Clash of the Legends

Rubbing off a few flecks of dirt from the black cloak he wore, and taking a deep breath, Scorch trotted calmly out of the carriage and onto the train station platform. After 3 hours, he was finally back home: Canterlot. He could already smell the high-end aftershaves, perfumes, and ponies that trotted smugly about the streets. Scorch-Mane recognised a few; Fancy Pants and his trophy wife, Upper Crust and that other bitch that she wanders about with, and many others. However, Scorch hoped that THEY didn't recognise HIM, for fear of being swarmed by stallions and mares. Taking a quick gander about to make sure he wasn't being watched, he began to trot down the high street that lead to the Castle. Rarely being looked upon, he made a great haste down the road, stepping over litter and the occasional drunk as he went past the hospital. Suddenly, he stopped, and cast a glance towards the doors to the medical building. A large audience was crowded around the doors, with many camera flashes and fedoras being shown as presumably somepony important walked out.

'Who could that be...?' Scorch asked himself, still looking to the hospital. As he thought of possibilities of who it was, Scorch caught a glimpse of a familiar pink, green, and blue sparkly mane flapping in a non-existent breeze. 'You've got to be bucking kidding me. Celestia?'

"Fan-friggin'-tastic..." Scorch grumbled aloud. Subconciously, he raised a hoof to itch the back of his neck, and inadvertently causing an audience. The moment his red hoof moved behind his cloak's neck cover, the fabric simply fell back across his spine, and the world around him seemed to stop. Rich ponies looked at him as though to say "Is that not the fellow...?", and the paparazzi looked at him with an unnerving gleam in their eyes. Scorch made his nervous giggle, before telling his hooves to take him to the castle.

In an instant, the maroon stallion was gone; being trailed by several dozen reporters.

After around twelve minutes that the author couldn't be asked to write about, Scorch stood just in front of the barrack doors, gasping for breath. The two guards stood in front of the doors were completely unflinching at him, most likely, Scorch thought, because his features were obscured by the hood over his head that he had replaced to avoid getting more attention. When his lungs were suitably filled with the oxygen lost during his epic run, he straightened up, breathed a sigh of relief, before pushing the doors open.

What he saw didn't surprise him for such an hour of the day; 9 o' clock. All of the guards, in spite of their early waking up each and every morning, would most likely be off duty and having breakfast. So, in effect, the hallways of the barracks remained almost 100% empty, save for the odd guard who would be tromping down the hall when Scorch began to casually trot down to his quarters whilst ignoring everything.

'First things first;' Scorch thought to himself. 'Have a good, warm shower. Right now I look like crap. I think looking decent might show I still have sanity. Second, I shall repair my Mane. The hair products will be exercised vigorously unto my hair. Maybe then I could go to the mess hall and grab some food? I'm famished. Er dermernd erhples.' Doing his best not to say those things out loud, Scorch arrived at the room: 1337. Scorch was vaguely sure that he'd read a book that said that 'humans' used it on their 'computers' for 'txt speak', but that was a book of myths. Humans aren't real.

Raising his right hoof, and putting it to the magic lock under the handle, the security recognised him and the door clicked loudly. As he pushed the door open, Scorch used a quick levitation spell and hung the cloak on a hook just behind the closing door. To his left, he had the shower door, which led to a rather lavish bathroom that has the strange power to make anypony who enters feel compulsed to wash their hooves. Straight ahead, there were six simple bunks: or 3 bunk beds. His bunk was on the bottom, below Serrated Edge's bed. Practically flinging himself onto the bed, Scorch splayed his hooves out as he chose to spend 20 minutes doing buck-all.

Once the all important jump on the bed was done, Scorch sighed happily as he trotted back the way he had come and turned right. Ignoring the impulse to clean his hooves, Scorch trotted to the corner of the room and twisted a knob on the tiled wall. The round handle was gripped in a red aura as it turned; also activating the shower. Water poured down behind him as the shower head began to spray water downwards. Not even bothering with temperature, Scorch slid along the wet floor and halted under the warm jets. Then again; he knew that anything over the temperature of 40 degrees would feel the same to him due to his talent for being heatproof. For all he knew Glinting or Serrated could have set the shower so hot it would melt your skin and Scorch wouldn't care: the gold striped maroon stallion just wanted a shower, a decent restyling of his mane, and some apples. What were those rainbow apples called that were imported from the town he was in? Zap Apples? Yeah, that was it. Those were awesome, Scorch liked them, as did almost every guard in the barracks!

Scorch spoke to himself a lot when he showered, possibly in the hopes that he wouldn't feel lonely.

You didn't feel lonely when you were with Luna...

What? Who said that?

Me.

...that solves nothing, flankhole.

Fine, I'm one of the parts of you that wasn't ejected into a clone.

Yes...OK. Which part, then?

Romance.

Oh, dear Luna...

Exactly. Luna. You love her.

No I don't. Shut up, fatty.

What makes you think I'm fat?

Because most ponies who give romantic advice are fat. Ooh, you know who you remind me of?

Who...?

That human, Gabe Newell. The archives say he's fat. You look like him. I bet you do. Fatty.

...screw you, I'm leaving. You shall die alone.

You'll have your own cemetery, tubby. Go eat some cake, and give us Half Pie 3.

Oh, buck off.

You too, you too.

Scorch ignored that part of him. Like he ignored his conscience, Scorch would replace all memories of that conversation with how awesome he looked when his mane was wet. Read mostly, gold striped occasionally, all topped with it being sopping wet; he liked it. In fact, today he felt different. He was going to let it dry like that, and walk into the mess showing he'd lightened up. Stepping out of the shower, Scorch dried his mane with a towel, trotted past the hair sprays, combs, and other things on the dresser/cabinet, before leaving the room. The door was merely inches from locking, before a red hoof blocked it from closing.

'Aaah, this feels weird without my usual hairstyle...' thought Scorch, pushing the door back open, and trotting hastily back to the dresser. Opening the drawer, Scorch squee'd slightly as he saw all of the things he needed to look...well, like HIM. Occasionally, other guards called him 'Gay' for buying hair equipment, but he simply laughed it off; 1000 years on, and the insult is still abysmally old. Spraying starch into his mane as the can levitated, Scorch began combing.

Celestia blinked as hundreds of cameras snapped away at her, momentarily burning her retinas. Ever since cameras had been invented, the accursed things, she still hadn't gotten used to the spontaneous strobe lights that appear whenever she opens her door. Surprisingly, none of the questioners had asked about her now blue eyes. Most likely, because they were squinting in the flashing bulbs. Microphones wee jutting out of every gap in the crush of paparazzi, the only thing stopping them being a small contingent of her finest guards. Soon, 3 more would be joining them, win or lose. Their bravery for saving the lives of Princesses was to be rewarded, but the guards seemed to be action-hungry. During the lunch around a week ago, she had overheard some of their conversations; Who is best Princess? When we get paid, what're you gonna do? How's the family? And, currently ranking the list as Celestia's favourite one to call up during their wedding days, 'Which one of the Princesses has the best plot?' Deciding to have a think later, Celestia began to move forward down the steps to her awaiting carriage. Ponies shouted from all sides, trying to gain exclusive 'interviews'. The things EQD considers exclusive have usually been in another paper the day before. Trotting proudly forwards, Celestia reached the top of the second flight of steps when it all suddenly went quiet. Save for a few, paparazzi had turned and began to look at a certain maroon alicorn wearing a black cloak. Celestia was about to speak to him, possibly even offer one of her childhood friends a lift to the castle, but suddenly Scorch took off like a rocket; dodging, dipping, ducking, diving, and...dodging his way through crowds of the upper class.

Well, I suppose I'll see him in the castle anyway. Celestia mused to herself, taking that moment to quickly enter her golden carriage. But right now, I have to be there as well.

"Let us begone." Celestia called forwards to the two pegasi towing the cart. They nodded to each other, before the white stallions began to gallop into the sky with a gleaming cart behind.

Scorch-Mane, feeling exceedingly refreshed, decided to take the long route to the mess. As he trotted down hallways and corridors the size of barns, he took note of the time when he went past the diamond encrusted clocks.

9:35. Scorch thought. Good, that means breakfast is still on. Every turn in this castle was well known to Scorch; 10 years of service to the rulers of the land and their castle meant he had to know each corridor or risk being lost. A few were lovingly remembered; where he had saved a younger private from a falling chandelier, where he had found the old Lunar Guard barracks. Other corridors he hated, even feared, to go down; a few years ago when that...THING...escaped containment, before closing the distance between him and it in the blink of an eye, where he'd been inadvertently hit with an arrow because he wasn't wearing his armour, and his least favourite, the main entry. A marble statue fell on him, almost killing him, but thankfully one of the Medics was going past.

Dodging inbetween two guards that were talking in the middle of a thinner corridor, he hung a left and headed down some steps. He might as well have stopped to smell flowers: he was just going to take a long and winding route, receive some dodgy stares, before being faced by insults from the entire mess. However, Scorch had noticed that a lot of the Guards currently on duty were not wearing full armour; a few wore chestplates and/or boots, but all wore a rank inscription of some type. Ignoring this for the moment, and heading outside onto the walls, Scorch gave a friendly greeting to Rangefinder before continuing his trek.

After several more minutes of this, Scorch finally reached it: the mess hall doors. Compared to other doors in the castle, these ones were, to be brutally honest, crap. Small wooden things with circular windows that were so old that they seemed to be absorbing light rather than letting it through, the tiny doors were put inbetween two plant pots and had a simple red carpet leading up to them. Just down the hall, there was the door he'd entered a few days ago that led to the arena entrance. Preparing himself for the wash of insults, Scorch pushed the doors open casually as he could.

Suddenly, there arose a great cheer.