“I knew this day would come.” The taller talking horse says. She carries herself with a quiet, effortless dignity-- a sense of authority that makes her gold decorations something of an afterthought. Quite an extravagant afterthought, given on how the market back home's been going.
“You did?” Says the purple one. She's fidgety, nervous-- which makes her more dangerous. The purple one was the one who got the drop on you, blasting you into unconsciousness mere minutes after your arrival. Admittedly, you probably shouldn't have pulled the gun right off the bat, but one's judgement tends to be a bit impaired after being blasted through a rift in the space-time continuum.
And now, you sit in some sort of marble palace, chained and gagged, at the tender mercy of talking magical horses. As far as you can see, there's only the two of them present-- they likely want to keep your presence secret, and are no doubt willing to go to extreme lengths to ensure such a thing. This isn't the strangest place you've set foot in, but it's close. Talking (and occasionally flying and/or energy blasting) horses? They'll never believe you back home. At least if it were, say, talking gorillas, they'd have thumbswith which to build the fancy palaces.
You have thumbs.
“He fits the profile.” The tall one says.
“There's a profile?” Says the other.
“Biped. Green coloration. Question-mark logo.” The white horse (or unicorn, or whatever it is) turns her regal attention onto you, her gaze stern enough to make you squirm. Talking horse or no, she's certainly got the 'threatening glare' thing down. “It has to be one of ... them.”
“One of what?” The purple one says.
“It's complicated, Twilight.”
“So tell me.” The purple one-- Twilight, apparently –balances her tone between annoyance and pleading. “Please?”
The taller one sighs. “I ... I hoped you would never have to deal with one of ... these, but I should have known better.”
“Well, whatever it is, it's here now.”
If it weren't for the tightly-wrapped band of cotton currently stuffed into your mouth, you'd correct them that you're a he, not an it. But, well, circumstances.
Things could be better.
“You've traveled to alternate dimensions, Twilight.” The tall one says.
Ah, that explains it.
Mostly.
“I have. But I didn't see anyone-- anything like that on the other side of the mirror.”
“That's because it's not from the mirror.” The taller one starts to pace, and you follow her with your eyes. “Think back to your dimensional theory. While there are infinite potential variations on any given timeline, certain dimensions will align themselves along a sort of parallel development.”
You listen.
You plan.
You are good at these things.
“Which is why I met different versions of my friends when I went through the mirror.” Twilight says, nodding. “But that still doesn't explain ... this.” She gestures to you with a dismissive hoof.
“I'm getting there. You see, at certain points, about once every few centuries, the quantum harmonics align so that I'm able to speak with ... myself. Several of myselves, actually.”
“Wait.” The purple one's eyes begin to gleam with childish, adoring enthusiasm. “Are you saying there's a Council of Infinite Celestias?”
“Nothing so formal, I'm afraid,” says Celestia. “But when I-- we-- it's complicated –get the chance, we ... chat. Gossip, even. Though sometimes the conversation takes a ... darker, turn.”
“How so?”
“As, in quite an alarming number of timelines, there come stories of ... these. The going theory is that they're some kind of extradimensional parasite, latching onto primary timelines to twist them to their own ends.”
Well, that's just rude.
Celestia continues, staring out of one of the tall windows with a harrowed, thousand-yard stare. “Some of them are seemingly benign, even helping their respective Equestrias. Others are harbigners of untold horrors, the sort of chaos that would match that of Discord or Tirek. Others still try to lead quiet and peaceful lives. And an ... alarming number of them have motives that are ... laviscous, in nature. Often in disturbingly specific ways.”
“What?” Twilight gasps, absolutely scandalized. She whips her gaze to you, staring in abject horror. “You mean this thing wants to ... with ponies? Ugh, I think I'm going to be sick.”
For the first time, you agree with Twilight.
“We call them Anon.” Celestia says, thankfully changing the subject. “I believe the term comes from the Old Equestrian term for 'soon.' A reminder that this can happen, or perhaps will happen ... eventually. Inevitably.” She shakes her head, rueful. “I should have known-- should have prepared for this. But I had hoped we'd be lucky, and we'd never have to deal with one of them.”
“So what do we do now?” Twilight says, furrowing her brow with determined and heroic purpose that certainly cannot bode well for you. “If this Anon--” She makes the term an epithet. “--is so dangerous, how can we protect Equestria? Do we banish him to the moon? Turn him to stone? Send him to Tartarus? The Elements of Harmony are still in the vault, aren't they?”
Ah. There it is.
You stand, letting the manacles slip off of your wrists, clattering to the floor in a hellacious racket. Hands free, you pull the gag out of your mouth, and clear your throat. “I'm afraid, ladies, that I must offer an alternate option.”
The both of them turn, horns already aglow with arcane energy, but you're ready for them this time. You snap your hands out, and the concealed launchers in your sleeves activate with twin puffs of smoke. Two tubes of kevlar-weave fabric snake out, each one closing around the horn of the unicorn-creatures. The tubes then automatically entwine around one another, until both Twilight and Celestia are staring at each other, eye to eye, their horns ensnared by your brilliantly designed gadget.
“What? How!?” Twilight flaps her wings as she tugs at her binding, only serving to tighten its grip. Celestia, meanwhile, just braces her hooves, glaring at you from the corner of her eye.
“Oh, just a variation on the Chinese finger trap of my own devising. Though I suppose you could call it an Equestrian Horn Trap now, hm?”
“But ... the chains!” Twilight says.
“Oh, those? Please. A lock is nothing but a simple puzzle-- which is something of a specialty of mine.” You nudge the pile of steel links with one polished shoe.
“Let Twilight go.” Celestia says, finally. “I'll do anything you want, just don't hurt--”
“Please, spare the heroics, Celestia.” You shake your head. “As to be honest, I don't bear either of you any ill will at all. I'm just as flummoxed as you are-- but, well, since I'm here, I might as well make the best of it. So tell me: when is pure gold stronger than iron?”
Celestia and Twilight stare at you, uncomprehending.
You sigh, and roll your eyes. "When it's a steal."
You reach over and pluck the tiara from Celestia's head, quick enough that she doesn't get the chance to buffet you with those wings of hers. The tiara weighs heavy in your hand-- real gold, sure enough. The single, thumb-sized gem set in it is probably worth even more than the metal. Not that it matters much-- the monetary value is just an easy way to keep score.
“Now, about that vault ... “ You say. But then--
Wait.
There.
Up in the vaulted ceiling, the faintest flutter of shadow. Lord knows how anyone could find shadows in a place so sunny and bright and saccharine as this, but if anyone could--
A flash of metal whirls through the air, slicing through the trap holding Celestia and Twilight's horns together. The matte-black throwing star embeds itself in the tile floor, and as soon as you get a look at it, your heart begins to race.
Him!
You sprint for the door, but there's a billow of cape and all of a sudden he's just there. Tall. Cowled. Angry.
He starts punching you.
That's the way it usually goes.
You make a few swings of your own, even going so far as to clip the side of his head with a surprise left cross, but fisticuffs never were your forte. He grabs you by your tie and slams you into a stone pillar, hard enough to make your bowler tumble off of your head. Desperate, you try for the rubix-cube time bomb you keep in your jacket, but damn if he doesn't solve the thing (thus deactivating the explosive) with one hand, holding you in place with the other.
Honestly, it's a magnificent performance.
And then he's got the cuffs (the tamper-proof ones with electronic locking mechanisms that can't be picked with a hairpin) on you, and it's pretty much over.
Deep down, you expected this part, too.
Celestia and Twilight, however, just stare, wide-eyed and confused.
“Is this ... part of the profile too?” Twilight asks.
“I'm afraid not.” Celestia says.
“I believe this belongs to you, Your Highness.” The Bat scoops Celestia's tiara up with one blue-gloved hand, and offers the crown to her with no small amount of gallantry. Brown noser.
“Why, thank you ... sir?” Celestia says, using some sort of telekinesis to set the crown back in place. “I'm afraid I didn't get your name.”
“I'm Batman.” He says, because of course he does.
“You'll have to forgive me ... Batman, but this is all quite unexpected.”
“My apologies, Your Highness. Nigma's criminal cunning can't be taken lightly. It's a good thing I was able to get to the Gotham Institute of Particle Sciences shortly after he did-- who knows what he would've done if I hadn't gotten here.”
“We could have handled him.” Twilight says, indignant.
“I don't doubt that, miss.” Batman rumbles. “But sometimes it's better to leave things to the professionals.”
“Professionals? Hey!” Twilight blurts.
But Batman's already hauling you to your feet. He touches a button on that lousy utility belt of his, and a white portal opens up with a resounding 'BOOM.' “As much as I'd love to stay and learn more about your strange home, there's a cell in Arkham with this criminal's name on it. Maybe we'll have time to get to know each other better next time.”
And then it's through a portal again. . The institute's in the same kind of shambles as when you left it-- overloaded molecular accelerators tend to make a bit of a mess, and not just on the space-time continuum. You're back in Gotham, where things are bleak and grimy and absolutely nothing is in pastel.
Home.
You take in a deep breath of smog-tinged air, and you laugh.
“What is it, Nigma?” The Bat narrows his eyes. He never had a sense of humor.
“Just a thought, really.”
“Talk.”
“When is a small SUV like a bad comic book?”
