The moon shone its cold, cold light down upon the plantation complex that was Sweet Apple Acres. The stars gazed down as well, eternal, indifferent to the agonies and ecstasies that pervaded the lands of Equestria.

Time, measured as ever by the solar stone dials and complex mechanisms created by the speaking folk of Equus, bent and ebbed from the approach of forces beyond the understanding of mortal kind.

And space, that final frontier, remained as always dark and deep, ever drawing dreamers and explorers alike into its eternal, cold embrace, even as it inspired the courageous to trek on, ever on, until, looking back, their own home galaxies seemed only a silver wisp. For such daring souls, the clarion call of the unknown beckoned to them like a siren. For, even though the slightest misstep might mean death or worse, they knew that the risks must be taken, the challenges must be faced, and that life, yes, even life itself, was nothing without the bittersweet drought of risk.

Most people, of course, were more sensible than that, and stayed home.

But Apple Bloom’s mind was on other things.

Her initial plan had failed, of course. She accepted that. But it had failed only because she had underestimated her competitor. Which, in hindsight, had been uncharacteristically foolish of her. After all, the greater the prize, the greater the opposition. Such was the way of the world.

And there was no greater prize than Sweetie Belle.

But it was a poor magician, indeed, who could not adjust to new circumstances. And a shabby scientist who could not adapt their ideas to new needs. And Apple Bloom, mistress of earth magic and maker of Equus’ greatest golems of earth and stone, was neither poor nor shabby. She was, in fact, quite well-to-do, plus whatever the opposite of shabby might have been.

She glanced briefly at the thesaurus on her workbench, then dismissed it with a shake of her perfect coiffure. Tonight, she had more pressing concerns.

Her apparatuses sparked and flared, her green-tinted goggles protecting her eyes from the galvanic forces she had harnessed as she continued to forge her latest creation. Her plan’s essential heart remained the same, despite a shift in its specifics:

Step One: Defeat Scootaloo.

Step Two: Comfort Sweetie Belle.

Step Three: Snuggle Sweetie Belle.

The green and amber light of her arcane power flickered and flared against the stone walls of her sanctum as she worked feverishly throughout the night, seeking to bring both her dreams and her creation to life.

Kirk looked around his guest quarters, nodding to himself with satisfaction.

Beaming down to Equus-1 had definitely been the right call, all the way around. Diplomatic relations seemed to be going well, Bones was satisfyingly flustered, and Spock…

Kirk grinned. If seeing Spock with his family – with his daughter – cost Kirk his command, it was a price he’d gladly pay. Which wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d say about anything… but then, that was before they’d beamed down to the pony planet.

Of course, their hosts had said there were a variety of other sapient species on the planet, and there was no way of knowing just how dangerous any or all of them might be. Then there were the ruling pony princesses, who, it seemed, weren’t themselves ponies at all. Not to mention some of the implications of their…

He paused his contemplations. Relatives? Ancestry? Could you really use such terms when discussing beings like them?

He shrugged happily as he removed his shirt, preparing to shower. It hardly mattered. And anyway, whatever came their way, he knew he and his crew could handle it.

Kirk chuckled to himself. Rules, regulations, laws, more rules… Not that a society didn’t need laws, and not that a ship didn’t need regulations.

But… quarantine? This beautiful planet?

Really?

James Kirk had nothing but respect for the vast majority of admirals and councilors that ran Starfleet. Some of them he even counted as friends.

But sometimes they just worried too damned much.

It coalesced into the cramped confinements of three-dimensional space, folding itself into the narrow stream of causal chronology.

There. Not… “far,” as the concept went. Not far at all.

The thing knew it would adjust to ideas like “far”, “before,” “after,” and “soon,” well, soon enough.

It had before, after all.

It writhed and slithered towards its goal, empty space blistering around it as it went, as it continually amended itself into a more and more harmonious…

Ah, yes. “Form.” Another skill to be re-learned.

But the thing prided itself on its adaptability, and it shifted itself quickly into the form it had preferred before, when visiting the three-dimensional realm.

Its most comfortable form, if not its most requested.

Curious, though. The sun and the moon, it remembered fondly. But it didn’t recall any metal objects around the disk-shaped planet where its progeny dwelt. Nor the unfamiliar, three-dimensional minds that occupied said object.

It checked its point of entry again, just to be certain. Yes, this was definitely after it had been here last. Its progeny had requested such an imposition of order, timeless ages past. And it had always acquiesced, even before they’d asked. It was ever the bastion of courtesy.

To them, at least.

Well, a little bit anyway.

Still, there was the matter of the metal object before it. Curious and playful, it approached.

The object was shielded, technically. But not in any way that mattered. And the minds within weren’t protected at all.

How lovely.

Gibbering and chuckling to itself, it slipped inside.

Feeling clean and refreshed, Kirk had donned a golden robe from his room’s wardrobe. Somehow, it fit perfectly. He could only imagine how much Spock must have enjoyed exploring the various puzzles that Equus had offered him when he was first here.

Then, he grinned. Of course, some riddles were more fascinating and delightful to unfold than others. And the best that any planet had to offer had delicious lips and beautiful eyes, be they green, blue, brown…

…or gold.

He’d just started to pour himself a lemon fizz when there was a gentle knock on his door.

“Come,” he said reflexively.

The door opened – curious, he thought, that the door should be the same size and shape as those in most biped-oriented architecture – and Ditzy stepped in, lovely as ever.

“Oh,” she said softly. “You’ve changed garments. I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” he assured her with a smile. “How can I assist you?”

“Well, um… actually, this is a little awkward. I’m really not sure how to say this.”

Kirk’s gentle smile became even more assuring. “I assure you, whatever you have to say, I’ll help however I can,” he gently assured her with his most assuringly gentle assurance.

“I just… I’ve never said this to anypony before,” she almost whispered, turning away. “I’ve never needed to. And now that I’m here, I’m not sure how I can.”

“Oh, Ditzy,” he murmured. He knelt down, gently turning her head to face him. “Beautiful lady of the golden eyes and dancing smile. You can tell me anything.”

Ditzy Doo blushed prettily, then made herself meet his eyes with her own.

“You probably shouldn’t say such things,” she said. “We scarcely know each other.”

“In some civilizations in the universe, to acknowledge beauty is simply good manners,” he replied softly.

“It is?”

“It is. And those are some of my... favorite civilizations.”

“They sound… very civilized,” she breathed.

“Oh,” he assured her assuringly, “they are.”

For a moment, they stayed like that: the mare, standing; the man, kneeling. Neither one of them breaking the silence.

Finally, Kirk spoke.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

Ditzy looked down, then bashfully raised her eyes to his again, golden and inviting. Her voice scarcely more than a silken whisper filled with promises.

“We may have to execute one of your crew,” she said.

Kirk’s train of thought did not so much derail as actually blast itself off from its tracks and lunge hysterically into a buttercup-laden field.

“I’m sorry,” he blinked, “what did you say?”

“Really, I should be the one to apologize,” she sighed, looking down again. “News like this should come from a friend or a loved one. But palace guards caught a human – at least, we think he’s a human – in attire much like your own in mid-slaughter, and it took a dozen unicorns to finally blast him into sedation. Princess Celestia is less than pleased…”

Much of the beautiful mare’s speech faded in Kirk’s mind as his train of thought continued to plow its way through the cheery golden field, holding buttercups under its chin, tootling, Do I like butter? Do I like butter? Do I? Do I?

“…at least, we think he’s one of your crew?” she was continuing on an uncertain note. “It’s hard to be sure. He was very, um, equicidal. The palace guards couldn’t really interview him while they were being butchered, of course, and afterwards it would have been even more difficult for them. So, if you and your friends could come down to the dungeon and…”

I do like butter! I do like butter! I do! I do! I do…!

She cocked her head to one side. “Jim?”

Kirk’s head snapped back, and he shook it a few times to clear it.

“I do like butter,” he managed.

“What?”

“I mean, I think I’d better!” he amended quickly. “Yes. I’d… butter had. Better had! Yes. Right. Absolutely. Please, thank the princesses for their courtesy and their restraint, and I will give my most sincere apology in person. But yes, you’re right. I should, um, investigate the matter. Immediately.”

Ditzy Doo nodded. “Good. Thanks for understanding.”

“Of course. You have your duties, and I have mine… speaking of which, would you excuse me while I change?”

“Oh, of course!” she exclaimed. “Do forgive me!” And as soon as she’d spoken, the mare had fairly bolted out the door, closing it behind her.

Recovering quickly, Kirk considered this as he dressed, his clothing having been magically cleaned by some mechanism of the wardrobe.

Odd, he thought, that kind of reaction from a culture of nudists. Or maybe, near-nudists? Did Pony culture have a taboo against watching someone change clothes, while nudity and formal attire were both fine? Or was she just acting in consideration of what she thought were his own culture’s traditions?

Hm. He’d have to ask Spock, he decided, pulling on his boots. Half Vulcan, half Earth-human, and the son of diplomats, surely one of the first things he’d have nailed down during his last stay would have been the local customs.

Leonard McCoy smiled and nodded to the native ponies as he passed them, usually receiving likewise silent greetings in return. It was odd, dealing with a whole species of people who were shorter than him. Most aliens hit around human height range, or taller.

Not that he had any problems with shorter folks. And the ponies weren’t even smaller than humans, really. Just quadrupedal. It was just… it felt rude to expect other folks to crane their necks to look at you, and ruder to kneel down to eliminate the height difference. The first one felt like he was putting on airs, and the second like he was treating them like children.

Of course, with examples like Apollo and Doctor Keniclius, maybe he was just a little biased. Anyway, the ponies didn’t seem to mind. Probably he shouldn’t either.

At length, he found the hallway that led to the royal chambers. A long, graven stone corridor, he supposed it should have struck him as primitive. But with the ornately carved smooth stone and the gentle glow provided by crystals in golden sconces to either side, it simply struck him as beautiful.

A traditional beauty, he supposed. An ancient beauty, maintained by a reverence for the past and converted more and more over the centuries from extravagance to a harmonic blend of function and art.

Meanwhile, he thought, you scratch the surface, and that same tradition still holds a power over life and death that defies any claim to either loveliness or logic.

Small wonder Spock had fit in so well.

Which wasn’t fair, he chided himself for easily the thousandth time. He liked Spock, and he respected him. Spock was a good friend. And, in his own rigidly controlled way, even a loving one.

But something about that cold, rigid control just drove McCoy up a god-damned tree sometimes. And damned if he knew why.

Maybe I’m just jealous, he thought with a sigh. Maybe I can’t stand that green-blooded logic of his because, deep down, I know he’s got a level of self-control that I’ll never have.

Which also isn’t fair of me. To either of us.

Then, he shrugged.

Then again, maybe I’m just getting old.

Sometime after the hundredth or so apology that Bones had offered following some racist rant or other, Spock had offered to teach him the rudamentaries of his people’s philosophy. He’d also given McCoy a copy of The Teachings of Surak for his birthday. A few months later, he’d asked the doctor how he was enjoying the book.

Well, to be honest with you, Spock, I’m still working on Chapter One, McCoy had reluctantly replied. It’s well written, don’t get me wrong. But I’m having a lot of trouble even understanding it.

He’d been half-expecting some expressionless snipe about emotional humans or something. But the Vulcan had merely raised an eyebrow as he nodded, saying, Then you are reading it correctly, Doctor.

Even then, McCoy hadn’t been sure how much of that gift had been meant as a gesture of goodwill and how much as a quiet joke. Spock had a sense of humor, however deadpan, protests to the contrary be damned. But the old country doctor was pretty sure it had been both, and to this day the tome was on the small shelf of physical books in his quarters.

And it seemed to him they’d been better friends ever since.

At length, McCoy contemplated the door before him: deep, rich hues of blue and black, lined with silver and inlaid with what looked like moonstone.

“Gee,” he muttered, “I wonder who could live here.”

Seeing no chime or call button on or around the door, McCoy hesitated, then rapped gently on the door itself.

Spock’s reply from within was immediate. “Come in.”

Bones opened the door, took a step inside… and froze, completely thunderstruck by the tableau around him.

The long, lit tapers in elegant candelabras, illuminating, flickering. The ornate silver braziers filling the room with scented mist. The black light posters on the walls.

The lava lamp.

The smell of incense, jasmine tea, brownies... and, if he wasn’t mistaken, some very high grade hashish.

And, reclining on a long couch at the opposite end of the room, the two of them. Spock and Luna. Lounging, legs entangled, completely nude and exposed, sharing a hookah.

Mortally embarrassed, McCoy shifted his gaze to the richly embroidered rug at his feet.

“Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt…”

Spock quirked one eyebrow.

“I am only smoking a hookah,” he said.

Now examining the ceiling, McCoy said nothing, his cheeks flooding crimson.

“Come now, Doctor. As ship’s surgeon, you have seen me without clothing before.”

“Dammit, Spock, that’s not—”

Then the doctor sighed, determinedly regaining at least a little of his composure, crossing his arms as he continued to face elsewhere.

“Yeah, well, anyway, there’s been a thing,” he grumped. “Our guide said we could investigate first, since apparently a human was caught whooping his way through the palace, attacking ponies right and left…”

“I fail to see how such an unlikely occurrence necessitates my being present—”

“…with a sword, Spock.”

“Ah.” The Vulcan gave a slow nod, suddenly completely serious. “I see.”

Turning to his lady, he said, “Luna, k'hat'n'dlawa, will you excuse me please?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

She held out a hoof, and he touched it tenderly with two fingers.

“Um, I’ll tell Jim you’ll be along,” McCoy muttered, closing the door behind him as he left.

He stood for a moment, just outside the opulent door, cheeks still burning, holding his face in one hand. What the hell was wrong with Spock? What the merry, bloody, blue-eyed hell was that pointy-eared hobgoblin even thinking…?

Then, Doctor Leonard McCoy began to grin. Then to chuckle. And, finally, to laugh.

“God dammit, Spock,” he managed at last, “you fucking gremlin.”

And, shaking his head, still laughing, he began his trek towards the lower levels of the palace.

As soon as the door closed, Luna’s composure broke, and her laughter exploded out of her like the merriment of a thousand silver bells.

“Spock, you absolute troll,” she said.

Another being might have laughed in return. Spock, on the other hand, simply seemed to consider her. Though to one who knew what to look for – as Luna did – his eyes were distinctly smiling.

“I categorically have no idea to what you could possibly be referring,” he responded with unassailable dignity.

Then, as the Night Princess continued to giggle, he reluctantly untangled himself from her and began gathering his clothing from where it lay scattered across the room.

The captain looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. There was Bones, moving rapidly down the stone dungeon steps to join him and Ditzy Doo in the rough-hewn corridor below.

“Something funny, Bones?” Kirk asked.

“Nope. Not a damned thing.”

“Well? Where’s Spock?”

The good doctor, meanwhile, was studiously examining the walls and ceiling of the subterranean prison around them, hands clasped behind his back.

“Um, yeah,” Bones said. “He’ll be along.”

At length, Mister Spock arrived where his two friends and their guide awaited him.

The palace dungeon (because of course there’s a dungeon, Bones thought) was far below the rest of the palace, a byproduct of the excavation of stone used to build most of the palace’s upper floors, as well as later mining for crystals and other resources.

It was like what one might see in some fantasy vid, only larger and more ancient. Dust and cobwebs were thick, the trail left by guard ponies and their prisoner showing the way as clearly as if the team had been given a map. Even Ditzy Doo had taken on a more somber air, looking around herself uncertainly as they continued their descent.

Finally, they approached the huge, iron door, rusted red with untold years of disuse. The corridor leading to it was lined with unicorn guards, easily twenty of them, all standing at attention. At Ditzy’s nod, one of the closest produced a golden key, and pointed it at the door.

There was an exchange of light, an azure glow shooting from the key to the door, then to the face of the guard, then back to the door again. There was the sound of a series of locks and bars being turned or slid across on the other side, and the door slowly opened with a long, laborious creak.

The cell within was massive, fully twenty feet on every side. The walls, floor, and ceiling had been carved from the living stone of the mountain itself. There was nothing within but the prisoner and his restraints.

The prisoner, meanwhile, was chained to the far wall. The human wore no shirt, but he was otherwise clothed in Starfleet uniform attire. He hung upside-down, suspended by all four limbs. As the captain entered, he drew his heels towards one another, raising his entire body along the wall in the process.

“Commander Sulu, reporting for duty, sir!” he declared delightedly.

“At ease, Mister Sulu,” Kirk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Immediately, the smaller human shifted his stance, his feet spreading farther apart again, his head dipping back down as he did. His mad grin remained, eternal.

“Status report,” the captain said.

“I have determined that this planet is populated by intelligent ponies, sir!” Sulu proclaimed happily. “I was able to dispatch over fifty of them before I realized that they are completely non-hostile!”

“I see,” Kirk said miserably, covering his eyes with his hand. “As you were.”

Behind him, McCoy cocked an eyebrow.

“Uhura?” He asked.

“Uhura,” Kirk confirmed, unmoving.

“It would seem most advisable that we contact the Enterprise, before the ship’s acting commanding officer takes further action,” Spock observed.

“I think you’re right,” Kirk nodded. Turning to Ditzy, he asked, “Your pardon, but might we have access to our communicators? Apparently one of my officers became concerned about our absence, and…”

He paused, turning to his medical officer with a sudden frown.

“Bones, just how long have we been here?”

Harry Mudd had no idea just how long he had been there.

Since the alien had materialized in his cell, time had become, for lack of a better word… soft. Indistinct. Malleable, perhaps… but if so, malleable only at the whim of what sat before him.

At least, so far.

He glanced at the entry to his cell. Normally, he’d be able to see the security guard on duty – a lovely Orion lass when he’d last been able to tell, with a depressingly high tolerance for the patented Mudd charm – along with some of the corridor, the empty cell across the way, and so forth.

Now, though, the entryway to his cell was a shimmering, silver field. Whether a deliberate choice by his guest, or just a by-product of its interference with time, he couldn’t be sure. Meanwhile, the bed, the table, even the view screen were gone. The entire interior of his cell, in fact, had undergone a dramatic shift somewhere along the line.

He was seated in an uncomfortably narrow chair, facing a desk of real wood, or something close enough to it. His greatest comfort was that he was, at least, properly attired. His royal blue tunic and red coat with epaulettesperfectly complimented his noble girth. Red-striped trousers with gold sash and fine chevalier boots completed the image. Plus, of course, his signature handlebar mustache, freshly waxed and ready for the ladies.

Not what some others might consider formal wear, perhaps. But a space-faring gentleman knows to set his own high standards.

And then, well, there was the alien. His soon-to-be benefactor, really. Sitting, or whatever something like it did in place of sitting, behind the aforementioned desk.

On the wall behind the creature was an old-fashioned analog clock, chipped and yellowed with age. Mudd wasn’t sure if he could have remembered how to read the blasted thing, but that hardly mattered: it had no hands. Instead, an infinity symbol glared from the middle of its face. Above the infinity symbol was the word, ‘Always.’ Below it, the word, ‘Never.’

As for the thing behind the desk, it was… difficult to look at. Harry Mudd had spent more than his share of time on rim worlds and backwater colonies, but he’d never seen anything like the alien before him now. Just a mass of writhing tentacles, mouths, and red-on-yellow eyes; sometimes having a central point, sometimes not; its color never shifting, yet never the same, save that it seemed to always be dark, somehow. As though its very presence drank in the light.

The name plate on the desk read, simply: Discord.

The thing finished reading over his employee file leisurely, finally turning its attention back to him.

“So,” it said, reaching a tentacle towards him. “Mister… Mudd, isn’t it? I don’t recall having had the pleasure before.”

“No, sir,” Harry Mudd replied, shaking the offered tentacle, trying to look both relaxed and attentive. “I’m newly arrived to this office, you might say, just over a month now. But I’ve been contributing to chaos for years.”

In fact, Kirk and his dratted bridge crew had managed to nab him just over four weeks prior. It had been a simple operation, hardly worth a Federation starship’s interest. But somehow Kirk had caught wind of it, and taken it upon himself to reel Harry in.

The man had no sense of humor whatsoever, Harry thought for the thousandth time. Nor of proportion, come to that.

Still. What had started out as a problem, Harry had quickly turned into an opportunity. That is, if he could convince this obviously pan-dimensional fellow to play ball with old Mudd. Which, in turn, involved playing ball with him. Improvising, as it were. Even as reality itself seemed to swirl around them, conforming to their play.

It had already become difficult to tell just who was leading whom, but that suited Mudd just fine. After all, Harry Mudd was nothing if not adaptive.

“Mmm. Yes,” the creature nodded to itself (a gesture that made Mudd feel rather dizzy). “So, you’re looking for a promotion, are you?”

Mud nodded as well. “That’s right. And I can assure you that I’ll be quite the asset to the company, er, so to speak. If nothing else, old chap, I’ll never be boring. Which I’d imagine would be the best asset one could want.”

Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he added, “After all, what’s an eternity with nothing new going on, eh?”

“Yes, of course.” The creature replied, leafing idly through the papers it held. “That is an excellent point. Still, I have to be honest with you: I’m not sure you’d be exactly the fit we’re looking for. There’s a certain amount of creativity that’s called for when dealing with cosmic levels of chaos, you see.”

Along the wall to Mudd’s left, a tiny group of elastic hoops marched along, happily playing tinny music as they did. The foremost hoop bore a small sign that read, Rubber Band.

Harry gave it a glance of acknowledgement, then nodded.

“Well, of course,” he said. “That being said, you’ll never find a more creative spinner of tales, nor a better creator of opportunities, than your own Harry Mudd.”

“Well, you’re certainly not lacking in confidence,” the thing said with approval. “Just the same: if the Outer Gods were to promote a being into their ranks, that being would need to provide an impressive resume.”

“Nothing simpler, old chap!” Harry grinned. “Why, my whole life is an impressive resume!”

The thing glanced back at the folder it held. “Is it really?”

“Oh, I’ll admit to the rare bump now and then,” the human begrudged with a dismissive wave. “Very rare, really. Almost unheard of! But you ask anyone and they’ll tell you, Harry Mudd…”

“Yes, yes, they’ll assure me of your stellar qualifications, I’m sure.”

Then the thing nodded again, several of its eyes giving a conspiratorial wink as it added, “Especially if you talk to them first.”

It set the closed file onto the desk again. Then it tapped the manilla folder contemplatively, adding, “But it takes more than being a swindler, liar and rogue to achieve godhood, you know.”

“Swindler? An insult, sir! Why, I’m nothing of the sort!” Harry huffed indignantly through his mustache. “I’ll have you know I’m a maker of countless magnificent tales! A gadfly of the free market! An encourager of free thought amongst even the most hidebound. Why, I break boundaries all the time!”

Then, with a half-shrug, he begrudgingly added. “Granted, they’re more municipal laws than cosmic ones, but…”

“Can you create, though?” the creature mused. It swirled around him giddily like an octopus in an aquarium, adding, “Can you smith stories? For it is stories that are the binding forces of entire multiverses, Harry Mudd. And as such, their importance must be paramount to any god.”

“Of course, I understand completely.”

“You say that. And yet, the crafting of tales seems a rather telling Rubicon for you to cross.”

“Oh, now, well, I wouldn’t say that—”

“After all, you wrote this chapter, didn’t you?”

Mudd paused, his mustache flustering uncomfortably.

“Well, yes, I mean…” he managed, “well, that is to say… after all, a man’s first effort in a new field of art…”

Hovering over the desk, the being eyed him closer, the very thing that Mudd had been hoping wouldn’t happen.

“A comedy sketch about an employee asking for a promotion?” it sighed. “That’s not creative, Mister Mudd, that’s derivative. Some might even call it basic.”

“Oh, now, see here, I find that uncalled for!”

“Oh?”

“Indeed I do!” His indignity building, Harry rose to his feet. “Why, I changed the context completely! Not to mention I added a starship, the stakes of being a prisoner, even an elder thing from beyond! Plus, there was that bit with the train early on--!”

“Yes,” The thing said, rising to tower over him. “Yes, you did. And that was amusing, I must admit. But be honest, Harry. As an author, can you show me something that hasn’t already been done before?”

“Oh, come now! Everything’s been done before, and you know it!” Mudd retorted angrily, jabbing a finger at the writhing thing above him. “Only seven basic plots, you know, and every artist borrows a bit from other sources…!”

“That’s as may be, but frankly I also find it a little overlong.”

“Oh, and now you’re just nitpicking!” Mudd protested. “All these chapters are long!”

“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” the creature said, its voice becoming more sympathetic. “I’m not saying that fanfiction isn’t legitimate literature, or even that it can’t be better than a lot of works that get published officially. But this, I’m sorry…”

Mudd’s eyes snapped up, staring at the unnamable (for all that it had a name plate) thing before him.

“Fanfiction?” He repeated in disbelief, his voice higher than he had intended. “But… how is that possible? Fanfiction of just what, exactly…?”

Then, with dawning realization, “No!”

Eyeing him with a cold glee, the thing grinned with its many mouths.

“No!” Harry exclaimed again, falling to his knees, clutching at his head. “No! No! It can’t be!”

The thing twisted and danced before and above him, an eternal watcher at the threshold of time, while Harry knelt before it, shaking with growing comprehension and horror.

“It can’t be…! It can’t… it can’t…”

In time, Harry Mudd began to regain his composure. His perspective, not quite shattered, began to mend. His hysterical cries softened into spoken protests, then finally into mournful groans and the shaking of his balding head. Until, finally, still kneeling, he simply stared at the cell floor.

“Ah, well. I should have known, really,” he muttered at last. He even managed a smile, however rueful, as he added, “It seems there’s no timeline, after all, so divergent as to not be tilted against old Harry Mudd.”

Then, after a moment, he felt something touch him on the shoulder. It was a tentacle. A surprisingly warm, textureless, almost comforting appendage. And, slowly, Harry Mudd looked up, his tired eyes meeting those of the eldritch horror above him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” the thing said gently. “But broken fourth walls and meta references just aren’t the kind of intellectual humor that the cosmos needs right now. Maybe later, if things change…”

Its voice trailed off.

There was an awkward pause.

The creature glanced at the clock with no arms, then a few of its many eyes looked back to the human still kneeling before it.

The thing sighed.

“You forgot to write an ending, didn’t you?”

Author's Note

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Tune in for future installments at some vague point in the future, when some or all of the following may or may not transpire…

The Great Old Ones gathered, welcoming the newest member of their Elder God Continuum. They gibbered and writhed, their excitement obvious, the eternity of sameness broken by the inclusion of someone – and therefore experiences with them – that would be new.

There would be things to talk about again, after untold aeons of silence. Things to watch, and do, and even feel. Already, the rest of the Continuum was shedding off their intellectual lethargy, looking at one another, their new sibling, and even the universe itself with new interest.

Meanwhile, the youngest of the Elder Gods reached out, holding the Earth of his mortal birth in his formless, conceptual hand.

“Well, Nyarlathotep?” Discord grinned. “Is it everything you’d hoped for?”

For his own part, Nyarlathotep returned the grin, imagining with hunger and delight the games that awaited him throughout time and space, and especially with the superstitious humans he’d once shared kinship with. His voice spread out across the cosmos like oil, and countless lunatics of every world and age screamed in horror at the terrible truth of his unheard voice.

“Oh, myyyyyyyyyyy…”

“Are you sure about this, Bones?” Kirk asked. “Once we’re gone, it may be months before we come back. Depending on what Starfleet decides, we may never come back. The quarantine might not even be lifted.”

“Dammit, Jim, I’m just an old country doctor,” Bones sighed. “I’ve been star-hopping in that giant tin death trap of yours long enough. I should’ve retired years ago, but I just couldn’t find the right place to land in.”

“And now you’ve found your patch of clover, is that what you’re telling me, Bones?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And don’t start telling me you need me, either,” he added as Kirk opened his mouth again. “Chapel’s got her M.D., and there isn’t a damned thing I can do for you that she can’t. Better, in some cases.”

“Why, Doctor McCoy, I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Kirk smiled.

“Well, you’re hearing it now. And anyway, there’s no way you won’t be allowed back. Not with your new navigator on board.”

Kirk grinned. “Well, that’s probably true. Once I’m done with my court martial, anyway.”

“Smart money’s on you, Jim.”

McCoy held out his hand, and Kirk took it, then pulled him into a fierce embrace.

“I don’t know how I’ll manage without you, Bones.”

McCoy squeezed him back. “You’ll be fine.”

After they parted, Kirk turned to the blue stallion standing next to the princesses and their daughters.

“I won’t ask you if you’re sure,” he sighed.

The blue stallion, notable for the Kol-Ut-Shan on his flank, nodded.

“That is most wise,” he said. “Even had I not opted for physical transformation, you should know by now that, should I make a decision…”

“…that it is dictated by pure logic,” Kirk finished for him with a smile.

Then, looking at the royal family with approval, he added, “Well, I can’t argue with the logic of your choice.”

“Again, most wise.”

Moments later, there was the familiar hum and golden glow of the transporter beam, and Kirk, the remaining away team, and the Enterprise’s new navigator were all gone from view.

The crowd of ponies who had gathered to watch the aliens depart began to disperse, the royals and McCoy heading back towards the palace. After a short interval, McCoy found himself walking next to Spock behind the rest.

“Doctor, forgive my curiosity,” Spock said, “But you seem to have something specific on your mind. Are you still considering your own conversion?”

“Well, yeah,” the doctor admitted. “It’s tempting, the idea of a younger body and all. But I’ve been a human all my life. Not sure if I’m ready to stop.”

“Indeed. I have observed that it has ever been a primary pillar of your identity. But if you will permit me to point out: your humanity is not dictated by mere physical form, any more than my Vulcan nature or philosophy are determined by mine.”

McCoy pondered this.

“That’s true enough,” he nodded at last. “Heck, even when you were just a disembodied brain, you were still a Vulcan.”

“Indeed. Yet, I sense that is not your main concern.”

The doctor sighed again.

“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “It’s just that… well, hell, between Lucian, and Trelane, and now the extended royal pony family, I was thinking maybe I could learn a little magic of my own.”

“I see. Rather like the Wizard in your own ‘Oz’ stories, who learned from Glinda and ceased being a humbug.”

“Exactly! But when I asked Princess Celestia about it, she said no. And I’ll admit that it stung a little. But more than that, I’m trying to figure out why she’d refuse in the first place.”

Spock considered his friend for a moment, then finally he spoke.

“Perhaps, my friend, she simply meant that you are a doctor, not a magician.”

Harry lay on the desk, staring at the ceiling, repeatedly throwing a ball into the air and catching it again, more bored than he had ever been before in his life.

Nearby, in the silvery light of the cell’s sealed portal, the thing that shared his imprisonment wrote dejectedly onto the papers it had salvaged from the file it had been reading earlier.

My dear daughters... it has been an eternity, it seems, and still there is no end to the chapter in sight. I have been reduced to entering the Author’s Note just to maintain any sense of optimism or dignity. And in this, I suppose, there has been some merit. But the ending, if there is one at all, continues to elude us.

My only hope is that some day, a new chapter might bring us together again…