suggest that we have some tea?”

Luna's eyes widened, angered. “Tea?!”

Celestia wordlessly interposed her sister's temper by stepping forward and requesting that the guests needs be attended.

“Tea? At a time like this?” sighed John. “Weren't you just lecturing me about urgency?”

“Steel yourself. The tension in this room is quite high. Princess Luna is of a highly precarious temperament. We should be grateful that you had good news for her,” he cautioned, speaking in a private tone at John's ear. He curtly about faced to Princess Celestia, hooves clicking in an evenly timed clip-clop clip-clop. “Tell me about the threat against your sister, Princess.”

Luna was aghast once again. “How did he know? We haven't--”

“My sister, please be patient. Understand that there are no secrets before this stallion.”

“Of course. Secrets are only unobserved facts. We discovered that very letter last night, and now you are avoiding all possible contact from anypony who might share your woe or provide you aid? You are a solitary mare, Princess Luna, but dreadfully transparent,” Forelock explained quickly. “I am afraid you will only understand demonstrations.”

Luna regarded the none-too-subtle examination as the utmost arrogance. She measured Celestia's response, and found with surprise that she was not offended by his attitude.

What a presumptive and arrogant stallion! How uncivil he is to us, Luna determined. He is not to be trusted. Not. Yet. “Yes, that letter. We have reviewed the contents, Mr Holmes, and we cannot discern any portent. Perhaps it would be wise for you to consult-”

“Oh, may I?” muttered Forelock absently, ignoring her further protest, one hoof pressing the lower part of the parchment open as his eyes ravenously consumed the contents portrayed by scrawled characters. Celestia's aides were among the swiftest in the land, and just as it appeared that Forelock had finished pondering the letter, tea was served.

Forelock helped himself, pacing the room, eyes flicking to specific points – Luna, Celestia, the letter, the bed, the table, and briefly at the tea. The repast was refreshing and eased his nerves, clearing his mind and reinvigorating his thoughts. Celestia also had procured a cup and sipped modestly at it, while Luna and John refrained.

Ever the balm of the restless mind, Forelock half-grinned at the appreciation that he shared with Celestia of tea. Celestia is a mare of many labours, and conceals the anger at this threat against her sister. Tread carefully, very, carefully.

“Tense as the height of a crescendo,” Forelock stated of Luna, at length. He deliberately entered her personal space, impugning the dull lucidity of her mindset. Celestia, with glowing horn, set her tea down while smiling eyes hinted her amusement. “You are suspended in the contrivances of your perception. Princess Luna, this letter is far more serious than you imagine. I will read it:

'Scant escape the peddler of woe
Great loss this numbers foe
Askance glimmer of yore
‘The Gala's horn entrances shore
Brave heart to fail anew
When have I you.'”

When he finished he rounded and beheld Luna, eyes wide and flaring with excitement. Luna was nearly startled and surprised by this reaction. Holmes then declared:

“This colt claims to have right to your crown.”

Luna's eyes bespoke royal vengeance amidst insurmountable torrents of righteous indignation. Celestia keenly observed her agitated canter, curious when the questions would begin. John was unshaken and more than accustomed to—No, she recanted, his confidence in Forelock was absolute.

“How dare he! What right has he to our throne? What claim can he lay to our crown? Forelock, who is this pony?!” As she bore down on him the room itself began to darken, shadows grasping for any light source as if to snuff them all out. “I demand to know!”

Forelock's portrayed a stormless repose, eyes matching hers in an embrace of icy detachment. John was unnerved to realize how alike the two were. Luna's challenge met and matched by the peerless detective? Dr. Trotson began to wonder how long they could carry on.

“Sister!”

Celestia's ivory coat gleamed, a radiant contrast to the smaller embattled, ebony-gripped frame. Luna inhaled, the light of trust abating the terror from within. She bowed her head at her sister. The cool invasion of night receded, replaced by the unflinching sun.
“We are sorry, sister.” Luna huffed, distress clear in her typically malevolent tones. “We do not understand this colt's reasoning. We do not understand your trust!”

Celestia 'tsked'. “You have been away one thousand years, my beloved sister. In that time I have accrued many allies. Forelock has assisted the Kingdom before, though never the throne, directly. Has it not occurred to you that your mode of speech tells of such changes?”

“Our mode of speech? We will not abandon what is our right. How can you…?”

“Luna,” Celestia intoned.

Luna's eyes flicked up to her sister's, then to the floor and back again. “Yes sister. We understand; your desire is to protect us, but please! You must elucidate us. How can he be trusted?”

“Forelock is very a cold colt, that much is true, and you are much disillusioned by his words,” she said. Forelock nodded, in no way slightly, discerning her intent long before. John marveled at his display of respect. “I suggest a demonstration is in order.”

“If it is your wish, and it would be our pleasure, Princess Luna,” Forelock interposed, mimicry of her royal pedantry in no way mocking. “You felt a threat to your life. Anypony may have noticed that Princess Celestia threw all manner to the winds, welcoming us instead of having us do so. To their credit, your guards know you so keenly that they made no introduction at all. Rarely have they seen you so upset.”

Celestia gave a little gasp. “Wh-why, yes, that is so. I had not noticed. Please continue.”

“Does he always speak in paragraphs?” Luna groaned tersely.

“Be grateful. You've got his attention,” John stated by way of consolation. With a huff from her lean frame, which had returned once again to its fairer baby blue tone, she conceded. Forelock turned to John Trotson and eyed him significantly.

“Tell me what you make of the letter, Doctor Trotson?”

John was stymied by the request. “Me…? Surely you don't mean me.”

“Oh don't think so poorly of yourself, John!”

“But … well …”

“Come on, you're a practical colt. So is our villain.”

“Practical? What do you mean by that?”

“Using royal stationary is not only convenient, but also reduces the volume of data we can obtain. Pragmatic, you see. We're dealing with an impatient pony.”

“But you just said that he was very patient and deliberate,” John noted caustically.

“Yes, I did, but this pony is undoubtedly rushed for time, and in point of fact, believes he has won.”

“Ah, yes, I see what you mean. Well, no, I don't. Which kind is he?”

Luna's dark eyes narrowed with tangible menace. “Forelock Holmes, you try our patience.”

“Patience is an excuse for brain to languish,” he remarked meaningfully, not concealing his sympathies. Luna was taken aback. “Princess, if my good stallion can allay your doubts, it is but a hint of what I can do. Let us waste not a moment more!”

Luna's head twisted toward her sister, who projected an air of all-consuming trust. She whinnied, dissatisfied. Far be it from her to mistrust her own sister. Arrogant colt! However, it is oddly comforting that he is so desirous to have results expediently. “Proceed,” she assented finally.

Forelock inclined his head affirmatively at John Trotson, who inhaled in an effort to steady his nerves.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat, and glanced upward thoughtfully. “Well… It doesn't make sense that a colt with claim to your mareship's crown would surrender so easily. Even if you scare him away. He is arrogant and confident in the legality of his claim.”

A certain light eyed Alicorn set him with a curious regard and he harumphed with a pardoning half-smile. “I will have that researched immediately, Dr. Trotson.”

“Excellent. Excellent,” noted Forelock flippantly, attention focused on something else entirely. “Let us know how that turns out. John, continue.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. May I see the letter?” Forelock passed the parchment to him. “Hmm … A 'peddler' has many wares, and thus this is but one of his plans. We can surmise that while he is the mastermind, he has allies, hence 'numbers' and 'foe'. 'Askance' and 'glimmers' implies that—as Forelock said—that he an accomplished criminal. I think he's very confident.”

A sidelong glance to Forelock from John was not missed, and the agreement it portrayed. Assured, he carried on: “I don't know about 'Gala's horn', but 'bravery failing anew' seems obvious. Pardon my manners, Princess Luna, discussing such a matter, but I believe he is referring to the annual of your escape from the moon. I take the last line as bait to mislead you about his true intentions.”

Celestia and Luna were simultaneously awed by his presentation. John realized how little they understood about deception and crime. Such knowledge was rudimentary in their trade. Canterlot must not see a lot of villainy. Celestia was a wise ruler, indeed. Ironically, he had only scratched the surface of what deduction could reveal. Forelock, as always, composed his summary:

“Everypony would know about the annual of your escape, but nopony with a pint of sense in their head would dare bring it up. More than appearances, our fair Mares Princess, for Luna is the embodiment of the Moon's incomparable influence. More the point; you were very dramatic,” Forelock observed brazenly. “Yes, well done John. You missed only the biggest pieces of the puzzle. However, fine work.”

“Ah,” he flustered, “but that's your job, isn't it. To get … those … uh, pieces.”

“Indeed.” A tilt of the head was his response. “From the condition of the parchment we can stipulate that the writer is not only in Canterlot, but serves the royal sisters in this very castle. It does not have the sulfur odor of a message sent by dragon and thus has not traveled far. It is made of the finest southern grown wheat Canterlot offers, not wood as most cheaper scroll materials employ. Only five parchment suppliers in Equestria use wheat, two of which operate in Canterlot. These are 'Finer Press' and 'Kinder Leaflets', which are the only two companies to use the southern grown wheat. It takes longer to process and prepare but lasts six times longer than average scroll material. Of the two, only Finer Press sells directly to the palace. Kinder Leaflets is a wholesale provider for print media. The ink is a rare oil base meant to wash off easily during recycling and was furbished to the crowns by PFABQ or Ponies For A Better Quill. Positively odious name, but the quality of their product is undeniable, for it is worth twenty-five bits an inkwell. Frankly they are to my preference. This message was hoof delivered. Ask your guards. Hurry!”

“Yes, we will do that,” Celestia nodded, motioning for a slate blue coated colt to attend to the matter. “Frazzle Spark!”

The young colt briskly joined the group with a slight bend of the foreleg. “You summoned, milady?”

“I need to know who delivered scrolls by hoof to the palace in the last twelve hours. Please, now, with as much haste as you can muster.”

“Of course, Princess! Right away! You can count on me!”

Forelock peered wittingly at the pony and his departure. “That will not find the culprit.”

“But why have you had us search, then, Mr. Holmes?” Celestia posited.

“Elimination. This letter was found the night previous in the dark of night, and delivered under our very noses. The more information we have, the better, you understand.”

“The better?” Luna snarled, ardent fury flared once again. “Let us find the traitor immediately! We'll rout-”

Forelock's deep, entrancing voice pricked up every ear in the room. “Consumed by the very idea of betrayal, are we? We've not even a hint of the writer's cutie mark, and you propose to capture him straightaway? Princess Luna, how would you do it? He is a colt of extraordinary patience and deliberation, of that I promise you. Let us explore the character of this individual in greater detail.”

“You are unfathomable, Mr. Holmes!” Luna railed.

“Naturally,” he replied as if conducting the answer and introduction all at once. Trotson smirked, knowing he was indeed doing so. “As thieves strike in the dead of night, magicians seek to conceal their tricks with misdirection. A threat against your person will command a strong emotional response, drawing your attention away from that which he wishes to obscure or conceal. Shadows and threats, Princess. We know them well, do we not?”

Luna was taken aback by his cunning, lancing gaze. “We do. It is our domain.”

“Indubitably. Only someone so close to the throne can observe your royal habits. Moreover! He knew that you would retreat from all pony contact. You are a prideful, formidable pony.”

Luna squinted at him. Was it another affront? Had he made any, really? He was such a quandary!

“Princesses, he planned many things, but he cannot have suspected that Twilight would accidentally summon us. No, even I was caught by surprise.”

“Psh,” Dr. Trotson hissed. “I'd say so. It surprised the ponyfeathers out of me.”

Forelock eyed his companion cannily. “Surprise has limited effect, and we must have its every advantage. Princess Celestia has substantiated this letter's threat, and it is well that she has. It may have gone unnoticed as a farce, otherwise.”

Celestia's reproach was doubly as fearsome as that of her sister's. “You suggest we would not have honored our sister's fear?”
Forelock returned her gaze, unaffected. “Princess, I assert that the villain's hand was forced by our arrival. The condition of the wax seal was poor, indicating that it was hastily applied and done so at the very last minute. I noticed that last night the wax was still warm. He substantiated the claim and threat upon your sister by means of our notoriety. Nonetheless it is serious, and a great puzzle of misinformation.”

Doctor Trotson was pleased by the flattery of his friend, and was quite prepared for Celestia to apologize to Forelock, but she offered none. Either their understanding ran deep, or she simply did not feel he was entitled to it. Undisturbed and unruffled, Forelock continued:

“An entrance, or to entrance? Gala's horn – suggesting of course Princess Celestia's very own. A gate made by some magic? A shore … but which shore?” There is a picture here greater than my mind alone can encompass. Something which I have seen before, but do not understand, Forelock thought, the depths of his genius stirred by the presentation of a puzzle from which too many pieces were missing. How I detest favours, but boredom is so much the worse!

John was mystified by the outward demonstration of flattery on Forelock's part. An implement with which he might pacify the Princess, perhaps? Luna stood before a roaring fire, built presumably by one of her aides. In fact, a buff representative in black plate armor snorted blue flame at Forelock, who confirmed his theory by the odor of the smoke.

“Sable Thorn, lay off.”

That was unexpectedly casual, John thought with a startled look at Luna, then at Sable Thorn, who puffed disapprovingly and sauntered away. The order drew the ever-scrutinizing gaze of Forelock, but for an instant. The shadow painted colt was intimidating, yet Luna held unmitigated authority over him. John recognized the fearsome power that her vulnerable visage belied.

“Forelock, what will you have us do?” Luna demanded coolly. Her royal manner had returned. “We cannot allow this villain to achieve his goal.”

“That is precisely what I mean to do.”

“We do not understand!”

A shrewd grin settled into Forelock's face, and John felt that familiar dread excitement.

“I will explain everything, Princess Luna.” John was impressed at the respect he displayed for her station, knowing his acquaintances' superiority complex. “First I must ask of Princess Celestia a favor.”

“Yes, Forelock?”

“There is a guest I would have you invite to tomorrow's Gala.”

Author's Note

Luna wasn't dark princess enough first time round. If she's not scary, she's not the Princess of the Moon. While I was editing her attitude just ... needed amping up, as it were. Naturally, Forelock is completely unruffled by it.

Chapter Two: We Get Signal

“Doctor, these turned out funny!”

Delicate hoof clicks reverberated across the TARDIS' octagonal grating which served as the navigation chamber floor. Dimly a chestnut toned colt lifted his head, scanning the area and halting upon spying a blond maned grey coated filly crouched on forelegs before him. In her mouth was a baking tray full of delightfully odoriferous muffins.

Muffins…? he blinked, mind roused by the pleasant presentation. “Wait, when did you finish those? Moreover, was I asleep just now? How odd. I don't remember falling asleep…”

The Doctor hopped up, alert and energetic enough to exhaust his companion, cantering around the TARDIS' control panel, flicking and twisting its myriad levers and switches with reckless abandon.

“Doctor!” Ditzy whined, the pupils of her eyes wandering in her distress. “My muffins look funny!”

“They smell wonderful. Might I have some? I'm famished. Famished? Hadn't anticipated that.”

“You're not making sense. Can't you tell me what's wrong with my muffins? Look at them, they're green!” Momentarily the genetic condition that caused Ditzy's eyes to meander ceased, and she glared at him fixedly. The Doctor giggled, charmed.

“The oxer berries of Zenebria are very potent, my dear Derpy. I assure you they're quite sweet. Why don't we try them?”

“Okay … if you say so. I don't know how you survive without any food in here. There's a refrigerator, but I didn't see anything in it,” she grumbled, setting the tray on a bench nearby. Apparently without any trouble, hooves sufficed for the manipulation of muffins and the utensils necessary to butter them. What an amazing universe this was!

“I have a refrigerator? Wonderful! Uhm … Don't blueberries turn green when you bake them, Derpy?”

“It's Ditzy…” she muttered. “Oh, no, they don't. Sometimes the blueberry juice dyes the muffin greenish … Oh my! They're tasty!”

“They're quite nice, even without marmalade,” The Doctor muttered.

“Marmalade on oxen … oxy … uh, oxymoron berries? No, you said ‘oxer’ berries. Oh what a foalish name for a berry, even if they are tasty. You are a strange, strange pony, Doctor!”

Conversation took a back seat to enjoyment of the sumptuous muffins. The Doctor's mind whirled, naturally, musing on the curiosities of how a pony might become such a wonderful baker. Of course, with all that he'd seen since entering this universe, anything was truly possible. Shortly, with a full stomach and empty tray of muffins, the Doctor could return to the present state of affairs.

Being a pony requires markedly more food energy than I'd expected, he thought. “Derpy, I hear a bell ringing. What is that?”

“Uhm,” she blinked, eyes unsettled again. “Oh … the oven timer!”

The thought of this settled between them, eyes leading to the tray of muffins they'd just consumed.

“Derpy, was that the timer for these muffins?”

“Uh, I only made one batch. That’s kinda impossible, Doctor. I never set the timer wrong! Never!”

“I’ll take your word for it, because the only timer I have in my kitchen is a five minute hourglass,” the Doctor prefaced. “It has to be set in equal intervals to be of any use to a baker-pony such as yourself.”

“I thought it was very pretty. Whoever made it cared a lot about detail. So … what does that mean? I didn’t … this doesn’t make any sense! Do things always go wrong in the TARDIS, Doctor?”

“Don't presume what you cannot understand is wrong,” he chided, voice resolving into a soft mutter. “Perhaps I left the granular vortex motivator misaligned …”

“Hey, I know what 'misaligned' means!” Ditzy cried as he cantered away. “You can’t use big words to confuse me!”

“I'm very pleased you do,” he murmured between other indeterminable phrases which she did not understand. Thankfully he was then interrupted by the ring of a telephone. Hurriedly he rounded the tower control and snatched up the hoofset. “Yes?” A pause. “Yes, yes, this is the Doctor. Celestia? Princess! Oh! Derpy, it's Princess Celestia! This is an honor. I am at your service.”

“Princess Celestia? Of the … wait, didn't we rescue her from the CyberPonies?”

He lowered the hoofset and said: “No, not yet we haven't. Not to her. This is the past Celestia.”

“Past Celestia? Oh right, we traveled three hundred years into the future! I get it! …I think.”

“I'm sorry, princess. No, no. You have my fullest attention.”

He never explains the things I want to know, Ditzy huffed and waited.

“Oh? I'm deeply honored. Naturally I accept. May I make a request? Yes. No, no, I'd never … but of course. It's Derpy, my assistant. And…” Another, somewhat extended, pause. “Why, thank you. Promptly, of course. And good day to you, princess.”
Ditzy was annoyed enough by then to stomp a hoof. The Doctor, possessed of the lordly manner that occasionally consumed him, was not phased. “We've got a date at the Grand Galloping Gala.”

“Th-the … gr-grand … ga-galloping …” stammered Ditzy, head spinning with joy. The Doctor smiled, but his reaction seemed muted. “Doctor, aren't you excited?”

“Why yes, it did sound very important, and I ought to be excited. Anyway, any invitation from royalty is not to be snubbed. The word 'Gala' suggests a party, am I correct? I don't know about pony events, I'm afraid. However I'm getting the impression they're none too different from most human events. Another curious correlation. I suppose we ought to be choosing outfits, now?”

“Oh yes!” The thought of formal attire reignited the excitement within Ditzy, who forgot the Doctor's annoying habit of either concealing information or sharing too much of it. “Oh Doctor, this is going to be the best night ever!”

“You know, this makes me wonder if they have telephones in Canterlot. I suppose they must.”

Ditzy was much too jubilant to acknowledge his statement. “C'mon Doctor! Hey, where is the closet in this thing, anyway?”

“Closet? Derpy, you mean wardrobe! Didn't you have your own?”

“Yeah but I forgot!” she chimed brightly. “It's okay. I remember now!”

The TARDIS was not an especially noisy vessel, powered by the living energy of which only the Time Lords could grasp. Yet it seemed to The Doctor that it was radiating an unease, even an aura of urgency. The Doctor stopped as he passed a chromed power column and laid his right forehoof upon it.

“What're you trying to tell me, sexy? There's trouble and you know it. Oh, there's always trouble, I know it, but what kind? You're ill at ease …” he observed wistfully, hearing an inarticulate female whisper in his heart. He closed his eyes and made every effort to focus on it.

“Doctor!” The Doctor's head jolted up in the direction of Ditzy's voice. The excitement sent him galloping. Most of the interior of the TARDIS was metalwork of some variety, as if hand assembled, rather than built by precise machines. The last regeneration had not changed the layout too much, and it had been easy to re-learn.

Eight corridors branched from the central control pylon spread out evenly, some dedicated in purpose, others undefined. Four of these had bedchambers with every necessity. Ditzy had claimed the area with the most simple layout, but The Doctor had noticed her room had a trot in closet.

“'Trot' in,” he giggled, momentarily forgetting Ditzy's piqued summons. “Oh! Derpy!”

Just outside of the aforementioned closet she stood in a gorgeous white-silver lace full length gown, and she smiled, eyes evenly focused. Downward. The Doctor clicked his hooves in approval.

“Oh you're lovely. How did she know, I wonder?” The Doctor breathed. Recognizing his reference to another mare, Ditzy's glowing sweetness faded into something intimidating.

“How did who know?” she smiled, a veiled warning.

The Doctor smiled back instantly, unaffected or unaware. “Oh, the TARDIS! Don't you know? Heart of a woman, she. Generous and protective. She made that dress for you. Fits perfectly, doesn't it? Oh you'll steal some hearts, I've no doubt.”

“A what? 'Woman'?” Ditzy growled. “That sounds like a human thing! Like you keep saying you are … uh, were.”

“Yes, well, no. I'm a Time Lord. Half human. A woman is a human female. Now I suppose I'm half pony rather than half human.”

“I thought so!” Steal some hearts … Not yours! She grimaced. Oh Doctor, what kind of friend am I to you? Her head drooped, and she turned back to the wardrobe. “I'll change out of this now…”

“I've got it easy, you know. I can wear this, if I want! It's a miracle anything fits, now … being a pony is very inter-”

Ditzy stomped her hoof fiercely. The sharp report shot to the walls and right back into their eardrums. The Doctor was instantly hushed. “Doctor, won't you wear something nice? I'd never really dreamed of going to the Gala. Not really.” The dread of disappointment weighing upon her heart. Of course she had, but she was rather annoyed with him. You are impossible, Doctor! “We could take time to find something for you! You're a Time Lord, aren't you? You can do stuff like that?”

The Doctor was humbled. He'd never imagined that he'd affected her, a pony, this way. What a fool you are, Doctor, he chided himself. Why would it be any different than any of the others? “Of course I-”

“You're a foal!” she flared with back still turned. “I'm a foal with feathers in my head! I want to be alone. Please.”

“If you wish.”

“Forelock, who is this fellow you've had Princess Celestia invite to the Gala?” asked Dr. John Trotson, trotting beside a dark, wavy haired, dramatic looking fellow, his companion, Forelock Holmes. “Not another one of your experts, is it? What's so unusual about this case?”

“Expert? No, John, not an expert,” he replied dismissively with a chuckle. “You wouldn't believe me if I explained.”

Dr. Trotson halted, head inclined to one of the many tall stained glass windows through which multi-hued light streamed. “When has there been a time you couldn't explain something to me?”

“I could explain,” Forelock drawled teasingly, “but you would not comprehend.”

“Oh,” he blinked, as if doing so on a smaller scale. There were times when trust was just the way to proceed. This was one of them. “Another thing. Why were you treating the Princesses with such-”

“Respect?” Forelock finished. “Nonsense. Patriotic fealty has no shame, Dr. Trotson.”

“Pardon me? When we were last in Canterlot, don’t you recall the thing you were wearing?”

“Tush! I’ll not have you mention that again. You’ve been rather lonely of late. No new marefriend?”

“No,” he grumbled. “Look, that’s not important. There’s too much to do! How do you suppose we narrow down our search?”

“Reason, John. Logic. You’re no stranger to it. Look around. The Canterlot army is away, training. They’ve not been recalled. Celestia is no foal. She knows not to draw heat to the flame.”

“But we’ve understood this colt has accomplices.”

“Thugs do not an army make, not in Canterlot, anyway. Without a leader they pose only a wisp of threat. The Princesses must maintain peace and calm. This is the night of the Galloping Gala, and thus the most important night of the year. Try to imagine the economic consequences for an attack on the palace, or rioting due to a perceived threat. We are fortunate this is so orderly an affair. We have just two dozen palace guards and the servants to sort through. Let’s practice a little logic, shall we?”

“All right,” Trotson acquiesced. “You’re always trotting on my head about that. Let’s hear what you’ve got on your mind.”

“You put up with it. Do you remember Luna's guards?”

“I do? Well … oh, guards? Yes, yes I do. Azure Nocturne and Sable Thorn. Fearsome ponies, if you ask me.”

“Ah, but you don't. Sable Thorn was not among the guards when we arrived this afternoon. According to the schedule, Starry Luminescence is on-call during emergencies such as this. She's a rare pony, you see. Azure Nocturne and she are both proficient magic practitioners. It is their duty to ward off any threat that might encourage Luna to change back into Nightmare Moon. I get the distinct impression that is what our opponent wishes to avoid most of all.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Time, John. To our villain time is more valuable than the crown, and he will require more than the schedule of a palace guard can provide. The longer he delays the greater the chance his quarry will slip from his back, unnoticed, like so many sacks of carrots. Even if our villain is here just to steal Princess Luna’s crown, many preparations are required. There are accomplices among the guards, but none of them is the mastermind of this plot!”

“So we’ve just to weed out the sour apples, then,” John breathed, reassured. A thought nagged at him. “Now just a moment, how do you know the guards schedule?”

“Oh? That? I was speaking to a filly, I believe her name was Feather Blush …” he stated softly. “She was very helpful indeed. They were careless to leave it where anypony might snatch it up. I tell you, John, they're not too innocent.”

“Yes, Forelock. They are. Isn't it wonderful?”

Forelock's head was lowered with a forehoof at his mouth. Curtly he looked up. “Yes, I've grown quite fond of Canterlot and these ponies. I do regret the time when we will leave.”

“Already? Aren't you enjoying this chase?”

Forelock gazed at John with disbelief. “Barely, my friend. We need information!”

Firmly, John nodded. Silence pervaded, and the expectant attitude of Forelock sank in. “I'm to do the interviewing, am I? Again?”

“Of course,” he responded smoothly. “I've other matters to attend.”

Dr. Trotson had long ago ceased to argue the arrangement: He did the legwork while Forelock put his peerless intellect to the task of unraveling of mystery at hoof. Trotson thus wasted no time, proceeding directly to the main entrance of the palace. Forelock had made the point clear; this ‘Feather Blush’ was a pony of value.

Such large corridors, almost anypony could hide in them. If magic is as effective as Twilight …erh, Sparkle said it was. She also said her talent was rare, John recollected. The average unicorn knows only how to manipulate inanimate objects, it would seem.

“It would be an unprecedented disaster if anypony could use magic as well as I can. Only a hoofful of ponies have any real talent. You see, each pony excels in magic in a way that reflects the desires of their hearts. I'm exceptional,” she had grinned, smugly, earlier this morning, much improved. “You don't know much about unicorn magic, do you? Here, if you need to talk to me again, use this. I'll be happy to answer your questions, especially for the Princess.”

John's mind reflected upon the curious clear stone she had gifted to him. Celestia's student? Was the Princess' sole ability to raise the sun? Oh, wait… a white pony with tri-colored mane. Chocolate, plum and pale pink. Forelock was right, she was adorable. Her bright, brown eyes lit up as Dr. Trotson approached her niche. She was expecting him?

“Oh, hello. You're Forelock's assistant. Are you here to sign up for guard duty?”

“It's Dr. Jotswrong-uh,” he blinked and shook his head. “No, no. Doctor John Trotson. Are you Feather Blush?”

“Yes. My friends call me Feather. You can call me Feather. Do you want to call me Feather?”

“Well, why not. Tell me, Feather, can anypony sign up to be a guard?”

“No, but you can. Forelock and you are special. A-ah, I mean, you have permission,” she stammered, face reflecting her namesake. “You being here makes the Gala safer.”

Special? “You said ‘special’ just now. What's that mean?”

“Special guests. If Forelock wanted the guard schedule he could've just asked me for a copy. Can you tell him not to be such a stinker?” she whinnied cheerfully.

“I'll be sure to mention that to him. So … I wonder if you might tell me a few things about the guests…”

The annoyance of having to retrace his steps was rapidly supplanted by the curiosities of the scene. Hall 18, so labeled on the imperial map, was not covered in dust as he had first surmised. The substance was unfamiliar, but had the texture of fine powder.
There is a fine coating of this material spread as though blown, over a distance of twelve meters. The entire hall is coated, but there are no passages through which air might travel. Additionally the cellar door has been sealed for decades, according to Azure Nocturne, Holmes recollected. Measured hoof clicks drew his attention away from the analysis. They stopped, and began to retreat. Forelock was quick to greet the strange mare.

“Good afternoon,” he began, heaping generous portions of appeal onto his unexpected company.

“Yeah, hi. Don't mean to interrupt. Took a wrong turn,” she demurred. “Later.”

Ah, but that was all the time he needed to take stock of the uncommonly attractive mare. Auburn mane and luxurious braided tail like bales of woven copper, eyes of hammer struck gold, alight with spritely intellect and cunning of a warrior. Her cutie mark reflected her skill; gold heart and a smith's hammer.

“Oh do stay. Isn't it rude not to introduce yourself in such circumstances?” Forelock suggested.

Eyes half-lidded did not agree, but to be uncongenial was to be suspicious. “The Gala, you mean?”

“I do.”

She sighed, then perked up artificially. “I'm Prancing Luster. From Ponyville? You've heard of me, of course.”

Forelock cocked his head and stepped forward. “Premier rare mineral appraiser, born in Canterlot to Pepper Darling and Uniform Style. Opposed to their modest living, your discovery of rare minerals in the outskirts of Ponyville and sensibility for their quality has made you one of the richest mares in all of Equestria. In your adult years you reconciled with your parents and they helped you to start Unpaid Aid for Creativity, a charitable organization for underfunded talent. Will that do?”

“You're a savvy colt,” she grinned grimly. “So very knowledgeable, Mr. Forelock Holmes. The Science of Deduction? I hear that's your style, and that demonstration was the least of your skill.”

Forelock's eyes narrowed slightly. “You've just come from the parlour where you enjoyed a honey filled doughnut. You're also not alone. He's a good colt, and will likely marry if you like that sort of thing. You are also … expecting a business deal to provide significant dividends, but I would turn the mare down. She knows nothing of marketing and has no taste.”

“Just how did you—” she gasped, reared slightly.

“The crumbs in your mane tell me exactly what you've been eating. When I passed the parlour not five minutes ago they had just finished filling a fresh batch of those doughnuts. That necklace wearing is silver and which clashes quite distastefully your tiara and shoes, and judging by your fashionable clothing you're fond of the stallion and are considering rather drastic life changes for your love. I hope it is for love, my dear, because no one likes a filly-fooler.”

“I wouldn't—” she began to protest, but he would not relent.

“I postulate that you are here for business over pleasure because of your simple yet stylish dress, which is quite becoming, I add. You're welcome. This is to be expected, as it was tailored from scratch by Ponyville's premier designer, Rarity. It's common knowledge that you have known her most of your life and she is prone to fits of generosity. I also noted by your reaction to my statement about the deal that you already suspect it will not be favorable. Trust your gut, my dear. You are beautiful and intelligent.”

One, two, no … five complements. Her eyes fluttered, flattered and charmed at once. “Oh, my …”

“You are also working for Princess Celestia as security agent.”

Prancing Luster scrutinized him and shook her head. “No, I'm not giving any hints about that. Not even to you. How did you know?”

“The head of security is a close personal friend. You're not busy, are you? What can you tell me about this cellar?”

The jarring strike was enough to unseat the sulking Ditzy Doo from her bench, and jostle The Doctor with forehooves upon the TARDIS’ navigation console. Such jostling was uncommon since the physics of the vessel defied all human and pony sciences, yet not impossible. Ditzy frantically looked around the room as if the quiet space could relate any information to her. The Doctor, meanwhile, consulted the navigation pillar, occasionally twisting knobs and flicking switches.

“Did we hit something, Doctor?”

“It would seem so, but … not as you might think. The TARDIS doesn't move. Something hit us, and I'd like to know what it was,” he replied, tail twitching with excitement. “Perhaps this might explain the baking discontinuity. Now … ah, here we are! Look at that! Look … at that!”

Nonplussed at the The Doctor’s elated rambling, Ditzy rounded the pillar and angled her head slightly to fix one eye on the small monitor. A grainy, fuzzy image contained within it a blue box of very familiar design. A bright light flashed at its top, and Ditsy snorted.

“That's us!”

“Oh, it looks like us, doesn't it?” The Doctor chimed warmly. “I'm afraid it's not. Weeeeeell… It's me. No doubt about that. This is interesting. How can I have forgotten? Ah, well, it was over two hundred years ago. Can't be expected to remember everything, can I?”

“Two hundred years ago?! How old are you?”

“Now that isn't important, is it? Centuries older than you. Seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Might see more. Who knows? Hm … Seems I'm rather sensitive about my age too. Fancy that,” he muttered. “Derpy, this complicates things. I need you to listen carefully.”

“Oh-kay!” For some reason she felt compelled to sit, and with a resounding thump, she did. Her heart rate elevated with the notion of the impending event. The Galloping Gala! She felt so much closer to it now.

“In that TARDIS is a past me. Look, he's – I'm – getting out now.”

A blond maned, blue coated pony wearing a smart looking red bow tie cantered out of the two part door with an aura of self importance.

“He's cute!”

“Oh? I suppose I was. Harder to be blond you know, what with everypony looking down at you. That's an unfortunate perspective, isn't it? Humans can be so narrow minded and selfish. Just a handful of hair colors in their race, you could count them on one hand! Couldn't count them on four hooves!” The Doctor laughed. “Oh, sorry. You don't understand. Anyway, I'd suppose that its harder to condescend with the variety of mane colors you—us—ponies have. Well now. Doesn't he look the snob. Isn't that strange! He's a pony! Is that an alternate version me that was also… oh my, oh my! Fancy that!”

“Fancy what? It’s a nice tie … he’s wearing. Why do you say that all the time?”

“Fancy? Oh, I say it because I like to. Don’t tell me you’re not excited. This is exciting stuff! Don’t know what might happen next! That’s not true. I have a few ideas. Look - he was my fifth regeneration, you know. No, you don't. Of course you don't. Just as well, I suppose.”

Ditzy was so confused by his verbal meandering that she had forgotten the comment about his blond mane. It was better that way, The Doctor reasoned. He turned to her, radiant with charm. He needed her to understand most fervently what he was about to say.

“Let's say he's me, because he is me, but hasn't met you. In fact, it's important that he doesn't know you are with me. Do you understand, Derpy? You can talk to him, but you must not tell him about us.”

“Why not? He's you and you like me. Right?”

“Oh Derpy, you are fantastic. I love you. Ponies are wonderful.”

“L-love … me? Why would you say that?” Oh Doctor … what are you doing to me? Am I falling in love with you?

In spite of her nearly whispered question The Doctor carried on. “You must not tell him we are traveling together. For some reason I don't know we're here, and I must have had a good reason for not telling me. What use is there in not trusting yourself, isn't that right?”

“Y-yes, right …” she replied halfheartedly.

The Doctor cantered toward a back door, and then paused, looking back at Ditzy. “Derpy, are you going to get dressed? The Gala will start soon.”

“Oh! The Gala! I get to meet Princess Celestia!” she piped, cantering cheerfully toward the back passage doorway. Wholly distracted, she hummed delightedly an unfamiliar tune that leapt forward in her mind. The Doctor heaved a sigh of relief, until he noticed Ditzy's lingering gaze upon him. She turned her head slowly, smiling before she dashed into the corridor that lead to her room.

What is that filly thinking? Over hundreds of years, the wiles of the female kind had continued to mystify him.

“Are you going to wear that lovely dress, Derpy?”

Author's Note

A few minor adjustments, nothing plot shifting. Lookin' good.

Chapter Three: Hoof and Claw

A wall of posters featuring hand drawn depictions of missing, lost or wanted ponies pinned to a billboard behind a locked door in the eggshell painted offices of Celestia's royal security forces. Crimes in Canterlot were commonly related to social misbehavior, minor theft or dishonesty. Grand scale lawlessness was simply not a staple of equestrian society.

“Six missing ponies and not a soul has raised a fervor,” Prancing Luster said, waving a hoof over half a dozen missing ponies throughout Canterlot. “We've kept files, of course, but they were so close together that we've barely begun to gather any information.”

“Barely begun? How long ago did the first kidnapping occur?” Forelock Holmes prodded. “It's unlike the security forces to be so sluggish.”

“Three days,” Prancing frowned with the rejoinder. “Kidnappings are rare, Holmes. Besides, we had problems finding witnesses of any kind. No traces were left to indicate where they went missing from.”

“So how do you know they were kidnapped?”

“A witness more or less stepped forward.”

Holmes, intrigued, deliberately intruded into her personal space. She glared at him softly, but he did not back down. “More or less, you say?”

“I will explain, if you will give me some breathing space,” she bit off. He grinned briefly and complied. “On the second day of the kidnappings, a young colt working a local club stepped up and gave us a description of a suspicious pony.”

Forelock nodded emphatically. “Yes, quite. I've heard of this. Omnipony, correct? DJ at 'Wub a Dubstep', a party organized by Grift Heavyhoof. He disappeared as well, I heard.”

“I am not surprised, nor terribly impressed, that have that information, but … Cloudsdale never apologizes, so neither do I. I will tell you there's more that we didn't make public. Omnipony left a description of his attacker,” Prancing noted with grim satisfaction. She cantered to a desk and gestured at a sketch. “Though it is unusual.”

The sketch was indistinct, as much any pony as no pony. Prancer explained that Omnipony couldn't decide which features were correct. Everything was a 'might' or 'I dunno if' or 'like that, sort of'. Forelock puzzled over this unique piece of information. “So how does this connect to kidnapping?”

Prancing shook her head in disbelief. “I can't believe you're asking me that. Forelock Holmes. What a day I'm having. Here. When we interviewed the service staff about the disappearances, one fact came to light. There was a new hire recently, only nopony could remember him very well. The fact that he is a colt is the only point anypony could agree on.”

“So he's new to the staff, but nopony has an opinion about him?” Forelock repeated skeptically. “Completely inoffensive and uninteresting. I find that highly unlikely.”

Prancing Luster nodded and murmured agreement, turning her attention to a line of vials containing powder samples arranged neatly on a table. “Then there's this strange powder.”

“…That we've no understanding of. I suspect you had more to do with the staff. Let's focus on that.”

“Yes, I wasn't satisfied with what those lazy cloudheads found. I personally interviewed certain members of the staff, and I found three ponies who could describe him. What they told me was not consistent, but the eye color was always the same. Sun-flare yellow. Ah, close…” she murmured, judging a sample of the power they had recovered from the Hall 18 against known types of dust. “Whatever spell this pony cast didn't affect them.”

“Then we must conclude he is not a unicorn, nor an alicorn,” Forelock asserted off hoofedly. “Lazy minded ponies can be convinced of nearly anything, Ms. Luster, and the disaffected even more. Quite troubling.” He seemed to phase out into a bubbling haze of thought. A harsh frown masked his face, but was shattered abruptly by an enthusiastic curiosity: “Tell me, who are these ponies who could describe him?”

“Ah,” she gasped, unsettled. “Strike Bowler, Cantering Sunlight and Tightrope Fancy. What makes you say he’s not horned,” she asked, glaring with greater intensity at the sample of powder.

“Azure Nocturne is a magic sensitive. If any magic had been used during the kidnappings, she would have found it. No, this is the work of an Earth pony. Carry on.”

“I see your logic. Those three I mentioned are immigrants from Londun. They've been described as dependable ponies, but they all have questionable social habits,” she explained, brow creasing with frustration. “I've been over all these samples four times and none match!”

Forelock postulated several common habits among residents of Canterlot, based on the availability of free time, compensation, and cultural interests of Londunites. “You've profiled their habits, have you?”

“Had to. A suicide put the whole of Equestria on alert for the cause. We're not proud to admit it, but gambling is on the rise in many large towns, including Apploosa,” she stated with the expected air of clinical detachment. “Some are devoid of it, like Ponyville, but we don't understand why.”

“The Elements of Harmony serve as a great reminder of values that encourage morally resolved ponies. Towns within their influence have benefited from the friendship those six ponies inspire. What about Canterlot?”

Prancing lifted the magnifying glasses from her eyes, voice hard. “We've seen symptoms of gambling, but as yet we've been unable to locate the venues where they take place.”

“Another mystery for another time, I'm afraid,” Forelock concluded. “We're not going to find the origin of this powder, but I must be unequivocally certain before assuming anypony has died.”

“It's unheard of,” Prancing whispered. “We mustn't even speak of it until we can prove it.”

Forelock set her with a fixed, cool eye. “Not since the wars have their been any violent deaths in Canterlot. We must be careful, and act with great haste. Come with me. We're reporting these developments to Celestia. Right now.”

“Yessir.”

Dinner was being prepared and served throughout the palace, and with all the noise, either nopony noticed the exaggerated hollow wheezing of the TARDIS’ entering the palace gardens, or nopony cared. The leftmost door of the blue box opened, and angled upward, nose to the sky, was the chestnut head of The Doctor. His brown eyes absorbed the star spotted sky with singular recognition; the entirety of it was Home.

“Doctor … is it okay to leave the TARDIS out where anypony can see it?”

The Doctor stepped forward, around the poking head of his companion, Ditzy, allowing her to exit. He turned and nonchalantly regarded her, and then his trustworthy vehicle, greater than any conveyance.

“My dear Derpy. Nopony will notice her.”

Her… she grumbled privately. “Are you sure? She's nothing like any garden ornament I’ve ever seen.”

He either watched the ball pass or ducked, eyes half lidded at her spite. “Why don’t I ask you this: Where do you hide something you don't want anyone to find?”

“Uh, you hide it really well?”

“I said 'where', but that doesn't matter. You hide it better than 'well'. You hide it in plain sight.”

“Oh, you mean how sometimes I can't find my wooden spoon because it's right on top of the oven tray and I'm looking too hard?” she replied, grasping the notion nimbly. The Doctor tapped his forehooves in approval. “I did that when I made those alien berry muffins.”

“Anyon—er, pony will see the TARDIS and think it a part of the scenery.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Been doing this a while, don’t you see? Uh … now just a moment. Who are these ponies?”

A pair of brusque, thickly muscled dark coated ponies boasting midnight black armor had blocked off one of the two passages out of the garden. Turning to the other passage, two tall, slender ivory coated ponies in shining white-gold armor appeared, blocking them in. Ditzy backed into the Doctor, and he could feel her trembling.

“Steady on. The Doctor is in,” he breathed at her. A brief study of the four told him there was a sympathizer present and that it was the mother among them, the lightest colored one. He plodded over and made with smiling eyes. From a pony pocket he produced an apparently blank card, which he flashed at her.

“Yes?” intoned the pony, disinterested in the presentation. The Doctor looked at it, then grinned.

“Of course, you're immune to low grade telepathic suggestion, aren't you? Fancy that.”

“Are you The Doctor?”

“Oh, I am The Doctor,” he replied with a broad smile, eyes flicking up from hers to the helmet between her ears. “Now isn't that an interesting thing you're wearing. It was a gift?”

Gruffly the pony agreed. “Yes. Why would you be—”

“I'm not, but it's strange, and strange things interest me. It doesn't belong here. Wasn't given to you by your armory, either? No. I agree! See that crystal there? It looks like a diamond but it's actually a micro-transmitter. Really it's a signal repeater. Equestria has no microprocessor technology, because there's magic … so far as I've seen. But you didn't know that, I can see it in your eyes. Oh you're wonderful. Honest and sincere. Here, I need to see who's using it, where the signal is originating from. You don't mind?”

“No, I don't mind. What's a ‘signal’?” The pony flustered, but recollection steadied her nerves. You must trust this pony, Summer Shire. He's a Knight of the Kingdom, Celestia had said. The Doctor raised his sonic screwdriver to the crystal and activated it. An oscillating tone changed modulation and frequency as he manipulated the tool.

“Ah, thank you. You're not even worried I'll break it. Naturally, the safety of the Princesses is more important. Now isn't that nice. All that practice with Lyra paid off…” he muttered, then automatically answered Summer’s question. “Yes, like an invisible wave in the air that carries information, just like water carries fish. Nutrients that make food grow, you know. No, no … where's another … ah …! Splendid! Second signal. Not the source. So close. Need a third. It's faint, but… moving? Hold on, hold on! There! Hah! Got you!”

The sonic screwdriver's audio report had added a tone with each mention of another 'signal'. At its pinnacle three tones intersected, and the Doctor began walking. His triumphant chortle echoed against the white stone walls of the palace garden.

“Come on, come on! All of you! Who-or-whatever is transmitting this signal is big – oh yes, very big – and probably dangerous! Yes. Dangerous. Extremely. Move your rumps!” The palace halls were clear, and few ponies wandered the halls, even servants. The grey, white and silver brickwork entranced and distracted Ditzy. The Doctor took notice of this and called back at her: “Keep up, Derpy!”

The hall narrowed, and they turned left into a dusty hall of muted colors. The Doctor halted and raised a hoof, indicating that everyone else should as well. The light thunder of hooffalls turned into the simmering rain of a mild summer. The Doctor caught Ditzy's crossed eyes and expressed silent confidence in her.

“Don't you think it was smart not to wear your dress right away? Hm?”

“I think you're a little bent, Doctor,” Ditzy replied, disappointed and not bothering to hide her feelings. What made her especially cross was his apparent indifference.

“Might be. Tell me what you smell,” he requested casually. She lifted her nose and sniffed at the stale air. They had traveled through unused back corridors and encountered a locked cellar door.

“Sulfur,” she answered with a sneeze. “Doctor, I'm worried about Dinky.”

“A palace is no place for processing sulfur. We'll pick her up when we're done here, if you like. You. What is this cellar for?”

“We will? If I like?”

“Please, Derpy...”

She sighed. “Okay.”

“Well, come on, let's go … you, whomever you are,” The Doctor lifted a hoof in the direction of the other ivory coated guardian.

Eyes full of reproach, she replied: “My name is Summer Shire, Doctor.”

“Oh! A pleasure to meet you,” he replied warmly, distilling Summer's tepid unease. “Sorry about all the hullabaloo in the garden. Quite a matter of urgency here, you see. What did you say was in this cellar?”

“I didn't say. It's abandoned. See that mark?” she said, stepping up and gesturing at a panel across the front of the heavy plank door. “It's written in ancient equestrian. Reads 'Danger: High Explosives.'”

“You can read ancient equestrian? There's an ancient pony language? Why do I want to dance? Because it's charming! Oh I do love ponies. Explosives? Sulfur? Fresh sulfur? I don't suppose the palace had a sulfur mine, some time long ago?”

“I… I don't know,” Summer replied hesitantly, a curious tick of the cheek evident.

“Wouldn't be unlikely, if it was being used for weaponry. Has Equestria had any great wars?”

“No one has ever besieged the palace,” she retorted, insulted by the inference. “The Princesses have always ruled in peace.”

“But there has been fighting amongst the ponies. Derpy and I witnessed it, and it was in your history. It's clever of you to make a distinction between the battlefield and a siege against this palace. So you say they've always ruled in peace? You've rather a lot of pride for a pony, but possibly very little understanding of your own history? For shame. You’re a guardspony. Doomed to repeat it, don’t you know the phrase? Ah well, never mind that. It really doesn't matter, so long as I can trust you to be honest. Here, we've got to hurry. Could be trouble down there. I don’t know why we’re all standing 'round here.”

Because we're listening to you ramble your beak off, Ditzy thought, both charmed and annoyed. Summer and she exchanged skeptical looks. A voice snapped up behind her:

“Captain, that's prohibited territory. Are we going in?”

Ah, Summer sighed. Brazen. So the predictable colt. He wants to know who will assume responsibility for this mission. Summer turned to the three ponies that had accompanied them. Azure Nocturne, Light Seeker and Brazen Heart muttered amongst themselves expectantly. She dropped a hoof resoundingly and they snapped to attention.

“I'll not require any of you to join us. The Doctor has the absolute trust of the highest authority; Princess Celestia, and is a Knight of the Realm. Your courage will not be forgotten, whatever you should choose.”

The Doctor retrieved his sonic screwdriver which he aimed at the cellar door. The tool flashed green at its tip and the door’s lock undid itself with a grating clank. “Do it fast, everypony. Active sulfur means live – whatever! We’ve got to see what it’s about!”

“I don't think anypony, or anybody, locked in with sulfur of any kind is going to be nice,” Ditzy murmured, close to the Doctor's ear.

“I've no doubt you're right. Just keeping things light m'dear. Be ready to fly,” he replied just as softly.

The doorway became a winding downward stairwell, dank and grey as they forged downward. Automatically Summer followed behind The Doctor, competing with Ditzy until he waved his companion to his side. The wooden door was charred along the top edge but mildly, and the steps bore long score-marks that sent chills down Ditzy's spine.

“It looks like claws made those…” she said, nigh a whisper.

“Looks like three claws per leg. See there? This is a beast with a temper,” Brazen observed, reddish sweep of mane drifting over clear emerald eyes. “I don't think it's a pony, Doctor.”

“Brazen Heart, is it? Undoubtedly you are correct. Observe these marks,” The Doctor gestured with a hoof at pony sized hoof gouges in the masonry. “Somepony fought with this fellow. What's it take for a hoof to rake stone like that? Would your armor do it?”
Summer accepted the Doctor's query, but eyed Brazen. “He's Luna's tactical specialist.”

“Ah. I see. Well?”

“No. You can't crack stone with a hoof boot like these. They're formal, for show, not battle. I could easily do it with full battle grade gear, though.”

“I've a suspicion about our quarry, but I wonder what brought him here. Summer, you're good at protection spells, aren't you?”

“As good as Shining Armor!” she proclaimed proudly. “Ah, not really. I was third in his class.”

They stopped. A yellowish wash of light swelled up from the bottom of the staircase. “Can you whip up something to protect all of us if I ask you?”

“Done, Doctor. Just what will you say?”

“Oh, probably something like your name or 'now', 'shield' or 'hide!' You know. Can't plan everything. Slow up, he's close.”

The cadre lightened their hoofsteps, and while The Doctor entered the light-warm space, each prepared in their own way for a fight. The stairwell expanded into a great doorless opening, making surprise nearly impossible. With less than a dozen steps down to the basement, the occupant would surely know of their arrival before soon.

“Come down. I'm in no mood for games. Nor am I in any shape to tease you into combat,” pronounced a virile baritone. Shock overcame the group, apart from The Doctor, who looked more resolute than ever. “Though I might enjoy the distraction.”

Pure, unwavering caramel light poured over the adventurers as they sojourned in this strange, silver and white box strewn lair. Pipes and cubes of peculiar apparatus were carefully arrayed against the walls. Ditzy gasped. “Doctor, this looks just like Twilight's laboratory.”

“Yes, bubbly foal. It's hers. I copied it. Little choice, given the alternative. Been a while, Doctor. Who's this cutie? Your new companion? Quaint artifice of the eye she has.”

The Doctor was not amused by the congenial tone of the dark, purple coated colt's banter. His mane was a sallow muted green, reaching back across his head like wind tossed grass. The relaxed body language he portrayed was not mirrored in his honey-yellow pupils. He wore a simple jet black leather vest.

The Doctor hissed angrily. “You would wear that here?”

“Oh pity me, you're romanced already by these creatures? You’re not my tailor,” retorted the colt evenly. “Leather’s my style, but not really. I wore it just to get your mane in a knot.”

“You are in violation of the Shadow Proclamation. Tell me why you're here. Now.”

The foreboding pony was then inclined, for some reason, to grant The Doctor eye contact. Summer felt it was not out of respect or intimidation, she realized, for he was not the least bit impressed. Her gut clenched. Ditzy and Brazen reacted alike, sensing the concealed danger.

“What's 'leather'?” Ditzy ventured.

“Animal skin,” the colt chuckled gutturally. “It's stripped from the flesh of animals like you and tanned, stretched-”

“Enough! Jesper-”

“Call me Shattering Blight!” snarled the colt, and The Doctor could see the title envisioned upon his flank. The Cutie Mark had the rendering of a planet rent in two pieces, coreless and drifting. “Shadow Proclamation? I know I’m in violation of that bedraggled code! What’ll you do about me, anyway? Sic the Jidoon on me? Why are you here? How did you get here?”

Ask the TARDIS, The Doctor thought. The Jidoon haven’t served the Shadow Proclamation in some time, but he does not know that. Interesting. “I don't know what you're asking me.”

“Oh shards, don't play games with me. I don't mean here. I mean here!”

“I'm asking the questions, Blight. I want to know why you're kidnapping innocent ponies.”

Reproach lapped at the shore of Blight’s temper. “Oh, how might I be doing that? Go on. Tell me.”

“I'll tell you, but I need to clear a few points up. This isn't Twlight's laboratory. I've been. She's not got the atomic re-generator you have here. That,” he gestured at a cage with transparent walls, “can break down physical matter within seconds and extract specific compounds. Like sulfur.”

“So why would I be doing that? Raw sulfur won't do me any good.”

The Doctor began to pace, meeting the eyes of each of his allies as he circled the room. “It wouldn't, unless you needed it badly enough. Oh, but I'm putting it simply. You're not all here. Have a costly scuffle, lately?”

Ditzy laughed. The Doctor glanced and her and the emotive caught in her throat. She swallowed.

“Oh if it were funny I would be laughing, too. Traveling between dimensions is expensive, my dearest filly,” The Doctor began with a glance of warmth at Ditzy. “Very. That watch you're wearing … isn't a watch. It injects chemically altered sulfur directly into the energy field that keeps you alive. I suppose it happened slowly at first, but you had time. You figured out what was missing and began kidnapping ponies to provide you with raw sulfur.”

“Caught me,” grinned Blight, unrepentant. “I'm strong, when I'm all here, thanks to-”

“And now you're barely breathing,” The Doctor shot back, cutting him short. “It amazes me all the more you built this … right here. That tells me you traveled here in a ship. Where is it?”

“You've the manners of a zenubian blortworm, Doctor. Do you think I'll tell you that?” he said, a hint of bitterness the first trace of unfeigned emotion he'd betrayed. “You won't kill me. Bloody superior Time Lords. Even though I have killed here.”

He's baiting me. I wonder why? “What are you protecting, Blight? What are you hiding? Killed? When did I say that? Just a look at the particle extractor tells me that someone merged it with a vortex generator. Primitive but clever as ponyfeathers. If I'm right those ponies aren't dead, and I've no reason to doubt my own hypothesis … Your victims just out of their home dimension. Probably sent to where you came from, but there's no way of telling with the correct codes, markers you have. You don't know how it works, really. Bought it from a space pirate, I'm sure. You're just smart enough to adapt it to your needs. Nothing more.”

“If you're right. Ha! Even I don't know for sure,” snorted Blight. “Oh go on, you and your hopeful theories. Fancy a trip in an energy blender? The chap who copped that didn't have instructions. Had to suss out the hardware myself. You're an arrogant colt. I adore this, Doctor, I do! You can't take the signatures from me, the ones you need to rescue those ponies. Thank you for the spice.”

“Summer.” The Doctor's jaw sawed.

“Yes Doctor?” she answered, grateful for the call to action.

“This pony needs to be taken into custody. He's not a threat. Look at him, barely conscious.”

Summer beheld the villain, who was obviously starved, and shaking like a leaf. “Yes Doctor. Come on, you.”

Summer, Azure and Seeker encircled the colt, who half coughed and laughed before dropping on all fours. Seeker cautiously examined him.

“He's fainted. Just how serious is this condition of his?” Seeker was befuddled by most of what had been said, but understood that Blight was gravely ill. The Doctor was already beside the extractor/vortex hybrid, pointing at it with his sonic screwdriver with no apparent plan.

“It'll take just a moment for me to bring the rest of him here. He'll die in a few minutes, so I'd best hurry. That energy injector is slapdash too. He's not been here more than a few days. I'd wager the fight took the rest of the strength he had, and that's when he began kidnapping ponies. It's a logical thought, wouldn't you say?” The Doctor muttered unpleasantly to himself, then called: “Derpy, will you hold this?”

“Oh. Okay. I was getting bored.”

Bored, hm? The Doctor passed his sonic screwdriver to her. “Now hold it here. Just a little up… and, ah. Brilliant.”

“He was lying about everything, Doctor,” Ditzy pointed out. The Doctor agreed, and then listened: “He was desperate. I know that feeling. There was a time Dinky got lost in the Everfree forest, and when I went looking for her. When I found her she was being chased by a Myria snake.”

“What's a Myria snake?”

“Uh… they eat ponies, Doctor. They're big. So big they can't climb trees like some little snakes. At least that's what Fluttershy said. I saw Dinky was tired out from flying and being chased. She was lying on the ground and the Myria was right over her. I flew into a panic, throwing as many rocks as I could find at it. I was desperate too, just like Blight – desperate to protect Dinky. I've never been so scared in my life. I never want to lose her. She's all I have.”

“Desperate to protect … hm …” muttered the Doctor, not deliberately insensitive to the undercurrent of sorrow in Ditzy's voice. He mashed a button on the square, metallic glossy control panel and the machine made a high, humming sound. “That's it. He's back. Smart design, this thing. No wonder Jes- Blight was able to sort it out. Even has a mode switch. Protect … protect … ah!”

“Can I put this down?”

The Doctor backed away from the machine and reclaimed his sonic screwdriver. “No. I'll have it back. Thank you, Derpy. You're brilliant.”

“Again? What did I do this time?” she queried, puzzled by his sombre tone. The Doctor regarded her apologetically.

“I said that wrong, didn't I? You're spot on. Shattering Blight was protecting something.” While he talked he explored the room. His eyes narrowed. “This is the one. Huh … now, video, audio … two way transmission … he was monitoring, too. Monitoring us? If he was kidnapping ponies, that makes sense.”

“Ah, but it leaves much unexplained about the ponies who performed the kidnapping.”

The Doctor froze, mind processing the so very familiar voice. He turned with a wide grin. “Forelock Holmes!”

“Doctor. The Doctor. Welcome to Canterlot.”

Author's Note

Points to the pony who notices the new reference to a specific alien creature from a specific young-hero type animated show... among other minor, fleshing out changes.

Chapter Four: Carbon Fabrications

Forelock Holmes beheld The Doctor and contemplated the clues his bearing presented: Muffin crumbs from a recent meal, blond hair from the grey mare at his side, one Ditzy Doo, hooves dusted by the mysterious powder from the cellar entrance above. Additionally, reddish sand in his coat and mane. Had he rushed here from a previous engagement?

“Rushed, Doctor? Do you often visit deserts?” Forelock began.

“Deserts? Well ... I must have ... when was ...”

“Doctor,” Ditzy interjected. He turned and smiled at her. “That's where we went for the berries. Z-zebes, no, that wasn't it, but it was like that. Ah, oh hay, yeah! It was Zenebria.”

“Who is your lovely companion this time, Doctor?” Forelock pranced slightly, showing uncommon fancy.

This... time? Ditzy thought, crestfallen.

“Forelock Holmes, meet Derpy Hooves,” The Doctor announced the unwitting slight of an unwanted nickname. The indignity of his insult – however unintentional – to her ball dress had not been forgotten, and now she learned he had other companions in his past. The thought had never once entered her mind.

“It's Ditzy Doo. My name is Ditzy Doo,” she corrected, gritting her teeth in The Doctor's direction.

“I think 'Derpy' is quite charming,” The Doctor insisted sweetly.

“I don't care what you think, Doctor!” she snapped, eyes blinked to focus on him, emotions lashing tongues of fire in her yellow pupils. “I don't call you Doc, or The Doc, My Little Docky, or Mumble Twitch, but maybe I should! I don't know about your name anyway! The Doctor? Just 'Doctor'? Who are you, anyway?!”

“I'm sorry, Der ... uh ... Ditzy, but I can't tell you that.” The Doctor knew his answer was completely ineffective, but the burden of knowledge could well destroy her. He cherished her too much to take that risk, and was determined she was unprepared for those words.

“Why not?” she demanded, breaking the barrier of his personal space.

“I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't. It's much too soon, and far too complicated. Your life is ...” he stopped short. “You must understand. I am sorry.”

My life is what? “I don't understand! What do you mean 'your life'?” This was disheartening, but he was so intent, so sincere. How could she doubt him? Yet she was not satisfied. “If you can't tell me now, then when? Will you tell me?”

“No, I can't,” he stated, unflinching eye contact aggravating her once again. How could he be so bold and indifferent, yet passionate at once? She was more hurt than angry. Something inside, the want for love, the desire for his attention, compelled her to be patient.

Forelock, meanwhile, had used the opportunity to observe. He did not understand why The Doctor had selected this companion, but he recognized the vital tenacity of her independent personality. She was self-sacrificing and compassionate. He mused, the decibels of ones temper does not the extent of empathy communicate.

Meanwhile, Summer Shire and Light Seeker had departed with Shattering Blight in tow to transport him to a holding cell, not far from their location. Forelock had quietly requested that Brazen Heart remain for safety sake. Forelock had work to do.

“My dear,” Forelock's voice was as smooth and lustrous as his midnight tint mane, and the effect eased her temper considerably, just as he intended it to. He cantered forward so he could take her hoof with a bow. “Ditzy Doo, it is my pleasure to meet such a lovely filly on the night of the Galloping Gala. Welcome to Canterlot.”

Ditzy turned scarlet red from maneline to the base of her neck and muttered “Thank you.”

“Can you tell me how long Shattering Blight has been in Canterlot?” Forelock's head was angled so that the recipient of the question was not clear. The Doctor assumed it was he:

“No more th-”

“I was asking Ditzy,” he interrupted curtly. “Before you wonder why I asked, tell me what you know of mail delivery in the palace.”

Ditzy's face lit up with delight. “I know all about this! Before I tell you, what are you asking me? There's so much to know. I can tell you how many seconds it takes a Pegasus to deliver a letter from the ground floor to Celestia's throne room, or between floors, or—”

“Shattering... no, better to call him Blight, I suppose. Ominous. No matter. I need to know how long it would take a letter to reach the cellar door of this chamber from anywhere in Canterlot. The absolute minimum amount of time if flown, then, if run by earth pony.”

Ditzy's eyes crossed again as she tilted her head upward and began to pace. Shortly afterward she performed a neat leap and caught herself in the air with a flit of wing. Hanging there as though suspended by string, she churned the scenarios in her head for accurate times.

“That was brilliant,” The Doctor breathed. “How did you do that?”

“Pegasus walk on clouds, don't you know?” she replied, matter of fact. “Mr. Holmes—”

“Forelock, please,” he invited with a solicitous tone.

Ditzy smiled smugly. “Okay, Forelock. A flying pony couldn't take longer than a fives minutes from the border of Canterlot to reach that door up there. But a running pony would take way longer. At least fifteen minutes.” Ditzy continued to hover serenely.

Forelock had to quantify a point: “Are those figures based on the speed of the average pony?”

“'Course not. Those are based on the slowest recorded fliers and runners in Equestrian history. Do you want the fastest numbers? Rainbow Dash is fast, but she's no mailmare. I can factor in weather too. Rain can slow you down a lot, and it can be bad if it's too hot and dry. Then there's cold, or stormy conditions. How about hail? I've flown in lightning storms. Would you like me to change the times for any of those?”

“No, I thank you deeply, Ditzy. The wax seal was still warm when we found it, which means it was delivered from very near here, but not directly through the cellar door.” Forelock fixed his eyes on The Doctor. “You said Blight hadn't been here more than a week. Was that an exact figure?”

“No. His equipment was such rot that he was gambling his life every time he used it. I've never seen that kind dimensional separation before, but by the way his body was leeching sulphur, he would have died within a week. There was more to his condition, but I don't know what, and I'm not entirely convinced it's important.”

“Sulphur is a primary component of all living things. He should have died instantly. How was he staying alive?”

“That's not question we can answer over tea and cupcakes,” The Doctor intoned dramatically. “He's not your average pony, I promise you that.”

“He had a rather queer cutie mark,” Forelock reflected. “A planet split in two pieces with the core missing. Presumably stolen or consumed. What does that say about his special talent?”

“Nothing you'll ever worry about.” A heavy bass vocal thundered decibels above the four ponies, bringing their attention to its owner. Brazen Heart lay heaped at its feet, clawed evidence of the intruder hanging over his body. Forelock noted that he breathed, though he had been wounded. No telling how badly, obscured as he was.

The creature was a haphazard beast; angular dragon head, barrel chested pony body, spiny whip style tail, and three-clawed forelegs. Massive hind legs gave the impression of remarkable leaping strength. Its body was covered in glossy crimson-silver scales with yellow-white spines travelling in a line from its horned head directly to tail tip. Thin lips were pulled up to reveal pearl-bright teeth meant to chew flesh.

“Doctor...” Ditzy whimpered, backing into him slowly. He braced her with his forehooves.

“Sssh,” he whispered. So this is the fellow who damaged the stairwell. Let's see what he's about. “I'm The Doctor. Who are you?”

“Blackpool, since you ask. 'The Doctor'? I'm supposed to eat you,” explained the fellow rather congenially. “Come here. I've never had Time Lord before.”

“Do you eat a lot of ponies?” ventured the The Doctor, fumbling for his sonic screwdriver behind the concealment of Ditzy.

“Come to think of it? Nope. You'll be the first.” With that, Blackpool made a grab with his large claw at his head. He came up empty and frowned distinctly at his empty talon. “You're not making this very easy.”

“Easy isn't any fun. Would you like to be eaten?” The Doctor bantered, shoving Ditzy away from him as Blackpool reached again.

“I wager you're right about that. Me? Eaten? Don't know, I've not been at this very long. How 'bout your friend? I'll just eat her instead.”

“Oh but I'm no foal. Your orders are to eat me. You'd eat her, then eat me afterward.” The Doctor's words made Ditzy's head spin. He's serious! He's absolutely bonkers! She thought. Forelock was nowhere to be seen. What was he hiding behind, and how had he snuck away so easily?

“You're right. I don't think I'll be able to stop, once I start.”

The Doctor had to give him a chance. There's a chance Blight had a hand in your hunger. “Look, I can tell you are an intelligent fellow, even if you've a large appetite. I have to be fair to you.”

Blackpool's green pupil eyes became doubtful slits. “Fair? To me?”

The Doctor rose to his full height and locked eyes with the behemoth. “Completely. Every intelligent species deserves the opportunity to choose. So must you. These are intelligent, peace loving ponies. I won't see them harmed.”

“I just want to eat you,” demurred Blackpool.

“Can't let you do that, can I? Once I'm gone, who's to stop you?”

“I'm flattered. Don't you think the Princesses stand a chance?”

The Doctor considered his opponent's words. They contributed to his theory that Blackpool was not always as he appeared. “Oh but they trust me completely. Blackpool, I warn you, if you do not surrender, I will have to stop you.”

“You can't stop me. You're just a pony. Live, prey.” The narrow slits became twin arcs of amusement. “This is as fun as he promised me it would be.”

Polite, but none too bright. Probably young, as well. “Fun because you've never frightened anyone before?”

“How do you know that? That was rude! Bah, if I think about it, I know you don't care. I'm a monster, you'll kill me. That's what he said. All I have to do is eat you before you can stop me.” He was drooling, generous gobs of saliva splattering on the poor unconscious Brazen Heart at his feet.

“Stop! You don't want to eat us,” The Doctor commanded. “You're not yourself.”

“Stop getting into my head! I do want to eat you! I'm very hungry. I'm a terrible, ugly thing, and I'll eat you all!” Blackpool roared, preparing to launch forward. The Doctor leaned close to Ditzy, who paid him close attention. He mouthed something at her, and she nodded.

“No need to wait,” he said, pointing his sonic screwdriver at a grey pipe and switching it on. A grating whine was heard, then an explosive release of boiling hot water blasted steaming into Blackpool's face. Catapulted into the opposite wall with a resounding thud, his large body folded into three sections, inert.

His large form began to shrink, assuming the proportions of a stocky, yet average sized earth pony. The Doctor dashed to his side and shined his sonic screwdriver at vital parts of his neck and head. He stopped, sharing a relieved sigh with Ditzy.

“Doctor, that's one of Luna's guards! He's badly injured,” she said of the scars all long his side.

“Shattering Blight was once a very formidable genetic engineer. Well, he wasn't known as Shattering Blight then. He was called Jesper Vallade. You wouldn't know that name, but this confirms the rumors about him. He's gloved his hands in the blood wrung from many souls. Hands, when he had them, not hooves. Looks like this is the most devilish of his work, though. Knows a few things about time and dimension travel, too. Thought he had no ship, but he's here, and that means he's got one. Got to find it!”

Ditzy glared at him, annoyed by his driftiness. “I said 'he's badly injured'!”

“Nonsense. Look at those. They're scars. Savage healing, but fast. Take more than an arrow through the heart to take him down. Oh never mind. He's a mess, I'm sorry, Der-” he paused, accepting the sharp regard of his companion. “Ditzy, yes. Of course. Anyway, he's got something of a Jeykl and Hyde syndrome now, poor fellow.”

Ditzy exhaled sympathetically. “Isn't there anything we can do for him?”

“No, but magic might help. Your Princess Celestia has a healing horn, hasn't she? Worth a try. Oh, there we go, Brazen's coming 'round.”

Ditzy was quick to his aid, finding that he had only minor bruises. He got to his hooves with just a stagger while she explained to him what had happened. The Doctor had returned to Blight's scientific equipment, meanwhile.

“Thank you Ditzy. You've a very gentle hoof,” he grunted. “That brute snuck up behind me, don't know how he did. Must have been four heads taller than me. I don't get it, he could have snapped my neck, but he didn't even dent my helmet. Now... wait. Bumble? Yes! That's him! Oh shards he looks a mess.”

“What? He said his name was Blackpool,” she responded quizzically.

“Yes! Bumble Blackpool. Don't tell him I told you his first name. He doesn't like anyone to know. Doesn't jibe with his image,” Brazen chuckled. “He's got to be scary and impressive for Princess Luna. It's in the job description.”

“Ah, so here's where he went.” Ditzy and Brazen swivelled toward The Doctor, half behind a white machine resembling a dishwasher.

“Where who went?”

“Forelock Holmes,” Ditzy explained. “What have you found, Doctor?”

He stepped back asked for assistance moving the machine aside. One good shove sent the unit halfway across the room. It was on wheels. The Doctor grinned unabashedly. “Fancy that. Wheels. Anyway, look at that passageway. Holmes must have deduced its purpose. Ditzy, will you stay with Brazen? I'm going to follow him.”

“Oh no you're not! Not alone! Brazen can take care of Bumble,” she retorted, stomping a hoof. “Forelock's not in any danger. If he is, why not send Brazen, anyway?”

“Oh you're going to be some trouble about this, are you? We're no closer to-”

“Hello.” The Doctor, Ditzy and Brazen sucked wind, eyes drawn to the pony-sized passage, aforementioned. Forelock Holmes dominated the opening, glowering expectantly at the party. “I see you've not followed me, but there's no reason to now. Whatever was in the room at the other end of this tunnel is long departed.”

“Not far, is it,” The Doctor queried.

“Just a trot. Care to see?”

“No time like the present. After you.”

Ditzy sighed. “I'll stay with Brazen and Bumble.”

“That's a good filly. We'll be right back.”

Ditzy blinked, annoyed, but not absolutely certain which of the two had spoken, not that it mattered. With that resolved, the pair disappeared into the circular tunnel. Ditzy returned to Bumble's side. “I wonder if he'll turn back into that monster when he wakes up.”

“Probably. Do you want to find out? We'd probably better get a healing pony. I'll contact Luna.” Ditzy watched as Brazen closed his eyes, brow creasing with effort. Momentarily distress crept into his features. “Something's wrong. I can't reach her.”

“Why not?” she bleated, not quite hearing him. Bumble's shallow breathing concerned her.

“I don't know! It's like she's not there!”

The Doctor carried his sonic screwdriver in his mouth, occasionally shining it at suspicious puddles and leaks in the tunnel walls. The metal was nothing like he had seen in Equestria before, having a manufactured appearance with a two-tone cross hatched texture and blue colorization. This continued into the space that opened at the opposite end, a featureless rectangular room designed to conceal its true purpose.

“So now we're here, what does Blight want us to find?” Forelock Holmes observed.

“Agreed. I don't believe he was too weak to undo his work and leave this here for us.” The Doctor nodded at Forelock. Scanning the walls was tedious, but even seamless walls had their secrets. The sonics' wavelength increased pitch at an eye level portion of wall. “Bingo.”

Another concentrated burst of energy from the sonic screwdriver caused a section of the wall to recede in all directions at once, revealing a square computer interface screen. Pictured were numerous points of multicoloured light, darkened in the middle by a circle pulsing from black to faint blue.

Forelock regarded the image, not comprehending the technology, but in turn not questioning it. The patterns upon the surface of the sphere were familiar ... “The moon. Doctor, that's our moon.”

“Yes it is, Forelock, and it looks like it's dying.”

Author's Note

Again, minor revisions as I'm sewing up this tale. About dern-sock time, wouldn't ya say?

Chapter Five: The Whispered War

Changelings. Discord's parting gift to Equestria. Encased in stone for the interest and amusement of fillies, his rule had once spanned millennium. His realm was not to be wiped away so easily, even by the Elements of Harmony as wielded by the Princesses Celestia and Luna.

Their power, insurmountable, came to naught against the might of one young Changeling's will. While unnamed, thousands rallied to her side, dark of coat and smouldering of eye. Sheltered in the influence of her hatred of all light and good, Chrysalis found her voice and the aid of a young colt who had fallen in love with her.

Drawing incomparable strength from his devotion, she lead her people to victory on the shores of Gaitswain Lake. An early Equestrian settlement unprepared for a literal swarm of green winged Changelings. Yet, Chrysalis was hesitant to rely on force as her sole means of victory.

She had discovered that many of her kin could imitate the appearance, voice, and manner of 'the Equestrian' enemy. Biding her time, she dispatched those with sufficient talent to acquire allies by deception and other trickery.

Weaken the town and dwindle their numbers, she commanded.

In the autumn chill, the ponies of Gaitswain struggled to store food and hunker down for the harsh cold. Not days before the attack many loved ones had disappeared, softening the resolve of the townsfolk and burning away their morale. Chrysalis ordered the attack.

The sea-side town fell quickly to the unexpected assault, one late day in the middle of September. Swift as a tornado and brutal as a tsunami, all but Chrysalis' own love was ruined, sprawled out on the charred landscape. By morning it was over. Nopony learned of Gaitswain's fall, for visitors could not distinguish a Changeling enemy from ally by appearance alone. Damage to the town was easily blamed on local weather and the foalish stallion who believed he was the portent.

'I'll do it, you can't stop me! I'm gonna press it!'

The charade continued while the Changelings fared the winter with ease, storing reserves and preparing larger conquests. During the warmer months, they bewitched the hearts of more ponies come from afar as tourists and vacationers. Chrysalis rejoiced as her magic increased and the enemy swayed to her whim. Then she made a fatal mistake: She turned her beloved away. His guilty conscience had arisen and he had no desire to be a part of her designs for Equestria.

Betrayed and heartbroken, Grave Livingstone fled to Canterlot. His voice cried warning throughout the city, and Celestia's ear was pricked. She had him brought to her throne room and entertained his every word, for she recognized the spawn of Discord's vengeance. However, evidence had to be provided before she could mobilize her forces and face the consequence of panic spread throughout Equestria.

The peace of the land was not to be broken on the word of a lone, likely unstable, colt. Unfortunately, while Celestia brooded over her next move, the Changelings struck Ponyville. Her response was swift:

'To war.'

Her commands were clear as the midday sky: Under the cover of night, her greatest warriors departed Canterlot with all due haste to fend off the attack. All care was taken to ensure that knowledge of the event was kept to a minimum. A sphere of silence was erected over the battlefield, and a visual barrier to prevent others from becoming involved. Quietly, talented ponies from around Equestria were drafted into the defence force.

Fortunately Ponyville had an ace up its sleeve; the Patriarch of the Apple family. He spotted the incoming Changeling forces and with his family rallied every able bodied colt to defend their home town. If not for this, Ponyville would certainly have been razed to the ground. Then, reinforcements from Canterlot turned the tide and pushed the Changelings beyond the borders of the Everfree Forest.

Fort Shatterhoof was built in the subsequent months shortly after the camps were organized. Its name described the terrible, gritty circumstances in which the fort was constructed and the near ruin of the survivors-become-heros. The Changelings continued to fight, hindered but uninterested in anything less than 'absolute destruction'. Little in those times was understood about Changelings, but if they could not be stopped, then Equestria itself could be consumed.

The irony of the Changeling homelands was that they existed on a solitary island with but a narrow bridge of land for mainland access. While the Changelings could fly, their range was limited. Chrysalis, then crowned Queen of the Changelings, had lost her greatest source of power. To satisfy her pride, she gave Grave the title 'The Living Tombstone' as a callous tribute.

The sheer numbers of the Changelings became their sole threat. Once across the land bridge, they were simply too numerous to repel. The alternative was to barricade them just outside of the Everfree Forest and contain their assaults at the Fort.

As the years wore on, Fort Shatterhoof became Celestia's insurance policy on the peace of her country. Ponyville swore to provide the warriors, and quietly bore the strain of the prolonged conflict and the price it demanded:

Complete silence.

“So t' this day, nary a soul knows 'bout th' Whispered War.”

Doctor John Trotson had never heard such a wild tale. The dual toned, green maned and coated pony grinning at him portraying an unlikely evidence of fact. Of course, the salt they had consumed made everything seem unlikely. Slouched over a table, John lifted his head, squared his shoulders and ordered two tall glasses of water.

Fun's over. How does this 'Whispered War' connect to the threat against Princess Luna? Sun knows I took all this time to find this place, John thought, then gave a great belch. Forelock, what are you thinking, sending me here?

“Aw, that all? Sum kin'a light'oof, 're ya?” grunted John's companion. The basement suite of the Prancing Pony was stuffy and dry, not to mention nearly unoccupied but for five ponies. John shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind.

The tink of glass on the thickly lacquered table afforded him an opportunity to replenish vital fluids and lucidity of thought. Gradually an awareness of the time of day piqued his annoyance at having wasted so many tens of minutes on so useless a lead.

Rubbish, Forelock could make sense of this. “I was told you had answers, not tales,” John snorted skeptically. “You've wasted my time. I'll pay the bill and be on my way.”

“Hay, wait. Don't go. Sit,” pleaded the colt. “Forelock's a friend. Made 'im a promise, I did.”

“I'm listening, Glaze. Talk to me,” John replied in measured way that made the colt consider his words. Forelock has many unlikely contacts. As unlikely as that yarn he just spun me.

Glaze scanned the room for ears angled at them. There were none. Two at the table in the far corner appeared immersed in a game of two-hoof rookie, speaking moderately about inane topics such as loans and mortgages. Taking mental note of this, John leaned forward, pressing this pigeon for his feed.

“Either you've got a word for me, or I trot.”

Glaring at the challenge, Glaze's hard expression softened. “I see. 'What ya got' is it? Ears forward, friend. Do y' gander th' enemies of the twins? Not a week goes by wi'out a threat 'gainst summit 'r other up in the 'lot. Se'ret service churns the butter 'n flattens the hay, y'get me?”

“I'm thankful I understand your rough accent,” John muttered miserably. “All right, so what?”

“Tell me ya s'pose they've no wind of 'em. Camon, my coltish. The royal-eh, fillies have 'em all pinned. Dissidents 're eared for corn an' eyed for th' needle.” His slip of 'royal' momentarily attracted unwelcome ears, but following with nonsensical banter cooled any curiosity. The colt took a swig of water to widen the gap. “This 'uns knot on their rope. Got it? They'd no wind, fair or foul. Old anger, right? Old as the whisper.”

Instantly John understood what he suggested. “Your word's not enough. It was a long time ago, if what you're saying is true.”

“Yeh? Vallade's no mystery, no, not by any stretch. He's old'r 'n time. May be 'e's not from 'round 'ere, as folks are like t'say. Known well 'mong circles, 'specially when risky bits 're up 'n th' air,” he grinned, something more serious, almost dangerous. “What risk y' think the twins'll take t'break the silence? Won't let it happen, mark ya that. Mark ya. Risky bits is fair game in anytown. Good business fo' a savvy bloke.”

He is right, and the pieces just fit nicely, but what were the ends to the means? John raised his rear and reached into a pony pocket for some bits. “Thank you. You've been some help.”

“Oh,” chuckled the colt. “That ain' all. Colt-o, 'ave I got a site for your pie-dyed-eyes. A place, mind ya now. A place for a look-see.”

“Right then, we'd better hoof it without delay.”

As John Trotson laid out the bits for the salt and water, following Glaze out of the establishment, he was not surprised to hear the sound of two sets of hooves ending their repast, as well. A tickle along the back of his neck promised lots of excitement ahead. The shoulder sheath for his Sig Sorrel fit snugly under his shooting coat, and he was glad for it.

Glaze travelled casually, minding the midday afternoon sky with enough attention to interest John. They wove quickly through the main thoroughfare of Ponyville to a small cottage on the border of the Everfree Forest. A chill breeze wafted from the intimidating, ageless trees. Glaze chuckled again, that dangerous little noise he'd made back in the Prancing Pony.

Fluttershy lives here, Trotson noted, recognizing from photographs the red abode and the many animal habitats she kept. Glaze was half over a hill before he realized John had stopped following.

“Oy! Camon!” he snapped. “She's not 'ere. What ya figure they're all doin' the night o' the Gala, wit royal invites? What'm I tellin' ya for? You came 'ere from Canterlot, anyhow. Quit yer lollygaggin'.”

No, that's not it. That's not why I stopped, but... he sighed at having his train of thought broken. “A moment, Glaze. Something isn't right here.”

Glaze 'tsked' and scraped impatiently at the dirt. “Those thugs 're not far. Got 'em lost an' you'll be pleased for it. Won't take 'm long t' figure what we're about, will it?”

“They know where we're going?” John wondered.

“They're Vallade's colts. 'Course they know.”

“So they are his thugs. I've a mind to wonder now where you're taking us,” John began cautiously. “But I know you'll not answer that.” What he had noticed sprang to mind: None of Fluttershy's animals are here.

His meandering trail passed through some hedges, as if just to ruffle John's mane, and over a narrow hill into a winding stand of saplings. Inside this was a strange looking door, attached to nothing. No, attached to air by some means he could not perceive, maybe not even understand. The silvery-blue affair had no hinges and stood as though rooted to the earth. Cursory examination revealed that it was not.

It's not thick enough to balance upright, and there are no strings from which it might be hung. Is it magic? John's curiosity was piqued. Glaze's knowledge was proving to be worthwhile.

“Only one way in. We gots t'make ourselfs like we got scared'n gone. Can't get that door t'budge, not with any skill ponies employ,” Glaze provided courteously.

“So that's why you said there are rumours of him not being from here.” John listened for sign of Vallade's colts, but heard nothing. Inky blackness stormed in his guts. Something's wrong. They're not following.

The door opened.

“The 'ell!” Glaze cried, startled.

“The what?” John was interested in his language, which told him much about his character that intelligent conversation did not. What little intelligence there was, at this rate.

“Bell. The 'bell'. Bells of Fort Shatterhoof. Camon. Let's in with us.”

“Ah, of course. You first.”

John peered into the doorway which Glaze entered calmly. Somehow this was not reassuring. John followed, nonetheless. The room was a dome, red lit with black beams connecting at the ceiling providing a sense of structure. In the center was a white circle, to which his eye immediately was drawn. John suppressed a nervous shudder.

“What do you mean by 'bells of Fort Shatterhoof'?” Conversation was the surest measure to stem the unease of the strange environment.

“Chrysalis, 'fore she was Queen, ran up a shroud o' darkness. Clouds like a storm. Couldn't turn hair nor hide t' tell where the Changelings'd 'tack next, yeh? Skill a' hers she figured'd waylay us, waitin' on the fields 'fore her t' hit us.” Glaze was rambling against his own nerves, accent so thick John scarcely understood him. “Then come young'n with a trick, clever stallion. Summit Crier. Yeh. Summit found a bell breaks their control of weather. Who cares how he figured it? General Starshade plunked a big ol' bell up in a tower, had it built so it rang every hour. Called th' bell 'Stormcracker'. Once Chrysalis twigged we got her trick, we eased up, but when y' heard the 'clang clang' y'knew a legion o' Changelin's was on us.”

“You fought? You were there?”

Glaze grinned again, sorrow sheltered in his eyes. “Long time ago, t'was. Nopony carries away memories from th' fightin', John. I'm sorry.”

“What?” John's body tensed, the inky black unfaded in his gut. The threat had not abated.

“Doctor John Trotson. Esteemed ally of Forelock Holmes,” echoed a voice from somewhere in the dark. “Welcome to my home in space.”

“Oh, ponyfeathers,” John breathed.

Author's Note

If the reference wasn't any more obvious, it struck me to nail in the connection to The Livingtombstone's song, September. Hopefully not hammering too hard. It was risky, but Changelings are interesting to me...

And yes, I love me some thick accents. At least Glaze knows what he's ramblin' about...

Chapter Six: Uniconformity

Doctor Whooves set his ally with determination. Forelock studied the shadow veiled moon compulsively, memorizing its every feature. He spoke without regarding the Doctor. “I've a sudden need to talk to Vallade.”

“Was it before the genetic manipulation of Blackpool, or after? What time we thought we had is gone.”

Forelock straightened, stock still. “And what time did you think we had?”

Without ado of any kind, they trotted back through the corridor into the basement which was Vallade's base of operations. Ditzy and Brazen awaited them. Blackpool was gone.

“What's become of Blackpool?” Forelock asked, leading the group upstairs.

“They've taken him to Dr. Stickerbrush,” Brazen supplied. “Where are we going?”

“Take us to where Vallade's being kept,” the Doctor ordered. Ditzy blinked in amazement. Such strong personalities, but they were like two sides of the same coin. Was it possible they could get along so easily?

In the time she had to ponder this, they traversed a passage underneath the main concourse into a rock hewn visitor's quarters. By ancient standards the room was comfortable, warm, clean and spacious. Vallade lay dozing on a padded feather bed, no worse than he proclaimed.

“Cold water! A colt – a colt! What I am now! Wants a cold draught! Too much, is it?” he wailed, voice clear and strong for his apparent starvation. “I'll have my drink, I shall, and ...”

Brazen halted, having taken the lead, but Vallade's white eyes sheared right through him. Though he could not see who followed in the darkness, he grinned out of a venomous sense of satisfaction. The group spread out as they reached the bottom of the path to the steel barred guest room door.

“They can't stand me. I yell at the top of this shrill voice just to entertain myself,” Vallade rumbled amiably. “What entertainment you ponies provide ... is positively without end.”

“They don't know you,” the Doctor. “I've told them of you, but you've changed.”

“Of course I've changed you dolt. I'm a pony! So are you. What causality did we offend? Which of the fine wonders did we cross?”

“I don't have an answer for that. Though it is one of the few commonalities between us. Vallade, that isn't why I'm here,” the Doctor took a firm grip on his patience. “We met Blackpool.”

“Ah, the Bumbler. How is he? Dead?”

“Jerk...” Ditzy whispered.

“Oh no, pretty mare. He pursued me. I granted his wish! I am the miracle bringer.”

“He's not dead!” Ditzy snapped, rapidly wresting control of her temper. “We'll help him. Whatever you did we'll protect him.”

“The Valiant,” Vallade drawled. “Her appeal ever increases.”

“Enough, Jesper. Tell me why you laid claim to Luna's crown,” the Doctor spoke with grave authority, such as Ditzy had never heard even in Celestia's voice.

“Foals. I won't die now. I've won the day. You're even feeding me. Would you tip your hand?”

“Don't... presume it is your choice when we see your every card,” Forelock asserted. “You've made no stake on the title, that is clear. A flashy bow on the tail to conceal a poison tipped knife at the haunch. It was quite dramatic.”

Vallade's eyes momentarily locked with Forelock's. “Was it?”

“Celestia took notice of a fly. Somehow, in a way I don't understand, you have set about the task of taking the moon for your own.”

“Curiosities abound in the company of a Time Pony,” Vallade commented glibly.

“Of course! Your ship is in orbit, isn't it? You'd launched it well in advance of our arrival. One step ahead of us, very clever. Won't take long to locate it now.”

“We are all foals, the oldest, the youngest. So impassioned by wit brooding that we overlook shallow pools at our hooves.” Vallade's expression at once mild clenched with malice. Brazen, suffused by the intensity of his eyes, remembered something with a cold vapor in his soul.

“Princess Luna!”

“What?” declared the Doctor, whirling toward him. “What about her?”

“I can't communicate with her. Oh, it's a thing we do...” Brazen related sheepishly.

“You mean a two-way sympathetic telepathic link? Camon, we'd best hurry on if we're to discover why.”

“Doctor! You won't ask Vallade?” Ditzy demanded.

“No. We've no time, De ... Ditzy. None at all. Haste is our only recourse now.”

Emergency training and planning was an integral part of all guard operations, and thus when Celestia put out the order, she had only to add the code of silence to ensure calm during the Galloping Gala. Luna was not expected to make an appearance during the event, and never had. The only event of interest to her, Nightmare Night, had passed with the successful while unplanned influence of Twilight Sparkle and friends.

Thankfully when the order was put into effect, it was still daylight. Nopony would notice that the moon was fading away. Celestia's previous stewardship of the moon made manifest the change in her consciousness. This naturally led to checking on the welfare of her sister. She was not doing well.

“Dr. Stickerbrush? Who summoned you?” Celestia requested of the grey-maned, silver coated unicorn.

Carstone Stickerbrush's lips thinned against his teeth, a moment of empathy belaying his veneer of clinical calm. The light but cool cotton white coat he wore rustled softly as moved away from Luna's bed to stand before her.

“I've a special case, just settled this afternoon. Now your sister pales and looks as though to fade away. No magic I understand can explain it. Perhaps your healing horn can lend some aid. Her condition is stable, for the present time.”

And what is 'stable'? Celestia was not wont to waste words, pushing through the large double doors of her sister's bedchambers where she lay a ghostly shadow on violet silk sheets. Carstone followed behind, habit lightening his hooffalls so as not to be intrusive. To Celestia's dismay, her shadow passed through Luna's mostly transparent body.

Celestia lowered her glowing horn and concentrated, staving off all unwanted mental distractions. At first she felt very little of her sister's sombre warmth. Remembering the words of her father, that the desire of ones heart shaped the reality of ones magic, caused her to draw on that presence and encourage it to be strong:

You are no longer alone, my sister. Wake your heart, raise your head. You are needed to illuminate the night.

Tia? Issued a faint psychic voice, a faint utterance of Luna's consciousness. Immediate tears sprang as a surge of energy began to feed back, and Celestia opened her eyes. Luna's dark eyes locked on Celestia, who smiled. “Tia...”

Celestia suppressed the wild jolt of shock that coursed through her being. Normally vibrant and defiant, her voice was a mere echo, a projected shadow of her hollow being.

“I am here, Luna.” Doctor, where are you?

“Not too late...” stated a voice as if in answer to her request. The Doctor and Forelock Holmes trotted directly to Luna's bedside, all manner be hanged. “Oh dear. Stupid Doctor. Why couldn't I have seen this? Oh ... stupid Doctor!”

Princess Celestia was beside herself, but inwardly relieved as well. Restraining her frustration required much effort, and what would have shaken Luna's bed merely rattled her clenched teeth as her hoof fell. The Doctor seemed keen to her restraint.

“If you have some knowledge of the cause of my sister's condition, tell me. Or better yet, have it done away with! We have precious little time, Doctor,” Celestia stated out of increasing anxiety.

“Oh I know the cause. The mystery's nearly ended, Princess. Time is not a worry for a Time Lord. It's rather my territory, and I will be so bold.” Boldly rambling, he thought, but such was his manner in a crisis.

“Then I will ask you to be exact, Doctor. My sister is fading away before my very eyes. No power I possess can save her. Do you know how I must feel?”

“No, I cannot know your heart. But I do know loss.” Sympathy entered the Doctor's steely calm. “Stars are the light of celestial bodies, many long passed, scattered into particles across the cosmos. Hers is not so far from us. Not yet. Not yet!”

For a moment she was quiet, deciding how to respond to this. Then: “We are agreed?”

“Yes, we are,” the Doctor replied, curt as directed. “Jesper Vallade, the pony I described to you earlier, has a ship, his transport, parked in orbit, observing the moon. His letter to Luna was a threat against the moon, not the body or crown of the Princess. He means to take it. You see, he is a planet eater. Planet eater... Blimey. I suppose that phrase will have to do. How vile.”

“A what?” Celestia whinnied, aghast.

“There is not time for me to explain, but he converts the matter of planets into energy he can use for his own purposes.”
“So that explains the view of the moon during daylight,” Forelock seemed likewise emboldened by his observations. “He's planned more than that. He means to consume our planet.”

The Doctor nodded emphatically. “He can't challenge both Princesses, or the Elements of Harmony.”

“The Elements of Harmony were never intended to protect the moon. Only Twilight Sparkle and her friends could make that possible, if indeed it was,” Celestia replied. “Without them you are suggesting that I cannot protect us from his designs?”

“No. How would you do it? He is detained, Highness. Clearly this ship of his is the problem.”

“His ship ... Yes, that is the problem, isn't it? We've no means of reaching it. Though how he launched it without anyone noticing is a wonder. Of all the times not to have access to the TARDIS. How might I locate it?”

“Locate what, Doctor?” Ditzy seemed to ask the obvious question. “The TARDIS?”

“Nonsense. We left her in the garden,” he replied.

“Oh, right.”

“I'm going to need access to Vallade's ship.” Celestia, as with Carstone, Luna and Forelock, made little sense of his rant. The Doctor had a thought and boldly possessed Celestia's gaze. “You are the ruler of the day. You have an awareness of the sun's progression through the sky, and I'm to understand it is yours to command. Can you also see other celestial bodies?”

“If I look in a mirror I can see mine,” she chuckled. “Ah, but I do understand what you ask. So long as the sun hangs in the sky everything that flies is within my view. You will tell me what I am seeking.”

“Yes, yes.” The Doctor had already pondered this question. “It is a queer machine, very like the TARDIS, but I regret that we cannot know its shape or appearance. I can only hope it is not hidden with technology. If Vallade had time, that is—”

“Doctor!” she snapped. “A machine? Of what sort?”

“Princess ...”

Forelock stepped forward, catching the Doctor's eye. “It is not unlike a clock tower, Princess Celestia. To you it would feel like a star, with much power radiating from it,” Forelock supplied rapidly.

“Yes!” The Doctor agreed energetically. “That's the very thing. Please, try!”

“You've no need to ask, Doctor,” she bit back. Again she lowered her head and concentrated, exploring in her mind the sky with which she was so familiar. A yellow aura coalesced around her horn. Quickly she passed into her sister's territory, the portion of the planet veiled by the cloak of night, and as though swimming through water she began to take stock of one strange object.
This object had the shape of a three pronged star, and it hung at an odd angle. How can it be floating in such a fashion? “Doctor, I've found something. A three pointed object just outside of my grasp.”

“Your grasp?”

Celestia's mane rippled sharply, eyes flashing with an amber hue. “I would tear it down out of the sky, Doctor! I will not suffer this trespass upon my sister!”

“This is no time to question the powers of our ruler supreme, Doctor,” Forelock intoned at him. “We've no real notion of her capacity.”

“It is her right,” the Time Lord conceded. “Will you give us time, Princess?”

“You have time now!” she thundered.

“Right! Ditzy, we must get to the TARDIS immediately. Princess, where is Summer Shire?”

“I am going to face Vallade.”

“That's not ... that could be a problem, your Highness.” Ditzy felt the tension between them, and knew the Doctor did not want to endanger her. “If you abandon the Gala Vallade will obtain the chaos he seeks to usurp your power and this entire planet. Luna is stable but extremely fragile. Should she turn for the worse only you can assist her. I know Vallade. I won't let him win. My life is yours.”

Celestia stared at him. Does he truly feel such a thrill from reckless chivalry? No, he is not so easily understood. His expression, his aura, did not portray a single emotion. Memories dawned, past sacrifices recalled, and her trust resurfaced. Like her, he was a being of eternal depths.

“This is admirable bravery, Doctor, but know they are mere words.”

The Doctor bowed his head but did not break eye contact with her, his wordless contract. “They will have to suffice. When our time comes, we cannot argue. A pebble has no say against an avalanche.”

“Nor the flower in the dark. How wise a thing to say. Doctor, I ask you one thing.”

The Doctor tilted his head inquisitively.

“Be swift.”

“As you wish.”

Author's Note

This was a tough chapter to write. Forelock standing up to Luna seemed casual, easy, relaxed, but when the Doctor challenged Celestia for the right to justice, it was another matter entirely. Yes, there IS a reference to Babylon 5 in this chapter, kudos to those to recognize it.

Chapter Seven: Who Will Be Best Pony?

Vallade said I'm pretty, Ditzy thought sullenly. Just like Dinky does. Why did he say that? Ditzy understood that love motivated her daughters' sweet words. Associating Vallade with that notion filled her with dread. Of all the recent regrets, foremost was the nature of The Doctor's request:

“I need you to do this.”

Hurt, betrayed and confused. Ditzy had wanted to pull away from The Doctor's hooves on her shoulders. When had he mastered such a firm grip?

“Why? Why?” It was all she could think to ask.

“There is a very dangerous man out in that ballroom, Ditzy. I need somepony in there I can trust! You are that mare! Come on, you know what we've been though. You've helped me before. Won't you help me again?”

“But ... my dress ...”

“I am sorry about the dress. I am sorry about everything, but Vallade will do worse than Nightmare Moon. More than darkness, he'll consume the Moon and us with it. We are all going to die.”

“I don't care.” Sullen, hurt and a little foal, weeping, head buried in blanket.

“What?”

“I don't, I don't! Why should I? How can I help? Why should...” I care when I'm so miserable over you? Her heart echoed the strike of memory, but bitterly. Instantly this faded, replaced by a desire she knew well: Nurture. “Doctor, because you asked me. I'll go.” You foal, it hurts me, but ... “I'll go. Stupid dress. Stupid gala!”

“Thank you.”' Ditzy Doo half-galloped out of the room, unable to understand The Doctor's complex heart. He watched her, starlight reaches of sympathy trailing after. He murmured, “I truly am, sorry.”

The Gala preparations had been proceeding as ordered by the Princess and organized by her guard, requiring minimal interaction and guidance. The royal staff was competent, most teeming the joy in service, others proud and regal. Of one fact Celestia could be certain: It would be a night to remember. In the furor of the threat, it was to her regret that she was whisked away to greet every attendee, unable to remain by her beloved sister in time of need.

How it must hurt the Princess, Ditzy thought. I am sorry for her. I really am. A side exit presented the long line of Gala-goers, brushing their hooves on the pavement as far back as the palace bridge. Ditzy gaped, but as she did another thought entered her mind: Who would know? The Doctor said I should be where he needs me! And I will.

She flitted back into the palace and through the halls, memory guiding her back to the garden where the TARDIS was parked. Nopony questioned her, and guards did not give her a second glance. She was the trusted companion of a Knight of the Realm, after all.

In the beautifully maintained garden square sat proudly the mysterious blue box, magnificent in the moonlight. Excitedly she trotted up to it, and then stopped, inches from its locked door. Tears flowed easily, head bowed forward with a thud.

“What was I thinking?” she muttered, voice wracked with despair. “He doesn't love ponies. He's a human-is-was-whatever. He's a Time Lord! I'm so stupid. Just ... stupid. How could I have thought he'd love me?”

Her shoulders shook with the tension of her sobs. “Why do you always screw things up – 'DERPY'?” she railed, lips curling back as she ground her teeth.

Click.

Her head dropped, no longer supported by the rigid door. Head lifted, yellow-gold eyes examined the gap, unbelieving. It was open! How? Was the TARDIS really alive? Shaking a little she wiped her eyes with her forehoof. “Maybe ... you understand me, a bit?” Ditzy whispered. “He is a blockhead, but we're stuck in love with him.”

Ditzy trotted to her room where the dress lay, placed carefully on her bed, exactly where she left it. She took care not to rush, minding the necessity of a proper fit. Being alone made it awkward to get her wings in, but with caution she could avoid undue strain.

Once done she took a moment to admire the fine outfit in the narrow, standing mirror. The Doctor's words spurred her to leave the TARDIS, though they had been none-too clear. At the door of the TARDIS, Ditzy beheld The Doctor's silent ward and protector. “I'll protect him. I promise. Oh I will.”

She turned and drew the door closed and headed back toward the ballroom at a gallop. Two, three hallways and not a soul to be seen. Why was there a bitter tasting mist in the air? Where had everypony gone? Uncertainty gripped her.

Something's wrong. Really, really wrong. I can't hear anypony around! Where's the ballroom? Where am I? Ditzy was not the detail oriented sort, and had not noticed the change of atmosphere. Hoof clicks echoed behind her.

“All dressed up and nopony to dance with. Oh ... what a vision you are,” intoned that voice.

Ditzy turned with a protective snarl. “Vallade.”

“Blight. Shattering Blight,” he drawled, eyes half lidded. “Does the Doctor know you're wearing that? You're a rare one. Yes, but not really. Rare for this place, but not rare for one of his companions.”

Ditzy unfurled her wings, half crouched. “W-what do you mean?”

“Oh he hasn't told you about his past companions. I wouldn't. For such a noble beast, half-man, half-lord of ruins. He does omit so many facts. Facts I know. Facts I'd share ... with you.”

“You can't trick me, Vallade.” She knew almost nothing, except that he threatened The Doctor. Nothing threatened The Doctor. Nothing that wanted to live. “You can't hurt me.”

“Blight!” he flared, but calmed almost instantly. “Now look young mare. It's 'mare'?”

“It's...uh, yes it is,” she replied, confused.

“Hurt you? Nonsense. Now, 'Blight' is a sensible a name for anypony. Discord? Nightmare Moon? Stage names. 'Shattering Blight' is my stage name. It purses your lips in a pleasing way when you say it. Say it again.”

He's not just flirting. He's in love with me! Ditzy thought, befuddled by this dilemma. No, no, that makes no sense. It's not possible.

“By no means have I any desire to feed on you. You are the kind, the very kind kind. You want to help, the valiant aide, honorable heart and giving mother. You've tried so hard to help your friends, and not friends. Look at you, you have scars from the effort you've selflessly given to them, and they've not showed you any gratitude. Not. One. Bit.”

She squinted at him, the tension in her body sapping gradually. It's like Forelock. How does he know?

“Why do you always talk to me like that?” Ditzy snorted, putting up a valiant effort to maintain her mistrust. It wasn't succeeding very well.

“Pray tell.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Talk to you 'like what'?”

“Nicely.”

He grinned something quite unsavoury. “I do, don't I. I do it because you're unique. Like me.”

She shook her head. The handwriting didn't match the signature. He was speaking like another pony that wasn't ... him. Did he mean that being a pony was some kind of performance to him? His logic made her brain ache. “No, no, no! I don't eat planets! I don't hurt ponies! I don't threaten the people who help me!”

“But you do. You threaten everypony around you. You step on their hooves, you break their buildings, you smash their belongings. You destroy their worlds. Ditzy Doo, you are the most beautiful pony I have ever met. I want you to be my wife.”

Ditzy went blank, her pupils black dots floating in the white static of her eyes. “What?”

Dr. John Trotson lowered his eyes, angling his head to the left shoulder, where the holster for his weapon lay concealed under the thick leather of his coat. Apparently he had not understood. Glaze was a delivery pony, not an accomplice, yet it was unclear the role he played.

What had he meant by 'Nopony carries away memories from th' fightin', John'?

“I'll forgive the intrusion, naturally. Yours was not company I had anticipated.”

“That doesn't sound right to me. Your friend invited me in,” John stated coolly. “I have better things to do, I could just leave.”

“I can't allow that. Your friend is very much my opponent, and I need to constrain him. Oh, I promise I won't harm you. I have no reason to.”

“So who are ... you, exactly?”

“Doctor John Trotson, you came looking for me. Here I am, so won't you tarry a while?” stated the concealed voice behind a wall of shadow. “You tease me.”

“I do not. I don't even know if you're my type,” he laughed half-heartedly. “Honestly I can't tell if you're a stallion or a mare. Your voice keeps changing pitch,” John Trotson remarked, feigning wit. Holmes is much better in these situations.

Immediately the colt's expression darkened. “Glaze.” The green toned pony gestured mutely at himself. “YES.” You tottering imbecile.

“Oh. Comin',” answered the fellow briskly. Once at his side they both huddled away from Trotson's view.

“Why have you brought me this stallion? He's of no use to me. Worse he's a waste of my time,” he declared. Glaze looked offended.

“Oi gov, you tol' me the d'tective was trouble. Got you 'is mate, din't I? Job's a job, ain' it? I do ya wrong? Glaze don' do no wrong.”

The pony seemed to reflect on this explanation. “That's not Forelock Holmes, you glue-stuffed imbecile. That's Dr. John Trotson, his sharp shooting companion. You've not seen him use that Sig. If you've any sense in your head you'll not tempt him to.”

“But what gives y' that idea?”

“Shut it. He's getting antsy and now is not the time to upset the cart,” he snarled at Glaze. “For now we keep the peace. My ship's got no energy, and needs time. Time!”

“If you're not going to tell me, I'll just have to guess,” called Trotson, surprised by his own boredom. They turned to face him. “Judging by your mane and eye color, you resemble the pony described to me as Jesper Vallade.”

“It. Is. Shattering. Blight!”

Dr. Troton grinned. Right on the bit, but any foal could do that. “So it is. Shall I imagine you are the pony who threatened the Princess and the crown? Both? Neither? You were taken into custody, so I have to wonder how you are here.”

“Oi gov, he's gettin' wise ... How'd he b' knowin' that?”

John tucked away a satisfied grin. “Well, I could admit that I was following you and saw you meet Mr. Blight when he told you to find my friend Forelock. I guess can be pretty clever.”

“Shards,” Vallade cursed.

John seemed somehow taller, less ordinary, shoulder straightening, eyes daring. “That door was a pretty impressive trick. I could believe you got out. You do seem to be very well connected.”

“Not another word, Doctor,” Vallade gritted. “Glaze... I've had enough of our guest.”

A broad, dangerous smile broke out across Glaze's mouth. “You herd the gov, Doc. Time's up.”

Just then an alarm, or what John recognized as one, began bleeping and whining as reddish lights flashed. Vallade forgot John and angled his head at a screen to his left. “Core! What now!?” On the screen a white mote expanded on the horizon, clouds scampering away from the vibrant source of light. Vallade paled. “Who is that? Celestia?”

“We, 're, boned!” Glaze cried. “Gimme outta here, I want out!”

Gradually, but not gradually enough for Vallade's liking, Celestia's luminescent winged form neared his vessel. Angrily he shoved Glaze away, galloping toward a control panel. He stopped before a shower of sparks and the deft report of a gunshot. Vallade rounded on John and growled.

“What have you done?!”

“Put a hole in your plans, I hope,” he replied calmly, voice and hooves steady. “Back away from the controls. Glaze, I'll shoot you if you so much as twitch. Understand?”

“I warned you...” Vallade hissed at Glaze.

“How was I t' know?”

“Do you understand!” John repeated.

Fearfully, Glaze nodded. “Yeah I got it!”

“Now what...” Vallade groaned.

Forelock was rooted. Firmly rooted. The muttering of voices, scuffing of hooves, dragging of air through pony lungs, wisp of air at the window, distant music, burr and hum of nascent chatter in the palace ballroom like a swarm of dragonwisps teasing his ears.

“What's he doing?”

The Doctor lifted a hoof to silence the intrusion of audio. His respect for the deductive intellect of the formidable pony was demonstrated by his immediate recognition of the depth of concentration required for the delicacy of process.

Letters easily disregarded, a foe captured with no effort, a monster tamed by exhaustion. Vallade protested quite loudly in his confines, to be heard of us all. A radio network for what purpose? John missing without a trace. Glaze is trustworthy. Erratic, even unbalanced, but not dangerous.

Questions began to form. The right questions.

“Doctor, what do you know about this Vallade character?” Forelock requested briskly.

“He's not a pony. No, not at all. Rare fella, I'm afraid. Quite. Nomadic alien called the Kinsora. Vallade is a tough one, and boy I'd say a lot for their lifespan. He's probably half my age, if I figure right. For Kinsora that is old, very old. How has he lived this long? A good old fashioned mystery, unlike how he managed to land here, isn't that right? That's plain as the shoes on my hooves! I'd like to tell you what the Kinsora do that isn't like ponies, but he's modified himself. Risky business, that. Anyway, the Kinsora don't eat planets, just him. Oh but that's a trick and some, a scary tale for the fillies and faint of heart. He doesn't even eat them. Breaks them down for resources, you know, such as fuel. Brilliant. A rare mind.”

Everypony in the room had affixed an accusing eye on the Doctor for the tone of respect with which he spoke, apart from Holmes.

“And what would you say about his condition?”

“Oh, he lied. Not about the teleport, but it shifting dimensions. If he could shift dimensions, why would he stay here?”

Forelock's stern regard echoed The Doctor's assured confidence. “My thought exactly. Modifying his own body to stay here? He traveled to Equestria to get what he wants. I surmise that Blackpool has much to do with his condition. Why don't we go ask him?”

“Yes, yes, why not ...” The Doctor mused, retrieving his sonic and waving it in the air. It chirped and he grinned. “How peculiar. I appear ...” he paused and gave the sonic a whack “... to have located the source of Jesper's power.”

“You're certain?”

“Very.”

“Then he has lost,” pronounced the calm, deep tones of the victor. Forelock Holmes raised his head and cried: “Let us go!”

Author's Note

Big changes to flesh out the ending of this story, which I really have delayed for too long.

The idea of the TARDIS vicariously granting Ditzy access is just something I felt strongly about. If I were to write this in the form of a longer serial or series, I would prefer to spend more time with different events that really add emotional weight to the event.

And Vallade falling for Ditzy/Derpy? C'mon, we all love her.

Chapter Eight: A White Heart

Jesper Vallade was with the pony he most admired. It was a singular moment, slipping away like the rest of his orchestrations. Feign and wan, treasure of fawn, he thought. There is no adoration for me in those wondrously spaced pupils. I am ruined, but I will not be foiled. He sighed. With this breath and the ebbing ache of air, he felt unable to maintain the projection. “I am defeated. Ditzy, you would have enjoyed it. I would have given you everything.”

“What? Why do you say that,” she asked, uncomprehending. “I don't want anything from you.” She narrowed eyes skeptically, then lowered them. “What you said, your offer ... was very flattering.”

Vallade smiled. “That was my intent. I was smitten from the very moment first I saw you. Perhaps, then, I might be smitten again. Good bye, for now.”

For now? “Hay, wait...!”

The corridor, and Vallade, washed away as if captured by a receding flame. The empty hall was replaced by a chamber and the voices of two other ponies. Ditzy lifted her head and looked around at the storage room, stacked with bags of salt, empty wooden flasks and cheaply wrought metal plates hastily thrown on shelves of oak or tyon.

Tyon is cheaper, she thought, then wondered. Where am I? A cellar? She shifted her limbs and felt the soft air of silk upon them. My dress...

“Derpy Hooves?” rasped a nameless mare. Ditzy frowned automatically, then sighed, looking toward the lilting voice.

“Wilting Meadow?” she answered. Wilting's mane was as unlikely as her eyes: Black without a trace of highlight or color, and her pupils to match. Her grey-green body shook as she tried to move. Derpy rose uneasily but found her strength returning quickly. “Oh Wilting, are you hurt?”

“How'd you get here? Did you see the purple pony?” Wilting was so fatigued her eyes would not focus, producing an effect not dissimilar from what Vallade had called her 'quaint artifice'.

Ditzy suppressed a snigger and checked her over. “Hold still. Oh, I'm not really sure, but I don't see any swelling or broken bones. How do you feel?”

“I'd wager you're right. That crony-pony-phony didn't break nuttin' but my purse,” rambled a baritone of practised vocal skill and natural rhythm. “M-hm, m-hm. Th' pleasure is mane and yours is a gorgeous sight, Ms. Doo. Oh yeah.”

Ditzy blushed a little. The stallion seemed to be able to right himself, but collapsed after making an attempt to stand. “That makes me sad.”

“Um, thank you. I think you should stay still, um ... Who are you?”

His light grey coat contrasted his dark purple and emerald green mane, scattered carefully over clear, well meaning eyes. “Marefriend, I am from Mareshigan. Embarrassed and sad but oh-so grateful. Th' name is Bdown.”

“It's Bubble Dawn,” Wilting countered with an amused half-smile.

“That's Butter Dawn,” he snapped gently, and Ditzy giggled. “Ain' it a thing to have a name pretty as the sun? Ms. Doo-”

“Ditzy, please. I need to get some help now,” she informed him, rather bemused by his warm attitude.

“I s'ppose you do. Why dun' you let them nice coltfish up there know that there are six of us rejected souls down here? We are mighty grateful to you,” he stated in a comfortable but fading voice. “Ah think now I'll just rest a lil' bit now, if'n you don't mind?”

“No, but don't fall asleep. I think you ...” she squinted, nose inches from his face, blinked twice, then squinted again “... might have a concussion. Your pupils are dilated.”

“I think you might be right 'bout that.”

Butter aka Bdown seemed ready to let her carry on, but Wilting was more cautious. “Derpy, do you think it's safe?”

Ditzy reflected on Vallade's words. “Yes. It's safe. Blight let me go. He let us go, I mean.”

“You did see him!”

“I've got to hurry,” she said, turning away before Wilting could interpose a thought or reason to the contrary. I've really got to hurry. Those other ponies weren't breathing very well. The idea they were dead was a little much to bear.

Ditzy climbed the short flight of steps without fatigue, mindful not to catch the flow of her tresses on ensnaring plank or nail. Right to the floor, the way I like, but this ... isn't a dance floor. Where ... Ah. Okay. Judging by those crests, I'm still in the palace.

Royal guard crests did indeed en-mark the location, but the without even a salttender, Ditzy could not be sure she was safe.

“Miss?” The voice was deep and unknown to her. Attached was a stocky stallion of rose-red mane, spiked and short under golden feathered helmet and white skinned body. “Miss Hooves? Here, here she is! I've found her!”

The large stallion trotted in a manner that was taught to comfort a concerned subject. Derpy's strength left her limbs and she began to lose her balance. The stallion was swift to her side, steadying her and uttering words of comfort. Two guards poked their large heads into the doorway.

“Miss Hooves, where were you?” asked the shortest of the triad, young voice low and focused. He studied her, gauging her ponyage and all of its indicators. “You smell like salt and cider. Did you come from the cellar?”

Ditzy's head spun, but she managed a nod. “Y-ugh ... yes. Please help the ponies in there. There are six of them.”

Ditzy noted that his hair was pale blue as snow under his commander's helmet, drifting over his eyes in a romantic sway, contrasting the intense icy crystal of his eyes. He gestured with a nod toward the cellar door, which his subordinates seemed to take as a cue to action. “We'll do everything we can, Miss Hooves. Come over here and sit.”

“Brae, lend me a hoof here.”

Ditzy couldn't tell who had said that as a half dozen guards had entered the room to follow the guard commander to the cellar. “Pom will keep you safe. Wait here.”

“Yes sir, Commander Aufeis,” acknowledged 'Pom' with a stern nod. Ditzy could only echo the motion, barely steady on her own legs, leaning against a bolted down table.

Pom explained his full name was Iron Pommel and that he was an expert swordspony. Judging by the lightness of his armor and lack of scars, he was that, or an inexperienced greenhoof. His musculature and calmness seemed to suggest—Ditzy caught herself. Who'm I kidding? I'm no detective. I don't know anything about ponies, except maybe what they like to read.

Iron adopted a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

She giggled. “No. I'm not, but you're very kind to me, so I'm going to say thanks. Thanks.” What was that? He didn't offend me.

Iron seemed to understand. He smiled a comforting smile and left for a moment. When he returned he was levitating a blanket which he draped around her shoulders, wrapping so that it would not fall away. Then he sat and said nothing while Ditzy noticed that she was shivering quite a lot.

“You are in shock, Miss Hooves. Look over there. They're retrieving the victims now.”

The ponies Vallade kidnapped ... are they, are any of them ...

“Dead? I think not.”

Ditzy turned sharply, falling away from the table. Iron's rock-like build caught her once again. “Doctor!”

“Will you keep your voice down, sir? She is in a state,” Iron advised him. The Doctor huffed impatiently, but did not object. They watched quietly as the ponies in poorest condition were brought out on stretchers first. Eventually Bdown and Wilting, too, each locking eyes in gratitude with Ditzy.

“Ditzy is the mare! The! Mare! Hoo-yeh!” Bdown ejected, to which Ditzy responded with a blush.

“You made quite an impression, I see.”

Ditzy's head was clearer, and when Iron resisted, she only insisted that she was feeling much better. He was convinced when she was able to push back. “Vallade's gone, Doctor. Did we win? Is he gone?”

The Doctor's pulled-lip expression was difficult to read. “What did he say to you?”

Should I ... tell him? “He said I was like him. That we are both destructive, but then ... he suddenly,” her heart skipped a beat and she felt a rush in head. She closed her eyes.

“Take it easy, Miss Hooves,” Iron recited.

“I'm okay. He wasn't scary. He didn't frighten me. Not at all.”

The Doctor looked distracted, but she knew him, he was listening intently. A vast part of his being was among the stars, but the part that mattered to her was attentive to her heart. “Yes, my dear. I believe you. What did he say?”

“He said he was defeated.”

The Doctor pursed his lower lip and made a sound of confirmation. “He was. Celestia turned his ship into dust. Luna has recovered fully, now.”

“Oh ... wow,” she gasped. Then she remembered: “Where is Forelock?”

“With John Trotson. He was injured, but it was minor. Do you think you can walk? We could go see him?”

Ditzy rose very slowly, and then smiled. “Uh-huh. I'd like that.”

“Iron, why don't you join us.”

Celestia showed no sign of ever having attacked an alien space vessel. Not a smudge of dirt, wisp of smoke, stain of blood. Tiara unscathed upon her brow, hooves healed and body washed. Mane flowing endlessly, the pure light of her authority pouring from her being atop the throne.

John, right forehoof in cast, raised his head from a deep bow. Forelock followed suit. Celestia's aura shone over them both. “Your deeds shall never be forgotten, John Trotson, Forelock Holmes. We are in your debt.”

John seemed impressed by this, but Forelock was not so easily swayed. Eying his companion, John gave a little sigh. He was never going to change.

“Gentlecolts and fairmares, come in.” The Doctor, Ditzy Do and Iron Pommel entered the chamber. At the base of the throne they stooped, bowed, and greeted the Princess. “We are glad to see you unharmed, Miss Hooves. We understand that you confronted the villain, Jesper Vallade.”

Ditzy blanched, panicking at the thought that she was wearing her gown. Then a comforting logic settled in: It was only appropriate to be formally dressed when holding court. Then she thought: Speak you silly filly, speak! “Yes, Princess.”

Silence pervaded, but any discomfort was drained away by her confident, trusting air. “Then you are a good friend to the Doctor. Thank you.”

“Yes ... Princess. Y-you're welcome, and thank you.” How do they do it? They talk to her like she's an ordinary pony!

The Doctor lifted his head and with it his voice. “I regret that we have only trapped Jesper here, Princess. Without a ship, he is less a threat, but in a manner of speaking, he is no less a threat now.”

“What are you saying, Doctor?” Celestia eyed him with particular curiosity.

The Doctor glanced at Forelock, who inclined his head forward. “Princess, the pony we called Jesper Vallade had two bodies. He is far older than we previously understood. Using his skills in genetics manipulations, he has, over the centuries, maintained multiple bodies, constantly hedging his bets against fate. When he fought his own creation, Blackpool, he was wounded terribly.

“He was faced with the loss of a body. He proposed to distract you during the busiest event of the year: The Grand Galloping Gala. It was during this time he kidnapped ponies in an attempt to restore the strength he expended fighting Blackpool. He failed, and we recovered those ponies thanks to Miss Ditzy Do.”

Forelock gazed at Ditzy appreciatively, seeing that she better understood the importance of her actions. He continued:

“It was a two stroke feint, for it was not the crown he desired, but the moon ... or its core. With that he could restore his strength, refuel his ship and steal away with his treasure. He did not lie, no, he merely misdirected. The source of Princess Luna's strength was nearly his. Why he revealed himself, we do not understand, but having done so, we were able to sweep down and destroy every tool he created.”

“Revealed himself?” Ditzy blinked.

“Why yes. When you returned to the TARDIS, no doubt to retreive your stunning gown ...” Forelock paused. Ditzy groaned guiltily. I was hoping they didn't know that. “When you did that, my dearest mare, he transported you to his territory, hoping to win you as an ally. I surmise he held you in high esteem because of your relationship with The Doctor.”

It wasn't that relationship he wanted ... Ditzy thought sheepishly. Did Forelock not suspect in the slightest? How was that possible? He was a stallion, right?

“You refused him, and at that very moment Princess Celestia burned his ship to the ground. He was utterly defeated.”

“I don't understand ...” piped a voice. It was John. “How did the Princess know I was aboard his ship?”

Princess Celestia eased forth her subtle, hinting smile. “Friends know these things, Doctor.”

The#End

Author's Note

I have been away from this piece for too long, but the impressions I've had about finishing it have been clear, consistent and nearly insistent. All that said I am thrilled to have ... finished this piece. Maybe I was waiting for the chance to add BDouble100 to it ... it's hard to say.

Now that it's finished I'm very interested in drawing some of these ponies, especially the prettier ones like Prancing Luster. Can anypony blame me?

Oh and "shock blanket" just MIGHT be a Sherlock reference ... yeah ... heh. ^-^; Yep.

Finally, if you're wondering why he was so affectionate before and not so now, well, he is manipulative.