Everypony has their trials. Suffering isn't exclusive to the ones without anything. It's always something everypony will have in common. One can choose to bond over it, or push everything away.
West Runner has always had a problem with the latter. If she looks at her life superficially, yeah - it's not so bad. But she always looks at it through her own lens, where life is akin to a stroll around Tartarus.
West is in the marketplace, looking for some apples; the most insultingly run-of-the-mill activity she could be doing right now.
Ponies are milling about, stopping at different booths with smiles plastered on their face, and West can't help but wonder to herself how much pain they've shoved to the bottom of their hearts, which must be guarded with a 10-foot-thick metal wall painted pink and graffitied with the outlines of a heart, as fake and superficial as everything else they're doing, pretending everything's okay.
West sighs to herself and looks at the gravel on the ground, pawing at the rocks singled from the cracks worn in over years of ponies coming up and down this path.
Maybe tone down the angst, she thinks, you're an adult. Mostly.
West let's a small smirk flash across her face before it disappears, replaced with her jaw set permanently in a firm line.
A splash of red catches her eye, and she turns to see a bundle of apples, and reaches out a hoof to check the price.
All of a sudden, a low rumble bubbles from the sky.
Then the chaos happens.
Cries erupt from the ponies all around her, mingled with sharp crackling and an echoing howl. West whips her head around in order to see what is going on, her blue eyes sharp like chips of ice, wild with concern.
Immediately pebbles of rain fall into her face, and she squints against the pour, gazing at the overcasting, ominous cloud of utter black encompassing the whole of the sky. Streaks of white and yellow blaze across the dark canvas, painting the lack of color for only a split moment, but instilling a terror that lasts in the onlookers.
A second ago the sky was totally blue. Pegasi haven't scheduled a rainy day for several weeks.
Something's very wrong.
There’s a faint glimmer in the distance, of electricity accumulating, manifesting, a blazing yellow that trembles into blue. It has a face, it has eyes, eyes glowing brightly, but no other shape can be discerned from its chaotic form.
It looks at West, then the lightning flashes furiously again, and she snaps her gaze upward but is immediately enveloped in a burning glare that tears through every part of her, and then all of a sudden there is black.
A monotonous moan is all that echoes in the mare’s consciousness.
Beep… beep… beep…
It sounds slow and drawling, like somepony struggling desperately up a steep cliff, clinging for life. The sound is accompanied by an emptiness, a haze, and it’s a little disorienting; the mare is barely awake, but she’s come to just enough to find a faint irritation at the fact that she can’t think at all.
There are no other sounds, there are no smells, nothing but the beeping that seems ingrained in her very skull.
Beep… beep… beep…
Suddenly she feels a wave of sleepiness wash over her, and barely fights the urge to fall back into the blackness. The beeping turns into something nearly reassuring, like a lullaby, but it is becoming more distant, faint, and slow. Eventually it is gone, and so is she.
Something in the mare makes her feel like she shouldn’t be waking up, but she is. She can vaguely grasp the memory of a beeping noise, but all she hears is a thin, high-pitched wail, an endless din.
The sound of it sends a small shiver up her spine, but the moment her body shakes she is hit with a searing pain, and she lets out a shuddering, small breath.
In the endless ocean of nothingness - all except for the shrill sound - suddenly a few voices patter against the surface of the water, trying to break through, but they are nothing more than a whispering, demented mash of unintelligible clamor.
Out of nowhere her breathing becomes quick and she begins trembling against wherever she is, and the voices become tumultuous, like a storm forcing itself into the still waves, swirling, churning, a whirling pool that leads into chaos.
Oh, please, God, help me…
Is the first thought that bursts into her head, and the last thought, as immediately she feels the lethargic blanket tuck her into that familiar drowsiness, and though she wants to refuse it this time, she has no energy left, and feebly falls into its open arms.
Finally the mare wakes up again, and the cloudiness has left her head a little. Without thinking, she begins to blink open her eyes. What she sees is nothing enlightening; in fact her vision just about matches her state of mind. Everything is blurry and deformed, but she can make out a few shapes, and in the fog she detects a form, pale green it seems like, and it has eyes that are watching earnestly. It has a purple mane that seems to be hugging its head, but at the same time it’s like it’s bouncing everywhere. Maybe it looks more normal past the weird veil that’s covering her eyes.
The greenish figure reaches out a hoof and the mare can feel pressure on her arm. Something about the gesture feels nice, but it’s diluted, numb, like everything else.
“Oh,” the figure gasps, the voice tinged with a motherly empathy and filled with pain, shuddering and exerted in one breath.
The mare feels confused but doesn’t know how to express it, so she sighs lightly, and tries to focus on the figure in front of her; tries to will her eyes to see clearly.
“West,”
The figure breathes, and soon the mare finds things to be coming more lucid, suddenly able to tell that the figure is a pony. She can make out the mouth curled in a tight line, wobbling with emotion, and the stark eyes that remind her of ice tinted violet. The hair is more gentle than she imagined, lose strands framing the face, and most of the mane rounding the head crowns it like a halo with darker, indigo hairs bouncing akin to rays of an inverted sun all around until they meet a messy bun that is just as expressive, tied with a little teal hair-band.
The mare can tell that this pony has noticed her staring, and can see the beginnings of a smile forming on the pony’s face.
“West,” she repeats, “can you hear me?”
Her voice is more gentle than anything the mare has ever heard, as far as she can remember. She tries to reply and manages to utter out a small hoarse sound, faintly reminiscent of a ‘yes’.
The smile on the pony’s face grows a little broader, but her eyes crease further with concern.
“As happy as I am to see you up,” she murmurs smoothly, “it’s probably best for you not to speak just yet.”
The pony draws her hoof closer and moves a strand of the mare’s mane from her face. The mare watches, unable to think, and after a little moment closes her eyes. She can still feel the hoof of the pony rested on her cheek, and this lasts for a while, until a quiet creaking resonates from the corner of the room as somepony opens the door.
The pony retracts her hoof and the mare opens her eyes once more.
She can see the newcomer looking at her almost blankly, like he’s hiding any underlying emotion in order to keep her calm.
“She’s awake,” he says, nodding to the pony, then adjusts his white uniform quickly, giving away his concern.
“Yes,” the pony replies, “yes, but the monitor is still not responding… I don’t underst-- doctor, do you have any idea…”
“No,” the doctor cuts her off, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
He narrows his eyes for a moment, then draws to the side of the bed the mare is laid upon, and takes some sort of object hanging around his neck in his hoof, and presses the circular part to her chest. It feels cold, and the pony finds that she relishes how it feels, like the rest of her body has been too hot for a while but she hasn’t noticed until now.
The doctor’s brows furrow and a deep crease forms between them, his eyes growing dark and confused.
“Her heart is beating, but…” he says quietly, his tone very foreboding, “I can barely detect it. It’s like it’s going too fast for me to hear properly…”
The mare’s gaze shifts to the pony now, whose expression is worn and terrified.
“What could that mean?”
Her voice is barely a whisper.
“I don’t know,” the doctor says, removing the object from her chest, “but… I know somepony I could call in to look at it. The only thing is she’ll have to be moved to a different facility. And… they don’t tend to accept visitors.”
The pony presses her hooves against her temple, her eyes shut tight, and for a while she is silent. Finally she says, her voice sounding slurred,
“I… will she… will she be alright if we don’t take her there? Can she heal on her own?”
“Yes,” the doctor says, nodding, “she doesn’t look great right now, but miraculously she’s healing very quickly. I’ve… never seen anything like it. She should be fine after a little while, but the matter of her heart is very uncertain. You should to rush her in as soon as you notice something off.”
The mare can notice the pony is a little excited, her eyes widening hopefully,
“When do you think I can take her home?”
“I’d estimate a week or so,” the doctor says, “or sooner. Depends on how fast she wants to be.”
The mare can tell he’s joking, but there’s something about the look in his eyes that suggests he means more with his statement than he’s letting on. She decides not to think about it though. For now, it doesn’t matter.
Soon, hopefully, things will start to make more sense.
It’s been three days since the mare awoke fully for the first time, and already she’s been feeling a drastic change in her health, proving the doctor’s theory. It’s likely she’ll be able to go home before the end of the week. She’s begun to talk now, and her headache is more or less gone, though a fuzziness still remains. The aching in her joints - in her basic everything - has receded tremendously. A miracle.
This morning, the pony - who the mare earlier learned is named Violet Verdure - is sitting by her bedside in the visitor’s chair, her starkly glimmering eyes filled with an almost impossible-looking warmth, the fondness in her gaze clashing with the sharpness so that her vivid mulberry iris appears to be sparkling. It makes the mare believe without a doubt that Violet loves her very much.
They watch one another for a long time, until the mare closes her eyes again and rests without sleeping. She opens them the moment she feels a hoof on her own.
“Hi there,” says Violet, her lips pursed in a sort of forced way.
“Hello,” says the mare, and she says nothing for a while longer, but then some questions bubble up, ones she’s been too tired to wonder until now.
“What… happened?”
Violet looks at her with a great sympathy, and the mural of her eyes shudders a little against brimming tears, but she quickly blinks them away.
“You - you were struck… by lightning,” Violet replies, then she bites her lip and her eyes narrow to force back more tears, “lucky to be alive, naughty you. You-” she laughs a little, and streams flow from her eyes now, unable to be held back, “-gave me quite a scare.” She slides her hoof along the mare’s cheek. “Silly girl.”
The mare smiles, but it is stifled by another question, and her face turns a little dark at its appearance. Violet notices, and tips her head to one side.
The mare sighs.
“You’re - you’re my mom, right?” she says.
Violet’s eyes widen, and she bites her lip once more, harder this time, as more tears flow. She only nods, small and nearly uncertain.
“Okay,” says the mare, “because I don’t…” a brief pause, her voice creaking, “I don’t remember anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she had amnesia?!”
The mare can hear Violet speaking to the doctor outside, her voice edged with fury but sounding muffled through her attempt to keep quiet.
The doctor sounds flustered, and the mare can imagine him raising a hoof in front of himself defensively as he says,
“There was a high probability that this would be the case… we just couldn’t be sure until she’d awoken.” there’s a moment of silence, then he adds almost out-of-character, “honest.”
A longer silence spans afterwards, and then they begin to speak in voices so quiet that the mare finds she can’t make anything out, though she can hear the concern drenched in their tones.
Finally the door opens gently, and Violet Verdure walks in, looking at the ground with a shadow cast over her expression. She makes it to the mare’s side and then sits in the chair. Her gaze remains locked on the ground.
“West?” the mare says out of nowhere, and Violet looks up abruptly, her glimmering eyes expectant.
The mare explains,
“West. You called me that I think. That’s my name?”
“Yes,” Violet says, nodding slowly, “yes. West Runner.”
“Oh,” the newly-kindled West murmurs, then speaks up more loudly, “why’d you name me that?”
Violet seems to flinch at this question, and West watches her curiously, trying to read anything further in order to understand why it bothers her, but can’t figure anything out.
“Well,” Violet starts carefully, the word like a breath, “you… when you were a filly… you would run around so quickly. Everywhere you went it was like you kicked up a storm. I would say, ‘run like the wind!’ like in those old western films, and… then it hit me. West Runner.”
“Why not ‘Wind Runner’?” West asks.
“Because it didn’t sound as good,” Violet replies, a small, warm smile creeping on her face as she runs her hoof through West’s mane.
A moment of quiet spans between them for a few seconds, then West pipes up again:
“When am I going to get out of here?”
Another smile passes upon Violet’s face like a flicker, gone as soon as it comes.
“Soon,”
She whispers.
Only a day later West feels almost completely well, and she’s half convinced that she has a new-car-smell. The doctor says that’s probably her lightning-burnt nostrils playing tricks on her senses. She’s standing in her little room all on her own, observing the white all around her, the windows covered with silk sheets tainted a pale green, the pillows on the bay window stuffed comfortably against the wall, a plaidish green themselves.
“Kinda tacky,”
She murmurs, though her eyes betray their interest.
“Ah, I missed that sarcasm,” Violet says from behind her, her voice tinged with a smile. West whirls around to face her and does an impatient jig, her hooves clattering against the floor.
“Am I ready?” she asks, a nearly electric impatience coursing through her.
“Goodness, everything about you is quick nowadays,” Violet comments, though there’s a very faint caprice West can detect in her tone; Yet, It’s so brief she’s barely sure it was there in the first place.
Violet continues, “they gotta get finished up with their paperwork and everything else. You know them… efficient as possible. Not a bad thing, mind you.” she adds, winking.
Immediately afterward a click comes from the door, followed by a small creak and a placid yet cheery-looking doctor on the other side, the same one that’s tended to West for as long as she’s been here.
“Thank you for everything,” Violet says, dipping her head.
“No problem,” the doctor replies, then his gaze flicks to West. She widens her eyes, feeling the she needs to say something.
“Oh, er, w-what’s your name?” she stutters, making something up on the fly, “so I can properly thank you?”
The doctor smiles and nods in greeting.
“Dr. Chiron Canter, miss,” he says, “pleasure to be of service.”
The walk home is the most interesting West believes she has taken in her life, though she doesn’t have any memory to compare it to. She watches in awe at the pompous trees with leaves that swirl in the brush as if magic lives inside them, and the peaceful, quirky buildings placed almost carelessly around the town, colored yellow and pink and sprouting with hay.
“Also tacky,”
She says under her breath, though Violet catches her eye and smirks in such a way that only a parent can muster, one that says, ‘you naughty girl, behave’, while still managing to be amused.
Soon Violet has brought them to their little home, one that looks about the same as all the rest, but because they live in it West feels it carries its own charm unique to all the others. Violet opens the door and gestures with her hoof game-show-model-like, as if showing her what she’s won, and to West it seems like a million bits.
It’s simple and small but beautiful and safe, and most of the furniture has a toned-down feel, one that could make a pony want to curl up and sleep.
“Not Rarity’s style, really,” Violet says quietly, “but I think our home is something she could learn to appreciate.”
West nods, too enchanted to wonder who Rarity is, taking in the creamy whites and chocolate-browns of the pillows and sofas and chairs, and the wallpaper colored a pale blue, with a few royal blue plaid-patterned diamonds trailing downwards like pillars in a simple castle.
There’s a staircase in the left-hoof corner coated in a white rug, leading up to some unfathomable unknown, a fairy-tale world.
“Your bedroom’s up there,” Violet says, killing the mystery.
West tips her head to one side and asks, “where do you sleep?”
“The couch,” Violet replies briskly, “the house is small enough that there’s just one bedroom. I let you take it.”
“Oh,” says West, “well… that was nice of you.”
Violet nods in thanks, though her smile is crooked, with some indecipherable emotion behind her gaze.
“Well,” she mutters to shove off the topic quickly, “you go get some rest. I’ll run the errands. Be right back, no worries.”
West raises an eyebrow as Violet shuffles out the door after hastily grabbing her indigo-colored saddlebag that holds a pendant at the center, bearing the symbol of a green, half-grown rose, with barely formed petals splayed in such a way that it looks as if it’s sharing sunlight with whatever is nearby, despite its own lack of nutrients. West realizes that it’s the same symbol as Violet’s cutie-mark.
The thwack of the door closing resounds in the house, and after attempting to ponder for a moment what truly just happened, West finds herself bored and climbs up the stairs, her legs a little wobbly at first, but it’s not too much trouble. She finds she relishes the feeling of the cushiony fluff of the rug all along the way, almost contemplating sleeping there instead.
She reaches the top and walks over to the only door, opens it, and gapes at the inside. It’s sort of cramped, but what decorates it fills the room’s charm and makes it look comfortable.
Most everything has a similar theme to the bottom floor, except without the browns; a blue bed with clouds on the comforter, four white pillows, a white dresser and windowpane. There’s a few plain dresses scattered on the ground, making West figure that she’s not too big on formal-wear. The room’s wall is a deeper blue color, a twilight-like shade, and West realizes right then that it’s her favorite. There’s a few succulents here and there and a small rose in the corner. Honestly, it’s just as simple as the bottom floor, and West isn’t sure why it charms her so much.
She closes the door behind her and finds a mirror attached, and within it the form of an unfamiliar pony, who she realizes is herself.
With the scrutiny of a virtuoso she notices that, like Violet, she has a ruffled mane that is framed with gentler strands around the side, though they’re colored a mixture of silverish-blue and garnet. Unlike Violet she has blue eyes that also lack vividity, failing to really stand out; her coat is a pale grey that could easily be mistaken for white.
She also notices a couple bruises here and there, though to her honest surprise she doesn’t appear all that worse for wear, as if she’d only toppled off a rock instead of been hit by lightning.
It’s only when her gaze shifts upward does she see her horn, looking broken and cracked.
Suddenly she hears a shout outside that causes her to jump slightly, and maybe it’s her imagination, but she feels as if some charged current fizzed through her whole body. She thinks that for a moment, in her reflection, her appearance had phased a little, like she’d slipped in and out of existence in a split second.
She treads toward the window to find a few fillies playing a game of tag, shrieking with delight. There’s a small sense of relief that squeezes her chest. Nothing to worry about.
Finally she turns and flops on the bed, closing her eyes and welcoming relaxation. She doesn’t remember when she falls asleep, but when she comes to, Violet is prodding her shoulder lightly.
“Evening, silly girl,” Violet says when she sees West open her eyes, “sorry to have to wake you up. I made dinner though; I figured you’d want some.”
West nods and follows her down, finding a bowl of salad and a few chocolates on the little counter that separates the living room from the kitchen. She seats herself on a little stool while Violet settles on the couch and begins to read.
“I’m glad to have you around,” Violet calls when West has begun eating, “it’s been a while.”
“How long?” West asks, and immediately there’s a tenseness that she can sense from Violet that is coming off in sharp waves. Finally there’s a reply:
“Two months.”
“What?” West is unable to hold back her exclamation.
“Two months,” Violet repeats, “you were in a coma. You came in and out a couple times, and at one point we thought you were-” she cuts herself off right there, then takes a deep breath and changes the course of her statement, “what… - what matters is you’re here now. And that’s all.”
West nods and chooses not to think ask about it anymore. They spend the rest of the time in silence, which seems to be a staple for them; yet, it’s a comfortable silence, one shared between to ponies very close, relishing one another’s company.
Later West spends her first night back home, and it’s one of the most peaceful things she’s felt likely her whole life.
“Since you have no friends, you’re going out with me today,” Violet sings, her voice echoing through the house in such a cheerful way it’s almost as if she’d never said anything remotely hurtful.
“I, um, okay,” is all West can respond, though deep down she wouldn’t really want to spend time with anypony else. Violet seems like the only one in the world who could care for her as deeply as she does.
“It’s a Girl’s Day Out,” the green-and-indigo pony explains, “we’re going to celebrate your first morning home. Trust me, it’s going to be beautilicious.”
“Beautilicious?” West repeats incredulously.
“Oh, sorry. I’ve been hearing too much from Pinkie Pie. Shouting at the top of her lungs in the middle of town, that pony. Didn’t seem like it was to anypony in particular. What the crazy-”
“Violet.”
“Oh, sorry,” Violet says as West cuts her off, then she lets out an audible squeal, “I’m just so excited - we’re going to have so much fun going out together…”
“I get it. I’m excited too,” West says, then hugs her briefly. Violet smiles at her with warmth, then suddenly her eyes betray a wild eagerness and she wraps her hoof around West’s before flying them both out the door like a madmare. Soon she’s tracking down their first stop, scouring the streets, and West is admittedly a little scared.
“You can let go now,” she utters, her eyes wide.
“No, no I can’t,” Violet says, “I’m not letting you go all day. Come on!”
And with only that minor warning, the crazed mare shoves West into the beginning target of her plans: the spa.
A pink mare with blue eyes and headband is at the front desk, looking entirely oblivious and tranquil despite the disruptive way that Violet made their entrance. It’s almost as if she’s used to this kind of thing.
“Jezz, khello,” says the mare in a bizarre accent that can potentially be marked false, but nopony has enough proof to say so, “vhelcom to de spa. Veddy nice to-see you. Vhat add yo’here ford?”
“Excuse me?” West says, pointing to herself, “are you offering me a car?”
A perplexed look comes upon the pony’s face.
“No,” she says.
“Ah, let me do the talking,” Violet breaks in, then beams at the Spa pony, suddenly businesslike, “yes, we’re here for the usual treatment. Just double it up this time. And take it slow; we’re here for the experience.” she turns and winks at West, who returns a nervous attempt at a smile.
“Jezz, jezz, I see,” says the Spa pony, “goot. Vell, I’ll be vit’yo in juzt a minute!”
“Yes, of course,” Violet says as the mare disappears from the desk into some room beyond it.
When West is sure the mare’s out of earshot, she whispers, “her accent gets worse the more she speaks.”
“Hey,” Violet says whilst nudging her scoldingly, “nopony’s perfect.”
Suddenly a shudder of static pulses along the fur of West’s hoof, and her neckfur stands on-end, her eyes wide. Violet’s smile disappears and with a concerned gaze she asks,
“Is everything alright?”
“Y-yeah, um,” West mutters, still stunned, “yeah, I just - I guess the air is really dry in here or something. Just kinda shocked me.”
Violet stares at her for a long time.
“Okay,” she says, “just let me know if you feel worse.”
West’s heart clenches as she detects a note of despair in the mare’s tone. She wraps her hoof around Violet’s shoulders.
“I’m fine. Trust me,” she says. Violet returns a weak smile, and a moment later the Spa pony has appeared again, nodding to them inside.
They’re first led to a hot tub; there is steam wafting from a vent cartoonishly surrounding the entire room and blotting West’s eyes. Suddenly it feels difficult to breath. Violet’s hoof touches her shoulder, and she hears a motherly voice reassure,
“Relax, West. It’s just something therapeutic we’re doing. It can’t hurt you.”
West nods, but the racing of her heart doesn’t recede; instead it intensifies, and something sparks around her hooves again. Very dry air, probably.
“West?” Violet says, and when there’s no response, she repeats more sternly, “West.”
West looks at the green-and-indigo pony, but something’s a little different. It almost looks like she’s speaking out of time; sloth-like.
Violet says in slow motion, snapping at the Spa pony only because of her heightened anxiety,
“Tone down the steam, will you? I can barely see her!”
“Ze steam is not veddy bad,” the Spa pony stammers, “it is juzt like alvays.”
West looks down at that moment, sees her hooves moving quickly, her body appearing like it did in the mirror the other day. Then suddenly the sparking, the heart racing, the phasing - it all stops, and she lets out a quick breath, stirring up every ounce of her will in order to keep herself from hyperventilating. Something went very wrong just then.
The Spa pony looks at her curiously.
“If ze steam bath make you nervous,” she says, “you can go outside, go walk. You can vait ford ‘jor friend to’be done, den continue vit ze rest.”
She nods to Violet, and West follows the Spa pony’s gaze, her heart plummeting. Violet looks gaunt, terrified, but appears to think that the Bad-Accent-Mare’s suggestion is a good one, and she presses a hoof to West’s shoulder.
“Go for a walk, like she said,” Violet whispers, “and try to feel better.”
West nods, and before she knows it she’s already out of the Spa, taking in long deep breaths, and exhaling just the same, almost instinctively, like she’d practiced trying to get calm many times before the accident.
She walks along the streets, looking around the town, watching ponies mill about the fountain that is set at the center and all around the rest of the place, as if they have nothing better to do. It looks like such a peaceful town; West feels a twinge of envy, a belief that she doesn’t fit in.
She shoves it away and looks at the ground, the sky, the structures, and can’t help but feel like her vision is turning a little blurry around the edges. A thin prick of static touches her hooves, her chest, her face, and something presses through her veins, alerts them, makes her blood rush and her heart race.
The world is turning a tint of blue and grey, and her vision is going tunnel-like, and suddenly her walking turns into something indescribable, the ground below her changing in an instant, the scenery around her flitting every second, like skipping through a movie at full speed; like she’s passing by quicker than light.
Suddenly she’s lost control, can’t feel her hooves against the ground, her heart lumped against the back of her chest, pressed to her lungs, her stomach leaping, reminiscent of the effects of a nightmare rollercoaster ride.
She’s thrown toward the ground and in an instant has made impact, everything going black. She can feel her body tumbling, lunging, falling, bulldozing through the ground, dirt splaying her body, until she finally stops at the rising of the ground, a little hill, and is rested against it, utterly battered and utterly unconscious.
That darned beeping sound. The walk-up song of her life, haunting her ears, ringing through her empty dreamless sleep, forcing her awake. To her surprise she can crack open her eyes without much trouble, and she can see in front of her two unfamiliar ponies dressed in white, one smiling and one frowning.
“Wakey-wakey, eggs n’ bakey,” says the smiling one, “you’re alive, good for you.”
“Hush it,” the frowning one scolds, “she just had a horrible accident. Show some sympathy.”
“I’m not being not sympathetic,” the smiling one says.
“Well, you could at least try to be professional.”
“You and I both know that the Great Master Yo-pony-da once said, ‘do or do not, there is no try’ - and you and I both know that I do not.”
“Gosh, you’re stupid.”
“Ooh, I’m offended.”
West breaks into the banter at that moment, her eyes wide now.
“Uh?” she whispers, “where am I? And… who are you?”
“You’re in the infamously brilliant hospital known as Sataur Experiments,” the smiling one replies, his eyebrow raised, “and I… am your father.”
West holds in a gasp, and her voice is breathless as she says, “...you are?”
“Aha, oh, no… uh, sorry,” says the smiling one, whose smile disappears in that moment but only briefly, “I didn’t actually know you would fall for that… uh… my bad. If I reference Galactic Siege, my mind just gets going and I-”
“Look,” West interrupts, sitting up in her bed with a pinch of amazement at the fact that she’s not aching all over, “I need to know what happened.”
“Yeah, about that,” the smiling one begins to say.
“You were in an accident,” the frowning one says, her face turning concerned, “but the reason why is... a little impossible.”
“Well, clearly not,” the smiling one says.
“I… remember… feeling like I was going really fast,” West says, pressing a hoof to her head, “and then I lost control or something…”
“Yes, well, you see,” the frowning one murmurs, “you actually were going really fast. The truth is--”
“You’ve got super speed,” the smiling one breaks in, and his counterpart shoves him furiously.
West only stares, her eyes huge and terrified.
“I-I … I… excuse me?!”
“Yeah, yeah, so, we got the records from that doctor who took care of you after you got struck by lightning,” the smiling one begins to explain, “and we’re really smart, so we figured out what--”
“Hold on, he gave you the records?” West exclaims, “wait, how did I even get here?”
“Your - your… uh… Violet Verdure,” the frowning one stammers, “she got the doctor to take you here.”
West suddenly remembers Dr. Canter discussing with Violet a potential hospital she could be transferred to, and against her understanding, tears begin to brim the corners of her eyes.
“Hey, no, no! No sadness!” the smiling one says, in his own cheerful manner of concern, “you’re alright. In fact, you’re more than alright.”
He pats her head.
“You wanna know why?”
West looks up at him and nods. His smile grows broader.
"Cause you’ve got super speed.”
“Shut up!” the frowning one hisses, shoving him even harder.
“Okay, but, look,” West mutters, “what’s going on? I just got in an accident, right? But I feel totally fine.”
“Yeah, I was gonna explain that, but miss frown-right-side-up… never mind. Look, here’s the thing. It all started with your incident with the lightning,” the smiling one starts.
West lifts an eyebrow.
“Look, so, your body was being overloaded with electric energy and you were like, totally going to die, so your magic took over. Okay, see, because you’re a unicorn, your horn-magic was amping up for a healing spell, because your body is naturally designed to rebuild at any cost. So your unicorn magic was overloading in order to speed up your healing process so that you’d survive the attack. But, when that happened, all your magic transferred into that speed, so that not only was your body-healing getting faster, but everything else was.”
The smiling one seems completely immersed in the physics of this event, as if he lives for these kinds of things: In the theoretical - in the impossible.
West, as she processes all this information, is left dumbfounded and wide-eyed, and can’t help but reflect on looking at her broken horn in the mirror earlier, with a wave of sadness following the memory. She’d lost her magic - but, at least, she had gained something probably infinitely better as well. Yet, it had proved already to be very dangerous.
“Hey,” she says, “do you think there’s a way I should try to control these things? Uh, mister…?”
“Oh! How could I forget to introduce ourselves,” the smiling one shouts, “I’m Cisc and -” he gestures to the frowning one, “- that’s Ataraxy.
“Cisc?” says West Runner, curious as to the name.
“My parents were the technology geeks of all geeks,” Cisc replies, “it stands for Complex Instruction Set Computer. Shows how much they cared, honestly. And -- to your previous question, I think you should stay with us for a little bit longer so that we can figure things out.”
After this comment Ataraxy in a trilogy of actions following Cisc’s comment, nods, sighs, and leaves the room.
“Don’t mind her,” a new voice suddenly appears. West’s ears perk up in surprise, and she turns to find Dr. Canter, who finishes his thought, “she cares in her own way.”
Author's Note
So, I wrote this ages and ages ago. Months and months. Probably a year. I finished the last little bit tonight. I've been holding it off because I've had such a major creative block going on, what with my anxiety, depression, and my English teachers at College outright thinking I've no business writing at all. So my motivation has been utterly killed and I'm left really with only the thought that I'm actually a terrible writer.
But I have to know that's a lie. Because if I believe I am a terrible writer, I'll never actually write again. So I have to believe that my teachers are wrong, my depression is wrong, I am wrong in thinking I'm bad too.
If you're thinking, "wow, this story is similar to the Flash", that's because it's supposed to be. I fell in love with the show and it's actually got me through so much and helped me not feel depressed/anxious. I wrote this when I was feeling really passionate about the show and wanted write a character who was a speedster that represented me.
Obviously I wanted the story to be unique, though. However the "smiling one" being called "Cisc" was total luck. He was based off Cisco and I couldn't find a fitting name, until I discovered CISC was a thing, and realized that I just kinda had to name him that.
Anyway I'm going to try and get back into writing, so that means I'm only going to write for me. That means I'm not going to care if you hate my writing or think I'm a copycat or whatever.
And If the paragraphing is off on this story, who the heck cares about that silliness? This is for fun, and I'm going to write, and honestly I have no idea how anyone actually expects me to paragraph. I've been getting that feedback on this site and I have no idea what it means and frankly I could care less.
I'm going to write and if it's not perfect in your eyes, that's fine.
Anyway I needed to finally just get this story out there because I was done waiting and I just ,, felt the urge to get it out.
Hope you enjoy it. And if you don't, that's fine too.
