Liftoff

by Flint-Lock

Rating: everyone
Tags: Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Adventure, Science Fiction
Length: 1950

A stallion prepares for liftoff.

After having his hopes crushed over and over again, a hopeless dreamer prepares for liftoff.

Special thanks to Georg for proofreading and editing!

Published 2017-07-17 14:40:11 UTC
Last updated 2017-07-17 14:40:11 UTC

4...3...2...1...

When I was a colt, I wanted to fly.

So, one day, I strapped two cardboard wings to my forelegs and jumped from the second story window of my house...only for Reality and its crony, Gravity, to step in and send my colthood dreams crashing to the ground, metaphorically and literally.

I look up from my work and stretch, joints popping and cracking like popcorn. My eyes fall upon a pile of unpaid bills and rejected manuscripts, like a snowdrift of paper and failure.

It wasn’t the first time.

I study the musty scroll unrolled across my desk, press the pencil against the parchment, and slowly transcribe one of the many strange runes written on it, just as it says in the instructions. Once it’s done, I consult the scroll again and repeat the process.

Time passes. My eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Slowly, my head begins to lower until it rests on the writing desk, then snaps back to attention. I can hear Luna’s realm call out to me. Can feel the siren song coaxing me towards my warm, fluffy bed. Can hear the promises of sweet, sweet oblivion...

With a groan, I haul my body off my well-worn stool and weave my way through an obstacle of paperback books, pulp novels, and crumpled balls of paper until I reach the bathroom. I twist the handle and splash some ice cold water on my face; thankfully, they haven’t shut off my water just yet.

Cold H2O trickles down my face as I stare into the mirror. A zombie stares back. At least, it looks like a zombie, with its bloodshot eyes, and greasy, frizzy orange mane that hasn’t seen a comb in days. Its formerly-white coat is covered with coffee, sweat, and pencil lead that gives it an almost dalmatian-like appearance.

And I wonder why I haven’t been able to find a date.

I groan, wiping some of the water from my face, then turn to face my chipped, stained bathtub. By Celestia’s mane how I want to to climb into that tub. That’s right, just climb in and take a nice, long bubble bath, with plenty of hot water. I could just soak in there for hours, maybe even take a nice, long nap while I’m in there…

My shoulders slump. There’s no time. The incantation has to take place tonight. If I fail, it’ll be another two moons before I can try again. I don’t have that kind of time. This spell is my last resort. My last weapon against reality.

With the drowsiness temporarily banished, I make my way through the maze and back to my writing desk. I look down to my work; a sketch of an elongated, bullet-shaped rocket- my cutie mark- surrounded by lines of incomprehensible runes.

I set my pencil down again, rub my eyes and squint at one of the runes I’ve written. There’s something off about these strange little squiggles; whenever I finish writing one, it becomes...slippery. No matter how hard I try, my eyes can’t seem to focus on them. It’s like the runes don’t want to be read. Not until the time is right.

As I write, I can’t help but feel out-of-place. This scroll, this whole set up; it doesn’t belong in this house, in this study. There are no cauldrons of bubbling green liquid or racks of brightly-colored potions, unless a few week-old bottles of Colta-Cola count as potions. There’s a definite lack of esoteric instruments or skulls, and instead of crumbling tomes of ancient magic, my bookshelves are overflowing with paperback novels and science magazines.

It’s the lair of a dreamer, not a spellcaster.

My pencil snaps, leaving a smudge on the parchment. I curse and ram the shattered tip into a pencil sharpener. As I hone the little writing utensil, my eyes fall on the study the cardboard tube the scroll had arrived in. There’s no return address or stamp on it, no identifying marks of any kind; just my name and address written in some spidery, archaic font. Even weirder, the post office had no record of it being dropped off at any of their branches. In fact, the mailmare hadn’t even remembered placing it in her mailbag.

I’ve heard about ponies finding ancient scrolls, but I’ve never heard of ancient scrolls finding them.

I pull out the pencil from the sharpener, blow away a little sawdust, and return to my work. My heart starts to pound in my chest like an excited kettledrum. This is just like the stories.I’m the dashing, handsome explorer, and this scroll is a treasure chest filled with untold riches. Then again, like in the stories, it could also be something unspeakably dangerous. I was never much of a spellcaster; I prefer pencils and pens to wands; but I can tell that this spell is powerful. Very powerful. Maybe as high as a class 5 incantation. When I cast it, this thing will make reality dance to its tune.

I freeze in mid-stroke. Hoofsteps. Front door. Couldn’t be the milkmare, or the mailmare, it’s much too early, even for them.

There’s a knock. “Mr. Dreamer?” Barks my visitor in a low, raspy voice. “Mr. Day Dreamer. It’s Blackjack, from Happy Canterlot Savings and Loan. I’m here to...speak with you about your payday loan.”

Blood freezes in my veins. Sour ice forms in my stomach. Horseapples! Of all the nights for those loan sharks to show up, it had to be tonight!

I hold my breath and close my eyes. Maybe if I stand perfectly still, they’ll leave.

Another knock. “Mr. Dreamer, I know you’re in there!”

So much for that plan. Time to resort to the old standby. “Just give me a few minutes.” I yell, then return to my work. That should buy me a little time. It always did when I was a colt.

I set down my pencil for a moment. Is this really a good idea? This spell, it’s not one of your everyday telekinesis or mane-combining spells. It could be one of those half-finished spells, cooked up by some disavowed mage. For all I know, the moment I cast this thing, it’ll teleport me and the house to the far side of the Moon.

I can still turn back. I still have some money left over. It’s not much, but it might be enough to get those loan sharks off my back, at least temporarily. But then what? My parents are long dead, and my relatives barely know I exist. What few friends I had have either moved away or completely forgotten about me. I’ve invested so much into my dreams that there was little room for anything else. There’s no place for me here. Not on Equis, at least.

There's another knock at the door. The planet and star mobile above my head sways gently. “Mr. Dreamer, we are going to have this discussion one way or another!” I hear two more sets of hoofsteps walk up to the door, followed a cannon-like wham. A lead weight drops into my stomach. If they can do that to a door, I hate to think what they’ll do to me. Quickly, I return to my work, writing as quickly as possible o. Pencil lead flies across the page. Scribble after scribble. Stroke after stroke, the incantation takes shape. It’s almost done. Just two more runes. Two more runes…

Wham! Wham! There’s a splintering crack, followed by a crash. At the same moment, I finish the last rune and hold the scroll in front of my face. I tear open the curtain and flood the study with silvery moonlight. Instantly, the slippery, unreadable gibberish suddenly become perfectly legible. I can understand every last one as easy as reading plain equish!

With no time to lose, I pick up the scroll and start to chant. Reality becomes...loose, like the fabric of the universe itself is starting to fray. Each nonsensical word becomes something more than a collection of random syllables. They become a force, an...energy. They were there when the universe was born, and will be there when it finally dies. With each new word, everything in existence-— my body, my house, the city, the planet, the universe—listens to me talk, then contemplates whatever it is I’m saying.

The moment I finish the last sentence, they answer.

There’s one final crash, followed by a splintering crack. That would probably be the front door. Two very large, very beefy, very scary stallions break in through the door to my study with clubs in their hooves and scowls on their faces. I simply smile.

“Alright, DayDreamer,” says the first stallion “You’re-”he growls before vanishing in a flash of light, followed by the pop of displaced air. Before his partner can react, he also vanishes in the same manner. I know they’ll be alright. It’s only a short-range teleportation spell. They’ll probably find themselves in an alley a few blocks away. Far enough.

All around me, reality turns to wet clay. The scuffed, faded floorboards, and peeling wallpaper, morph into shining steel and brass panels. My writing desk and stool morph into a massive control console and chair, studded with dials, gauges, levers, lights, buttons of all shapes and sizes, some of which actually do something. The door morphs into an airtight hatch, while my furniture twists itself into beeping, flashing instruments of brass and chrome, covered with dials, gauges, and little blinking lights. None of them actually do anything, but they look really, really cool!

As if by reflex, my hooves dart to the central console, pushing buttons and pulling levers as if they’d been doing it since birth. The house, or whatever the house has become, begins to rattle and quiver on its foundation. Two oversized nixie tubes pop out of the console and slowly count down from ten.

3…

2…

1…

A button on the console lights up. I punch it, and the house shakes like a giant’s rattle. The window in front of me morphs into a magical screen of some kind. I watch as sparkling blue flames erupt from the house’s foundations. One final shudder, and the humble home shoots into the sky on a pillar of fire. From my screen, I can see everypony on the block staring out their bedroom windows, jaws slack. Nopony will be hurt—the exhaust is completely harmless— but I’m pretty sure I’ve violated multiple city noise ordinances.

Sorry.

Higher and higher the house-ship rises My body turns to lead as Mother Equis calls her prodigal child back back. Below me, I can see Canterlot shrink to an elaborately detailed model, then a small dot. I watch the landscape shrink into an immense, patchwork quilt. Outside, the sky turns midnight blue, then pitch black. The flames cut out, and everything in the room that isn’t strapped down takes flight.

From my screen, I can see all of Equestria below me. I can see the patch of dark green that is the Everfree Forest, can see the ridged spine of the Canter mountain range. So beautiful. So fragile. Not for me, though.

With a pull of a lever, I summon a wood-and-brass steering wheel. Gripping it in my hooves, I spin it until my house-ship points toward the stars. I close my eyes and orient my ship towards a random star, then punch a flashing button. There’s another jet of blue flame, and the cradle of ponykind shrinks to the size of a melon, then a baseball, then a marble.

As my former home dwindles into nothing, I lean back in my chair and smile. I once dreamed about flying. This time, it came true.

Up yours, Reality.