Waking up was never the hard part; at first glance, unfamiliar territory, a cold sweat breaking out, the nauseating comedowns of cryostatic slumber. No, cryostasis was never hard to wake up from.

Was it the terrors? Could be. For most, being asleep for so long, the subconscious creates nightmares. Unimaginable horrors of an origin so deeply ingrained into the psyche, that when it's time to wake up, you're not shivering from the cold. You're shaking, quivering in your pod because you're afraid of the things at the edge of sleep. Afraid of being pulled so far into your own mind by the very monsters you, yourself created, that you don't come out. Afraid of the somethings that shouldn't exist—but do, in the back of your mind. Black mirror-esque flesh, serrated teeth. The hiss of an abomination.

A being I can never put a face to. Or rather, I don't want to.

Outside of fever dreams, my monsters are very real, I don't need to be asleep to figure that out. In my line of work, no, waking up was never difficult.

The sound of her, the me in my dreams screaming always woke me up, anyway.

My eyes open almost lazily and I stare blankly at the opaque glass in front of me. I've been conscious for well over an hour now, simply enjoying the muted bliss. It comforts me, the silence in these pods. Knowing the only real voice is my own, should I choose to break the quiet. A cacophony of whimpers, a scream into the stars—silence as my eyes close once more. The only real voice is my own.

Everything else—memories.

So why do I wake up screaming in my mind? A sigh escapes my chapping lips, my hoof raising and hitting the internal lock to the pod's door. It opens with a low 'hiss' and I breathe deep the stale air I've grown oh-so accustomed to. "Mother, how long-" I yawn, interrupting myself, but Mother knows me—my post-sleep habits. "How long was I out? How long 'till we hit the Philosopher?"

The artificial intelligence whirs, almost silently before giving a response: "Greetings Captain Dash, Rainbow. You've been under cryo-induced hibernation for... processing data... 23 months, 4 weeks, 1 day, 21 hour-" I groan, silencing her lengthy report. Her words reverberate around the small hub, pounding in my skull. I clench and unclench my jaw.

"Skip the same ol' song and dance, Mother. Just needed to know if we were late or not." Having been given a 5-year deadline, there and back, I'd say we're cutting it kind of close. I give a mental shrug. Eh, we should be fine.

I pull myself from my cryopod before Mother can begin her standard procedure, post-cryostasis check-up. As soon as my hooves touch the cold, unfeeling floor, a low hum sounds all around me—Mother must be analyzing me already.

"Prolonged exposure can elicit these symptoms: Disorientation, potential confabulation, loss of hearing and/or eyesight, temporary amnesia, death. Should you encounter any of these, please report to the nearest medicinal unit in your area.

Now please, bend over and cough."

It's standard for the most part, anyway.

. . . . .

Gutteral laughter, it's all that greets me as I enter the mess. A silence follows soon after. I glance around the kitchenette, the angular table consisting of my little team, the mess in its whole. My squads' eyes meet mine, but no one says a word. They don't need to, we all know the mission. We all know the stakes. Let them have this moment. I give them all a singular nod before making my way towards the door across the room.

My pilot gets up from her seat. She's soon at my side as we exit the compartment together. "Spits, anything useful on comms?" I ask, idly paying attention to the walls that pass us by as we trot together.

The response was immediate; Spitfire, adorned in her brown jumpsuit offers me a single-hoof salute. "Nothing of immediate notice here, Cap. The Wonderbolt could use a quick TLC sesh, though," she pauses with a low hum and I stop to question her. She answers before I even have to ask, "evidently we hit a small EMG cloud on our way here, but Bigs said Mother and him would have our radio back up and running before 0900." I give her an affirmative nod and she continues, "we'll have to dock for any major repairs. Want me back on deck, check up on Bigs and see how he's fairing?"

"Run a full diagnostics check when you get on the wheel," I start, but something off about what Spitfire had said grabs my attention: "the Philosopher hasn't responded to anything?" We both stop before the doorway to the deck, her eyes steal away from mine. "Spitfire, we can't be entering deep space without anyone knowing we're here—one mishap and no one will even know we're missing," I chortle a little. A Search and Rescue team in need of search and rescue, heh. Imagine that. I shake my head. "Try and contact them again."

Spitfire gives a deadpan look, a single brow raising. "Radio, remember? Bigs is on it, but we still have a couple of hours before then."

I hum once with a shake of my head. "Right," words stumble in my brain as I try and speak. "Right, well, when Bigs finishes up, make sure we've got their full attention." She nods and I continue: "just because they go under radio silence doesn't mean they won't know we're coming. Who knows, maybe the Neighson Board of Technology told 'em all we were en route for special pick-up service anyway." Who am I kidding? Those pricks on the Board wouldn't even tell us the names of our missing ponies until we left.

A princess that disappeared over a decade ago and a doctor I'm pretty sure is already dead.

Can't believe I have to refrain from letting that former tidbit of information leak out. Fuck. Speaking of the two, I still need to run over the dossier with the team again. Doesn't hurt to be sure of what—or who, rather, we're going in for.

It's a big gig and I'd rather not risk losing it all bringing back the wrong ponies because of misinformation. Faces are important, but names and identification, more-so. We'll need this as easy as can be. Spitfire's golden eyes meet mine almost expectantly.

Turning away from her, I open my mouth:

"Mother, tell everyone to report to the deck. Let Bigs know to stay down in comms until you got outside ears again."

. . . . .

"Doctor Ludwig von Neighson," I show the three others gathered around an image of the stallion, a silvery-gold maned Germane with aged, yet soft blue eyes. "Doc here is, evidently, a very important pony within Neighson Synthetics, and by very, I mean quadruple our paycheck if we bring him in alive. On a backhoof account, he was reported missing in this sector roughly two, three years ago."

"Usually, professionals are hired for a gig like this; we are not professionals." I look at everypony around the metallic surface with a cheeky grin, "we are the best. We're Wonderbolts. And as the best, the Board saw to it to hire our sorry hides." Chuckles rise from several members of the group. With a flick of my wing, the image of the smiling stallion finds itself on the built-in desk before us.

"His disappearance has been linked with several others, all reported missing around the same area: LU-273, or if you're from around these parts, Luna's Armpit." Another image finds itself on top of the pile: two spherical masses, a gas giant and its respective moonlet. "It is called such due to the position of its sun and its nearest Freeport Station, our target, the Philosopher." Another image, this of the station itself. Its still form orbits just under LU-273; the gas giant's shade doing more than enough to keep the heat at bay.

One would hope, anyway.

"Now, 2 years is a little dodgy, especially when it comes to finding someone missing. However, the Board assured us that he is likely still alive-"

A hoof slams on the table, a mug falls over the side, spilling its contents. "Likely alive? I thought this was a missing horse, Cap. Not corpse retrieval. Something ain't right here." Co-Pilot to Spitfire, Lightning Dust voices her opinion openly.

"Last time we took a gig like this, I-we-" she trails off, an uncomfortable silence looms over everyone. "L-look boss, we were not given enough information here for this to be as simple as a missing pony case. This almost feels like a set-up, like, if things go South for the winter, this screams cover-up story." Her very aggravating opinion.

However, judging by everyone's faces, they seem to find some truth in it. I purse my lips in thought, staring hard down at the table. A low growl emits from the back of my throat. To Tartarus with the Board, I'm not withholding information from my team. I can trust this lot.

My gaze rises to meet all of theirs. "You're right, LD. This isn't a simple S&R mission. Shit, I'd go as far as to say this is the biggest risk/reward gig we'll ever take on." Placing one last photo on the pile, all I hear is a collective gasp. Another pony—a lavender Alicorn, the last of her kind. "I was told to keep this information from you until we neared our destination."

"Our primary goal? Is the search and rescue of Princess Twilight Sparkle."

"Missing for ten-plus years, so if we fail? We might as well join her."

. . . . .

Bigs is a simple stallion. He says he can fix something, he can fix something. A two-way radio? Foals' play. A 116-tonne S&R vessel? Not so much. So when the internal-comms array flairs to life, he gives a triumphant smile.

When he receives silence on the other end, he lets out a low, solid "eeynope," his eyes downcast. Of course, it had to be something external. He sighs to himself, mentally preparing for a good old fashioned space-trot. The Wonderbolt won't lose her voice—or her eyes and ears for the matter. Not on him, no siree.

A glance out of a window-port and he gulps, putting on his big stallion face.

Bigs absolutely hates going on space-trots. Spacesuits never fit him right.

. . . . .

"This is Rainbow Dash, Captain of S&R Ship, the Wonderbolt, requesting docking clearance for the UEN Philosopher."

'bzztch'

"Celestiadammit, Bigs. I repeat, this is Rainbow Dash, Captain of S&R Ship, the Wonderbolt, requesting docking clearance for the UEN Philosopher. Search and Rescue Identification: 18.9.16.12.5.25-"

"Clearance identification acc-bzztch-ted. Please stand by for automatic procedu-bzztch."

A shiver traverses the length of my spine. Something about the coldness of the Philosopher's automated response rubs me the wrong way. I take a sidelong glance at Spitfire, "Cool... at least someone's on the horn. Take her in easy, Spit."

Her grin didn't let up my unease.

"Slow 'n' steady, Cap."

Author's Note

I'm sure I've already retconned myself with something, but I'll go over it again when I'm able. Have a good one!