He had to have known. Spike knew her better than anypony else, likely even Celestia. As she opened the bedroom door, his gaze shifted to her. She saw his brow rise, but he did nothing to question her reddened eyes and instead regaled Screw Loose with an anecdote. She looked completely deaf to his words, but listened with rapt attention either way.

The alicorn shook her head. She needed to clear her mind of Celestia’s letter.

“It’s me again,” Twilight said with a wave. Screw Loose responded with a wave of her own.

What to do? What to do with a pony with such an addled mind who’d been the first in recorded history to have come back from beyond the veil? Consistently checking vitals was a given, along with issue rejection from donor organs, cellular mitosis, and a laundry list of potential health issues.

But what to do about Screw Loose’s mind?

On one hand, Twilight could help her recall the life of Screw Loose. Pictures, people, events. With time she could hold memories similar to what she had in life. On the other hand, would it be right if Screw Loose’s memories were truly and utterly blank? Morals and ethics were something that was left out of science. Technology and magic were tools. They weren’t evil; how could they be? They were only evil if used with evil intentions. Now was a decision that disregarded scientific methodology. Now was a question of morals. Who was this mare? Did she know she was Screw Loose? If she didn’t, what use was forcing an identity on the pony that she didn’t remember? Was there a mare in there that just needed to be brought to the surface or not?

The timeless question of nature versus nurture...

Twilight sat down next to Spike.

“So, how are you two doing?”

Screw Loose clapped.

“I’ve got her eating out of my hand,” Spike said. “At least someone has good taste in jokes.”

“Well, I’m glad the two or you are enjoying yourselves.”

Screw Loose grasped Twilight’s and Spike’s hands. She ran a finger along Spike’s shiny scales and then up Twilight’s palm and wrist. Twilight shuddered at the feeling of her spider-like digit tickling her skin. The patchwork mare blinked and twitched in a birdlike manner and then picked at the stitching on her arm.

“Hold on there,” Twilight chided as she held a hand on top of hers. “We don’t want you to tear your stitching.”

Patchwork...

“Patchwork.”

“Hmm?” Spike asked.

“I thought of something. Give me a minute.” Screw Loose was running a hand across both hues of her skin, then looking at both of their forearms. “You’re different, yes. You’re not like other ponies.

Screw Loose turned around and looked at something. The bed? Twilight leaned to the side to get a better look. Nothing. Regardless, she and Spike were both caught off guard as the patched pony crawled into Spike’s lap to look over his shoulder. She latched onto his tail and pulled.

“Ow! That’s attached!” Spike hissed. This only switched her fascination to his forked tongue. She stuck out her own and crossed her eyes and served to do nothing else other than throw her off balance again. She collapsed into Twilight’s arms, her eyes trying to focus on who was holding her.

Twilight’s laughter was enough to pierce through the dizzy spell. Screw Loose blinked and, upon seeing the mirth Twilight held, gave her a wide smile.

“Haaaah!”

Screw Loose hugged her. Twilight returned the embrace, her cheek pressed against the stitching across her cheek.

“I’m starting to think she’s not really Screw Loose anymore.”

Spike’s own grin faltered a little. “Sure?”

She shrugged. “At the very least, I don’t think we should give her an identity she might not have anymore.”

Spike chewed his lip. It was the only tell he had. Despite this and Twilight living with the drake for all his life, she still had trouble knowing what he was thinking.

“What do you have in mind?” he said.

“...What do you think about the name “Patchwork”?”

Screw Loose had pulled away and was now looking at Twilight’s tail. Despite it being a little too intimate for her taste, Twilight let the mare run a hand through the strands. She looked at her own tail, a violet and white tuft that contrasted with her pale blue-gray mane.

“I think it suits her.”

Twilight nodded.

“I have a question for you,” she said. She just received a blank, happy smile in return. “How do you like the name Patchwork?”

Patchwork opened her mouth, and closed it. She clasped her hands together and smiled wide.

Spike gave her a clap on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Patches.”

As Rainbow Dash put it, Pinkie suffered from diarrhea of the mouth. Pinkie could keep a secret, but her love of others compelled her to comfort them to such an extent that secrets told in confidence might become public. Twilight didn’t blame Pinkie in the slightest; it was just her nature to embrace and love others.

Spike and Twilight now had a shared secret of their own that could never be told. Patchwork couldn’t go outside lest she be recognized. She wasn’t frightening, but her patchy namesake might unnerve others into doing something unpredictable. Plus, Twilight had yet to plan for the contingency of being outed as a graverobber.

Patches, as Spike had come to call her, needed constant supervision by either Twilight or himself. Spike was designated to morning chore and buying groceries every morning while she took care of a rambunctious Patchwork, while he watched over the mare at night when Twilight needed to do some research. Despite the usual shifts, Patches was an endless well of enthusiasm, exhausting both of them no matter the hour of day.

“What is it, Patchwork?” Resigned or not, Twilight wasn’t one to say no to her winning and innocent smile. Patches finally had clothes that fit her, and although she had access to dresses, Twilight rarely saw her out of pants and a fall sweater. She held Twilight’s wrist and led her downstairs towards her room.

“Twi!” she said and tugged to make Twilight go faster. Every time she heard that, a little warmth blossomed in Twilight’s chest. Patchwork couldn’t speak well, but Twi was still her first and favorite word.

She tripped as she turned a corner, but recovered enough to reach her bedroom door. Be it a side effect of the reanimation or just bad motor control, Patches was extremely clumsy and prone to danger if not observed like a hawk. She tripped and fell on an almost daily basis. Spike’s endless snark earned him more than a few punches, especially when scraped knees or bruised shoulder warranted Twilight comforting a crying Patchwork like a newborn.

Patchwork flung the door open and ran to the corner, thankfully not falling again. Spike had unearthed some colored pencils a few days after her revival and she had taken to them like peanut butter to chocolate. Crude sketches that looked like they were drawn by a preschooler dotted the floor. It had been scarcely two weeks since then but her skills were markedly improving.

“Patchwork, you have to remember to clean up after yourself.” Her words went in one ear and out the other. Patchwork held up a drawing. There was a large purple stick figure with wings and a horn standing next to what she assumed to be Spike. A pink and blue stick figure stood between the pair.

“I think it’s wonderful. Why don’t we show Spike when he gets back?” She was already moving towards the other side of her bed. A small pile of building blocks, a disassembled wooden chair, and scotch tape stood up to Twilight’s navel. Patches stood proudly, hands on her hips.

“Good work! I applaud your creativity, although I do question how you broke a chair into pieces without anypony hearing. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll make you some hot chocolate.”

Patchwork’s memory was as bad as her balance, but if there was one thing she never forgot, it was the names of treats. She squealed in delight and bearhugged Twilight to her ample bosom. Twilight was used to her affectionate behavior and yet a blush still sprouted across her cheeks.

It was like raising a child all over again, at least if raising Spike was by any means comparable. Patchwork had such poor motor function that even something as simple as going from prone to standing had proven difficult. Twilight’s spellcraft and reagent helped revitalize dead tissue, but there was mounting evidence that she wasn’t going to recover her memories.

Twilight sat at her desk, twirling a quill. She always worked best at night. The night was calm, and fewer ponies disturbed her. It was a product of her time in Canterlot.

“Spike!”

Spike slithered up to her room. “Shhhh, she’s asleep, Twilight.”

“She won’t hear us from the basement. Time for a log.”

Spike opened one of her desk draws and pulled out an inkwell and parchment. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Twilight sighed.

“November third, twenty-two thirty hours. It is safe to declare the experiment a success. Our subject, whom we have given the nickname Patchwork, has poor, but developing fine motor skills since reanimation. Despite possessing an intact brain, there are no signs of her memories prior to death. Screw Loose was a carpenter in life, and although Patchwork does have an interest in creative building, it has not progressed any further than that since her reanimation on the fourteenth. She currently has trouble speaking, has few behavioral tics, and struggles with developing long-term memories.

“She has undergone two physicals so far. I have detected no signs of infection from either the vivisection or her current stitching. I have seen heightened levels of protein in her blood, but they are within safe limits. I feared more than anything that she would start showing signs of rejecting organs from Screwball, but I appear to have underestimated the skills of myself and my ever faithful companion, Spike. Yes, Spike, you heard me right.

“Yet despite her childish nature, she is learning faster and faster, managing to complete harder cognitive tasks I assign to her as well as speaking full sentences. It was one of my early worries that she would not break free of her original demeanor, but she has surpassed my expectations. Growing as she may be, what worries me most is Patchwork’s mind.

“I can tentatively conclude that post-mortem brain necrosis has damaged her brain’s neurons to such an extent that they no longer hold the memories of their previous life. Despite my reagent reanimating dead tissue, dead neurons have proven problematic. Reanimated neurons are behaving like baby neurons; they do not adhere to Screw Loose’s patterns in life and thus Patchwork holds no memories of her time alive. She has to create entirely new memories and neural pathways. We shall see if time remedies this... but I am not hopeful. Should my suspicions prove true, the most optimistic future for the Patchwork is she will grow an entirely new personality. She has proven successful in the sense that the dead can be brought back to life... but I can’t help my friends if what comes back isn’t my friends...”

Twilight sighed. She didn’t want to say it.

“The brain has a six to twelve minute limit until death. If the neurons start dying, memories disappear. Six to twelve minutes. All this time, all of my work... unable to halt a limit that’s been there since the beginning of ponykind. The experiment is a success in that I have been able to revive the dead. It’s a failure in that what came back was not Screw Loose. She has been a delight to have in the castle, but I spent these many years working towards safeguarding my friends from an early demise.”

She was always so neat and organized. Being organized was almost a special talent. The next piece of data was in her head. Her mind grasped at the neat and orderly array of facts, only to pull back and end up holding an opaque miasma. What was she supposed to say next?

“I failed, and I don’t know what to do.”

She dropped her quill and rested her head on her desk. All she felt like doing was going to sleep. The full force of her failure hit her now that it had been committed to paper. Ponies could run from death, but she’d always thought her work would cheat it. Now?

Not even I can stop death when he comes for me.

Bodies broken and diseases that ravage can be brushed aside with her work. The body can be rebuilt even stronger than before, but the keystone of life, the very soul, would vanish like her broken dream.

“Do you hate her?”

Spike’s voice was quiet, but earnest. She didn’t want to answer him. He wouldn’t leave until she did.

“I think I hate myself.”

“Because it didn’t work?”

She didn’t look at him. The desk was hard against her cheek and her mane shielded him from view. She just wanted to lie there and just do nothing. Apathy. Loss of purpose. Her goal for the last several years, her life’s work that would have her remembered forever as the one who stopped the unstoppable, gone. She just wanted to sit in her little chair in her little study and wait out the ages until death came for her. Maybe then she’d find out what went wrong.

“I didn’t have friends when I lived in Canterlot, except for you and the princess. Now I have so many and it fills me with such joy. I am so utterly petrified of what I’ll do when everyone’s gone. I’m not scared of dying, but I think about everyone else leaving me and all I can do is just—” Her voice caught in her throat.

Just like the princess said. She sniffed as hot streaks slid down her nose. Spike’s arms wrapped around her stomach. She hugged his chest and the pair of them fell to the floor, hot tears streaming down her face. Twilight used her magic and removed Celestia’s letter from a locked drawer in her desk. She felt the claws gently stroking her back, and his heartbeat flutter as he read about the fear the two alicorns shared.

“I’ll always be there for you, Twilight. You just... have to remember me as I am. All the cool things we’ve done. Don’t think about what it’ll be like when I’m gone, remember all we’ve done together. All my stupid jokes you laughed at.”

Twilight choked as a hiccup and laugh tried to come up at the same time.

“I love you, Spike.”

“I love you too, Twi.”

At times Twilight convinced herself that her work was for the betterment of ponykind. It was as selfish as it could be. She didn’t even know why she felt so much lighter. She felt utterly exhausted and yet at the same time, strangely relieved. Spike’s embrace and Celestia’s letter were the first two times where she was forthright about that lurking fear. She deflated in Spike’s grasp, and as she parted, Spike kissed her brow.

The door opened and the two of them jumped. Patchwork, dressed in her nighty, looked at the pair of them as she rubbed her bleary eyes.

“I told you she’d wake up. She heard your blubbering.”

Twilight elbowed Spike in the ribs. Patches looked between the two. She wasn’t all that bright, but she knew what tears and red eyes meant.

“I think Twilight needs one of your patented hugs, Patches.”

“...M’kay,” she mumbled sleepily.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and collapsed into Twilight’s arms. Together they stayed—a princess, her loyal assistant, and her loving creation—until sleep claimed them one by one.

“C’mon, Spike, it will be fun!”

Twilight had already donned her robe and wizard hat. With a little dye and alchemical paste, she jury rigged a pair of bolts onto Patchwork’s neck and colored her mane and tail a bright white.

“I know Nightmare Night’s fun, but are you sure this is wise? I could stay home with her.”

Patches latched onto Twilight’s arm and tried to glare at him, an effect ruined as she pouted, “Please, Spike? It’ll be fun!”

“She needs to get out eventually, Spike. This is the best time of year for that. The hospital doctors are mostly on staff tonight, and I’ve already written down the schedules of those that aren’t. I know where they will be and no one will recognize her.”

His palm smacked against his head. “I don’t know what’s worse, that you thought of this idea, or that there are ponies actually going to fall for it.”

“Her disguise is perfect.”

“Yes it is!” Patches chirped.

He waved his hand. “This is such a bad idea, but fine. In case anypony finds out, what do you want me to set on fire first?”

“Spike, everything will be fine.”

“That is literally the start of every horror movie ever.”

Patchwork was looking at her with those big, mismatched eyes. She still looked like a puppy dog. Drat, she was already learning how to push her into doing things by looking cute.

“We’ll be back in about ninety minutes.”

“Twilight—?”

“Start with the basement, Spike.”

“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

At Twilight’s request, Patches replaced her sweater with a woolen shirt to show off her forearms. She still carried all of her stitching, but showing the patches on her forearms would help sell the in plain sight disguise. Patches dragged Twilight to the front door. As a foal, she did the same thing to her brother whenever she wanted to get a first edition release of a new book. Shining would smile and indulge her, happy at seeing her elated over something he saw as inconsequential. Patches was physically only a few years younger than Twilight, but the effect was still the same.

Once again she marched, or more appropriately dragged, into town. Spooks and decorations were hung up across every house. Streamers connected street corners and from them dangled paper lanterns that gave the town an eerie glow. Paper cutouts of cats, pumpkins, timberwolves, ghosts, and ghouls were staked in front yards. Patches examined each with endless glee.

As they started seeing crowds, Patchwork started to get some eyes. Some, especially the costumed foals, wanted to check out her makeup. Patchwork was thrilled at seeing the little ones, but Twilight shooed them away when they got too interested. Touching would ruin the, uh... makeup. Yeah.

As foals with short attention spans often did, they moved onto the next house bloated with candy of the stands across town. Patchwork was too old to trick or treat, even if her developing mental state was roughly the same. Bobbing for apples might be a little troublesome. Shooting gallery? Even with cork bullets, something would go wrong. The pair of them ended up walking around until finding themselves in front of a stand with a circular duck pond. The curator, a husky stallion that was on the Ponyville work crew, got up from his stool and delivered a practiced spiel.

“Now the name of the game, ladies, is pick and choose. Each little duck has a number on the bottom and you’re free to pick anything on the shelf with that number. Each little ducky floats ‘round and ‘round. There’s no telling what each one has, but that’s part of the fun! Five bits a try and we’ll see what we win tonight.”

He brandished his arms towards the shelves behind him. They were mostly knickknacks, trinkets, and toys. Patchwork’s mind was set.

“C’mon! Toys!” She pulled on Twilight’s arm enthusiastically, her tail twitching in impatience.

Twilight rolled her eyes and reached into her robes for some coin. The stallion eyed Patches after her youthful glee, but said nothing. He likely thought she was a little soft in the head and nothing else. To be fair, he’d be right.

Twilight passed fifteen bits over the counter. “Three tries, Patchwork.” She held up three fingers. The stallion snorted at the name.

Patchwork picked up one of the ducks and turned it over. “Three!”

She tried another. “Three!”

“Two!”

Not top shelf prizes, but Patchwork pointed out her choices without a whine. The curator pulled down two sketch books and a paint set and handed them over.

“C’mon, Patchwork. Let’s see what else we can win tonight.”

Twilight’s cheeks flushed as Patchwork’s warm, wet lips touched her own. Her hand brushed against her burning face as she pulled away. She could feel the slight touch of moisture under her fingertips, and Patches just kept on beaming.

“Uh, um, Patches...?” she stammered.

“Twilight,” she said back. “Thank you.”

“How... Who...” What question would she understand? “Do you know what that was?” Twilight’s hand pressed against the blush that was slowly consuming her face.

‘I think I’m feverish.’

“Spike did it to you.”

Spike never—oh. After she showed him Celestia’s letter, he kissed her head and she walked in after hearing her crying. Spike was a brother in all but blood. Patchwork lavished her with affection whenever she got the chance. Explaining appropriate affection was in Twilight’s future, and possibly the dreaded “talk”. Well, she suffered through one birds and the bees talk with Spike. She could live through another. Or just make him do it.

Ugh. It was becoming hard to think straight.

“You’re very welcome. Now let’s go have some fun before Spike burns my house down.”

It had been a fortnight since Patchwork’s revival, and another since her first trial run. Patches was supposed to be a subject, not a pony. At first. What was she now? Twilight was a thorough note taker, but where exactly had their relationship changed from creator and creation to... whatever this was? Patchwork adored her. Twilight normally wouldn’t have such thoughts, but she had never been kissed by an experiment before either. Patchwork clung to her arm as they wandered through the musical and merry streets, humming happily. Twilight’s thoughts wandered less towards the night and more towards the lovely mare leaning her head on her shoulder.

Author's Note

I have a Patreon now that I am on the run from the king. He didn't approve of me climbing to the princess' bedroom.