Tales from the Backgroundby Don QuixoteChaptersIntroduction - A Letter to the PrincessPart 1 - The Tale of OctaviaPart 2 - The Tale of ColgatePart 3 - The Tale of Vinyl ScratchPart 4 - The Tale of LyraPart 5 - The Tale of the DoctorPart 6 - The Tale of Derpy HoovesIntroduction - A Letter to the PrincessDear Princess Celestia, After the fire at town hall, I felt the need to do a little investigating. Several ponies were involved, so I asked each of them to give me their version of what happened that day. You won’t believe the stories they gave me, strange tales about break-ins and blackmail and a mysterious box that almost destroyed Equestria—well, three-quarters of it. I’ve asked Spike to send you those tales along with this letter. I know there’s a lesson to be learned here somewhere, but I’m not sure what it is. Your faithful student, Twilight Sparkle Part 1 - The Tale of OctaviaI assure you, Ms. Sparkle, that I am just as perplexed as you concerning yesterday’s events. These were not limited to the tragic blaze at town hall. Between brutal break-ins and miraculous gifts, it was a most peculiar day. I awoke yesterday feeling exhausted. Vinyl Scratch, with whom I share my home, had been up late washing dishes the night before. As much as I appreciated her help in the kitchen, it prevented me from getting an adequate night’s rest. (Her dishwasher is very loud.) Suffice it to say I felt tired yesterday morning, and my day was about to take an abrupt turn for the worse. I had heard of magic that breaks locks, but I had never seen its effects. At least, not until yesterday morning. My instruments are kept in a locked cabinet in the living room. I take no chances, Ms. Sparkle. As a musician, my instruments are everything to me. Imagine my shock when I found the cabinet doors thrown open, swinging gently in the breeze from a smashed window. Slivers of bright steel covered the carpet around the cabinet. They were what was left of the lock. It was broken—not broken, shattered. I froze, but only for an instant. Then I rummaged through the cabinet as quickly as I dared, searching for the instrument that mattered most. It was ruined. My string bass, my most precious instrument, was ruined. Its bow was snapped in two and its strings were cut. There is something you must understand, Ms. Sparkle. My bass is the tool of my trade and my most valuable possession. Nothing else compares. Imagine somepony scrawling vulgar words in every book in your library. That may give you just an inkling of the desolation that crept over me as I regarded the wreck that had been my greatest treasure. “Chill out, Octy,” said Vinyl, trying vainly to be encouraging. “We’ll get it fixed before the concert tonight.” “Did you do this?” I snapped. “No way I’d do that to you.” Vinyl raised her shades and peered reproachfully at me. “Magic’s not my thing, anyway. I may be a unicorn, but I couldn’t bust that lock if my life depended on it. Whatever unicorn killed your bass messed up my console, too.” Vinyl waved at her console, a beastly machine that she uses to make the noise she calls music. A panel had been torn away. Several wires dangled sadly from the opening. “It’ll take all day to fix, and all my bits,” she said. “So much for my savings. We’ll fix your bass too, Octy. We’re gonna rock tonight, and a couple of busted instruments won’t stop us.” “Vinyl, I have no money,” I said, repressing tears. Vinyl’s shades came off. She polished them thoughtfully, staring at me. “No money? But you’re like, the richest pony in town.” “Not anymore,” I whispered. “I took the plunge and bought this house. I was going to tell you after the concert.” I must pause for a moment, Ms. Sparkle. There is something you need to know. Two years ago, I left Canterlot in order to pursue an honest living as a musician in Ponyville. (I will spare you the details of my career in Canterlot; it is probably best that you not know.) Vinyl, whom I met on the train, was also settling in this town. We decided to rent a house together. I fell in love with the place almost immediately. The ivy clinging to the walls, the roses blooming in the garden, the antique furniture standing gracefully in every room—everything was perfect. The decision to buy my house was easy to make, but it came at a price. I was left without two bits to rub together. With not a coin to spare, repairing my beloved bass was impossible. Vinyl had been stunned to silence by my news. After sitting frozen for a moment, she whistled and said, with a return of her usual jauntiness, “I’ll be moving out then, Octy. I’m no freeloader. The Scratches earn their living fair and square.” “You shall stay,” I said. I could no longer hold back tears. “You are a dear friend, Vinyl, despite your… unusual habits.” Vinyl put on her shades, and then opened and closed her mouth several times. She was evidently searching for something to say. “I’m not good at saying thanks, but, um, thanks, Octy,” she mumbled at last. “You the best. Go get some rest. I’ll think of something.” I felt too tired to protest. Retreating upstairs to my bedroom, I threw myself upon my bed and wept. When I came downstairs, Vinyl and my bass were gone. So were the broken glass and scattered fragments of the lock. A garish blue Wonderbolts poster had been taped over the broken window. Vinyl, bless her, had apparently made some effort to tidy up the scene. I brewed a pot of Earl Hay tea, sat down at the kitchen table and stared desolately at the glitter-encrusted records Vinyl had, in a fit of artistic fervor some days previously, suspended from the ceiling. The doorbell rang. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I called, “Please enter.” My visitor was a brown pony whom I recognized. I was in no mood to entertain guests, but the first duty of a lady is to be gracious. “Good afternoon, Time Turner,” I said, blinking back tears. “Have some tea.” “You’ve confused me with another pony,” said my visitor in an odd accent. “You may call me the Doctor. I’d love some tea, if the offer still stands.” “Who are you and what do you want?” “I suppose that’s a ‘No’ for the tea,” sighed the Doctor. “Pity. To answer your question, Ms. Octavia, I was asked to deliver something.” He smiled and held out an enormous bag. “Open it.” What was in the bag, you ask? That bag, Ms. Sparkle, held a miracle. It was my bass. Fully restored. After a few moments of incoherent stammering, I gasped out, “How… I mean… Doctor, where did you get this?” “That’s a charming poster,” he replied vaguely. “The one in the living room, I mean. I couldn’t help but notice it on my way in. It’s quite bold, though I can’t say I like that electric blue color.” I said nothing, gazing at my bass. It was as good as new. It had even been polished, and it gleamed in the light. “Never mind the poster,” said the Doctor. “Let’s get down to business. It’s important that you perform tonight at the concert. Very important. The fate of Equestria—well, three-quarters of it—depends upon your performance.” This bizarre pronouncement pulled me out of my trance. “I beg your pardon?” I said, frowning at the Doctor. “Never mind the details,” he replied impatiently. “Listen to me, Ms. Octavia. You must perform tonight, and it’s important for your friend Scratch to perform with you. A duet, you understand. That is all I ask. Well, there is one more thing.” “What more can I do for you, Doctor?” “A cup of tea, if you wouldn’t mind.” As I poured out some tea for the Doctor, he strolled into the living room and examined Vinyl’s console. “Interesting machine,” he said, tapping it with what looked like the metal handle of a screwdriver. “Fascinating. Ah yes, thank you for the tea. It smells like Earl Grey—pardon me, Earl Hay. This ruddy country and its ruddy horse talk take some getting used to.” “I beg your pardon?” “Just the ramblings of a very old pony, Ms. Octavia.” My guest drank his tea. “Good afternoon. Thank you for the tea. And remember,” he added, lifting a hoof and gesturing for emphasis, “you and Vinyl must perform a duet tonight. Everything depends upon it.” “But Vinyl’s console is broken,” I said. “Is it?” he asked, and winked. With that he was gone. Vinyl entered moments later. “Dude, you fixed your bass!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you didn’t sell the house to pay for it.” I explained. “That’s sweet,” she replied. “Totally sweet! Now you can perform tonight at the concert.” “Vinyl, try out your console. The Doctor hinted it might be working again.” Vinyl’s face fell. Without a word, she crossed the room and began fiddling listlessly with the knobs on her machine. The house was suddenly shaken to its foundation by an almighty wub wub wub. “Turn it off!” I bellowed, and the din subsided. Vinyl beamed. Though my ears were ringing, I heard her speak one word: “Working.” “Kindly refrain from turning it on again,” I said, shaking my head. “I just bought this house, and I do not want you wubbing it down.” You were present at the concert, Ms. Sparkle, so I will not describe the tragic events that transpired last night at town hall. How was the fire started? That is for you to discover, I am afraid. Good luck in your investigation! Part 2 - The Tale of ColgateI’m happy to help you out with your investigation, Ms. Twilight, but I’m not sure I have any useful information about the tragedy at town hall. I didn’t attend the concert last night. I saw the smoke, but that was all. What caused the fire? I don’t know, but I have a theory. Let’s start with what happened two days ago. The day before the concert, a mail carrier gave me a letter in a blank envelope. What was her name? Ditzy, maybe? She told me the letter was an extra-special one that she had been asked to deliver personally. I was curious, of course, so I opened up the envelope and took a look at it. My heart froze. The letter read, Your secret isn’t a secret anymore. Come to the town hall storage room at five o’clock tomorrow morning, or else. It was blackmail. Somepony knew my secret. Soon everypony would know it. I had only one chance to make things right. At five o’clock in the morning, I’d be waiting in the storage room in town hall. I had no other choice. What was my secret? I’ll tell you, Ms. Twilight. I’ve wasted too many years worrying about what other ponies think of me. It’s time for me to be myself. I want to be a dentist. It’s crazy, but I think my Cutie Mark is wrong. Who decides our Cutie Marks, anyway? Is my destiny really determined by a mark on my flank? Not anymore! I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul! I wasn’t exactly this confident when I received the letter two days ago. I was terrified. I wanted to keep my secret, well, a secret. The next day—the day of the fire—I found myself shivering in the dark, frigid storage room on the uppermost floor of town hall. Now that the building is a smoking mound of ashes, the room is gone. I’ll have to describe it to you. Junk was piled everywhere, which surprised me. I’d expected the storage room to be neat because town hall was the cleanest, tidiest place in Ponyville. The building was especially elegant because of the upcoming concert. Everything had been scrubbed, polished and decorated until the hall was a bright blaze of colored silks and shining surfaces. Looking back, I bet town hall was so neat because all its mess was crammed willy-nilly into that storage room. Besides the clutter, the place was just dirty. Moonlight filtered in through two grimy windows, barely illuminating crates, boxes, chairs, podiums and tapestries, all covered by a thick layer of dust. Gritty cobwebs filled the corners, and one or two brave spiders struggled across the filthy floor. One thing was weird. There was a single crate that wasn’t covered in dust. It was a plain wooden box with the letters DIN printed on the side. I still wonder what it was. It’s weird for such a small detail to leave such a large impression, but I can’t shake the feeling that the box was really, really important. It even came up in a conversation later that day—but I should get back to my story, shouldn’t I? A pony arrived at last, a blue unicorn with a starry robe and a pointed hat. Lifting the hem of her robe, she dusted it off and looked around with an expression of bitter distaste. “What is this?” she demanded. “Who the hay are you? The great and powerful Trixie demands to know what you’re doing in this disgusting place!” I cleared my throat. “Um, hi. I, uh, got your letter.” The great and powerful Trixie dropped the hem of her robe. It raised a little cloud of dust as it hit the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You got my letter?” she exclaimed. “I told that half-witted mail carrier to give the letter to Mayor Mare.” A wicked glint came into Trixie’s eyes. “So you came instead, did you? That means you have a secret. Well, this might be worth Trixie’s time after all. Out with it. What’s your secret?” I changed the subject. “You sent that letter to Mayor Mare?” “She dyes her mane,” said Trixie, shrugging. “It’s naturally pink, but she tries to fool everypony into thinking it’s a respectable, professional gray. I thought I could blackmail her into canceling tonight’s concert.” “Why?” A shadow passed over Trixie’s face. “Twilight Sparkle,” she hissed. “That smug, awful, ugly excuse for a magician humiliated Trixie, and Trixie does not forgive. This concert is Twilight’s special project. She’s been planning it for months.” Trixie kicked at the floor, raising a storm of dust. “Princess Celestia herself is coming to hear the performances. Trixie will ruin this concert, and Twilight will be totally disgraced.” I stared at Trixie in horror. She was smiling, but it was an ugly smile, and there was something awful in her eyes. A snarl of hatred would have been less frightening that that bitter, mocking smirk. As we stood looking at each other, something happened that’s hard for me to describe. I saw myself in Trixie. No, that’s not it. I looked at Trixie and saw the pony I was becoming: a pony obsessed with her image, a pony who would do anything, anything to make it seem perfect. To see myself in Trixie frightened me. It also made me angry. “How dare you!” I advanced on Trixie. Her smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of panic, and she began to back away. “I don’t know what Twilight did to you, but what you’re planning is evil,” I yelled, stamping for emphasis. A gentle shower of dust fell from the ceiling. “I should be going—” began Trixie, but I didn’t give her the chance to finish. “Mayor Mare is innocent, and you’re trying to blackmail her!” I shouted. “And has it occurred to you that by ruining the concert you’ll be hurting every single pony involved? What about the musicians who’ve spent weeks practicing? What about the audience members who’ve paid for tickets? And did you know the profits from the concert will be donated to an orphanage in Canterlot? What about those orphans, Trixie?” Trixie had backed up against the dirty wall of the storage room. Unable to retreat farther, she cowered beneath her hat with her eyes shut. I took a deep breath and continued in a colder, calmer voice. “You want to know my secret? Fine. I want to be a dentist, and I don’t care anymore if you or anypony in Equestria think I’m crazy. If I keep obsessing over my image, I’m going to end up a selfish, narcissistic pony like you.” Trixie whimpered. “Go ahead and value your reputation more than the lives of other ponies,” I said, resisting the urge to yell again. “I can’t stop you, but I won’t let you stop Twilight’s concert. Now get out of Ponyville, and don’t come back until you’ve learned some kindness!” I finished, breathing heavily. A moment passed. The dust settled. Trixie opened an eye and peered nervously at me. “This town is crazy,” she murmured. “The great and powerful Trixie won’t stick around any longer.” Her alarm seemed to subside, and a smirk slipped onto her face. “Don’t think this is over. Trixie may not have prevented the concert, but she made sure it will end badly.” “What have you done?” “Oh, not much. A few hours ago, Trixie broke into a house and damaged a couple of instruments—a string bass and a music console—that are supposed to be used in the concert tonight. That’s two flaws in Twilight’s perfect project. It’s not quite the grand finale Trixie hoped to see, but it’s better than nothing. Now it’s time for the great and powerful Trixie to be shaking the dust from her hooves and moving on!” A puff of black smoke filled the room. By the time it cleared, Trixie was gone. That’s my story, Twilight. While I’m not sure, I think Trixie may have slipped back into town hall last night and started the fire that burned down the building. It’s just a theory. I may have yelled at the great and powerful Trixie, but I was really screaming at myself. It took her smirking face to show me how wrong I’ve been all this time. I don’t want to be like Trixie, worrying constantly about my reputation. I want to follow my dreams. I am the master of my fate, and I’ve decided to be a dentist. I sure hope you figure out what caused that fire, Ms. Twilight. Good luck! Part 3 - The Tale of Vinyl ScratchSo, Twi—is it cool if I call you Twi? “Twilight” is too fancy. It makes me uncomfortable just hearing it, the same way I feel every time I see fashion models onstage. You’d never catch Vinyl Scratch wearing clothes like that, and I’m sure glad my old mare didn’t name me Twilight. No offense. Yeah, you know all about me. Vinyl Scratch, DJ extraordinaire. I was honored when you asked me to perform in the concert you were planning for Princess Celestia. I mean, she’s in charge of the sun. That’s pretty dang serious, you know? You can bet your books I was upset to stroll into the living room on the morning before the concert and find somepony had busted up Trib. That’s my music console, by the way. Tribulation, or Trib for short. Old Trib and I have had some crazy times together, and it cut me up to find somepony had torn off a panel, pulled some wires and made a mess of the circuit board. I guess whatever pony wrecked Trib came in through the living room window. It was smashed. Glass everywhere. And there was something else mixed in with the glass. Splinters of metal. I can’t even call them splinters. They were splinters of splinters: tiny shards of steel. I was wondering what the hay they were when I noticed a cabinet was open and realized where its lock had gone. It wasn’t just any cabinet. It was the cabinet, where Octy—Octavia, I mean—keeps her instruments, including her bass. She loves that bass. Dang, it’s almost creepy how much she loves that thing. When I saw the cabinet open and its lock scattered in little pieces over the carpet, I had a really bad feeling. Octy came downstairs minutes later. The look on her face was awful, Twi. She looked like somepony had died. After staring for a second, she ransacked the cabinet and found her bass. It was busted just as bad as my console. The stick thingy—you know, what she drags across the strings to make music—was broken, and the strings were cut. Overall, the instrument was in pretty bad shape. As much as I wanted to make a joke about “dropping the bass,” I decided it probably wasn’t the best time. The whole thing was a shock, but I figured it would be easy to fix. I had enough cash on hoof to get Trib fixed, and I thought Octy would have enough bits to get her bass repaired. She comes from a rich family. I’ve also heard rumors she had ties to the Canterlot mob in her younger days. Either way, I assumed she was loaded. Turns out she had just bought the house we live in and didn’t have a bit left over. Now, Twi, our house is pretty much the nicest place ever. Have you seen the mansion at the end of Oat Avenue? The one with the rose garden and ivy climbing up the walls? That’s us, baby. We’ve got five bedrooms and a hot tub and even a basement with soundproofing where I can play my music loud. The furniture is made of shiny wood. There’s a statue of that wacky Discord guy in the foyer. (I think it’s just a statue.) You could sleep on the carpet, it’s so plush. Seriously, this house is glorious. In fact, it’s a little too glorious for a pony like me. I figured Octy would have the same idea, so I made the first move. “I’ll be moving out then, Octy,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m no freeloader. The Scratches earn their living fair and square.” “You shall stay,” she said, and then began to cry. “You are a dear friend, Vinyl, despite your… unusual habits.” Octy is good with words. I’m not. I still can’t find words to describe how awesome it is that Octy is letting me stay in her house, and I’ve been trying for hours. At the time, after struggling to speak for a minute, all I could manage was, “I’m not good at saying thanks, but, um, thanks, Octy. You the best. Go get some rest. I’ll think of something.” She went upstairs, and I realized what I needed to do. To Tartarus with Trib. Octy’s bass needed fixing, and never mind the cost. After cleaning up the living room and taping a Wonderbolts poster over the busted window, I took the bass to the shop. It took an hour and about a million bits, but I got it repaired and took it back to the house. I stood in the rose garden, reluctant to go inside. You see, Twi, I don’t like mushy, sentimental stuff. It’s hard enough to say stuff like “Thank you.” Hearing it from other ponies is even worse. I’m not sure how long I waited, clutching the bass and listening to bees hum through the roses, but it was a pretty long time. A pony came to the front door. “Hey you,” I said. “Yeah, you. Brown guy with the hourglass Cutie Mark.” “Good day,” he replied. He sounded foreign. “You’re visiting Octy?” He chuckled. “If by ‘Octy’ you mean Ms. Octavia, I am.” “Give her the bass in this bag,” I said, holding it out. The pony took the bag, peered inside and declared, “A beautiful instrument. Ms. Octavia asked you to have it tuned, I presume.” “The bass was busted, actually. I just paid to have it fixed.” The pony whistled. “It’s lucky that you repaired it in time for the concert. I’d better check on your console while I’m here.” “Somepony messed with it,” I mumbled, fixing my gaze on a rosebush. “It’s not working.” “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” “Knock yourself out,” I replied, staring at the bush and wishing the brown pony would stop asking questions. “Very good,” he said. “I’m the Doctor, by the way. You must be Ms. Scratch.” That did it. Turning away from the rosebush, I frowned at the Doctor and growled, “Don’t ever call me that again. Seriously, it’s ‘Vinyl’ or ‘Scratch’ or ‘Vinyl Scratch.’ Now get in there and give Octy her bass. One more thing. Don’t tell her it’s from me. If she asks, change the subject. Talk about the Wonderbolts poster in the living room or something. Got that, Doc?” The Doctor nodded, took the bass and entered the house. He came out smiling a few minutes later. “The coast is clear,” he said, and winked. “You’re quite a heroine, Scratch. Ms. Octavia is happy to have her bass again. More to the point, you’ve helped save Equestria.” “I did what?” “Well,” said the Doctor pensively, “you’ve helped save three-quarters of it. Good day, Scratch.” The Doctor trotted off, leaving me with absolutely no idea of what the hay he meant. I helped save Equestria… by fixing Octy’s bass? Weird, man. And what was with the three-quarters thing? Seriously, I’m beginning to wonder about that Doctor pony. I bet he doesn’t even have a degree. The Doctor turned the corner at the end of the avenue and disappeared from view. There was no point in waiting outside any longer. I swallowed hard, went inside and found Octy hugging her bass. I told you it was creepy how much she loves that thing. “Dude, you fixed your bass!” I said, grinning at Octy. “Tell me you didn’t sell the house to pay for it.” “I did nothing of the kind,” she said. Her eyes had lit up. “That pony, the Doctor, gave it to me. I do not even know how he obtained it, let alone repaired it.” “That’s sweet,” I said. “Totally sweet! Now you can perform tonight at the concert.” “Vinyl, try out your console. The Doctor hinted it might be working again.” My heart sank. Trib was still broke, I was sure. The broken panel was lying on the floor where I left it, and a few wires dangled out of the hole it left behind. Old Trib was definitely busted. I turned it on anyway and began playing with the controls. Then the most awesome thing in the history of history happened. Trib shuddered once and began to wub. I cranked the volume and prepared for action. Then I heard somepony say very faintly, “Turn it off!” Reluctantly, I shut off Trib. “Working,” I said, grinning. “Kindly refrain from turning it on again,” said Octy. “I just bought this house, and I do not want you wubbing it down.” We spent the afternoon practicing a duet. The Doctor had apparently told Octy that she and I had to play one at the concert. The fate of Equestria depended on it or something. I wasn’t about to argue. The rest is history. Octy and I went to town hall that night for the concert. The place was totally decked out. Didn’t your friend Rarity handle the decorations? The ribbons and banners and stuff were pretty dang fabulous. The hall was packed. Everypony in Equestria was there, or that’s how it looked from up on stage. I played my duet with Octy. Princess Celestia loved it. Everything was awesome until the fire happened. Part 4 - The Tale of LyraThe concert was pretty wild, wasn’t it? I mean, even without the fire, it was a crazy night! Seriously, Twilight, so much random, epic stuff has happened in Ponyville since you arrived to run the library. This town was really quiet and peaceful before you came. Maybe you’re like, cursed or something! Apart from playing my harp early in the program, I didn’t have much to do with the concert. But there’s one pony who might have some answers for you. He calls himself “the Doctor,” though he’s not very professional. When you hear “the Doctor,” you expect a certain kind of pony—somepony who’s like, formal and dignified and stuff. The Doctor is really laid back. He doesn’t even wear a tie. I met him the morning before the concert. He was standing beside Sugarcube Corner and looking up at the sky with a frown, which was odd because the weather was like, totally nice. Birds singing, bees buzzing, flowers being beautiful—like, everything was fabulous. The morning even smelled good. I think Pinkie Pie was baking cupcakes. The neighborhood smelled like chocolate and looked lovely, so I assumed the pony beside Sugarcube Corner was soaking in the ambiance. (I think ambiance is the word I’m looking for. It’s either that or suavity.) “Good day,” he said as I passed him. “I’m looking for a box.” “A box?” I replied. “Like, what kind of box?” “A wooden crate with the letters DIN on its side. It’s very, very important that I find it. I’ve been following it all over Equestria, in fact. I tracked the box as far as the local post office, but that’s where its trail ends. I can’t tell you how desperate I am to find the blighted thing.” “Sorry, bro,” I said. “I haven’t seen any kind of box today.” “Please, call me the Doctor,” he replied, nodding politely. “I’ll be flitting around Ponyville today. Do let me know if you hear anything, will you?” “You got it,” I said, wishing I had thumbs. It’s like, really hard to give a thumbs-up with hooves. I added, “My name’s Lyra, by the way.” “Charmed. I see the mark on your flank—” “You mean my Cutie Mark?” I said, pointing. “Ah, that’s the one. It seems to be a harp.” “That’s right. I’m a harpist. It’s like, what I do.” The Doctor cleared his throat, looked away, fidgeted and then looked back at my Cutie Mark. “Something wrong?” I asked. “Pardon my presumption,” he said, smiling apologetically, “but I must ask. How do you play the harp with hooves? Hooves hardly seem suited to that kind of instrument.” “I practice a lot,” I said, shrugging. “Hands would sure be a nice thing to have. Humans are so lucky. At least, they would be if they weren’t like, mythological.” The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Mythological? Are you sure?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen humans before?” The Doctor seemed to think about his answer. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, Ms. Lyra.” I giggled. “Just ‘Lyra’ is fine, Doctor.” “I need a companion, Lyra, to help me find the missing box. Help me, and I’ll tell you everything I know about humans.” “Let’s find us a box!” I exclaimed. “The lost and found department at the police station is a good place to start. It’s like, just down the street. Can we wait for cupcakes first? They smell like, totally delicious.” The Doctor trotted away. “We’re on a tight schedule, I’m afraid,” he called over his shoulder. “Coming, Lyra?” I caught up and walked alongside him. “Now for my questions,” I said. “Here’s the first. Why do humans wear clothes?” “Modesty, decency, comfort and self-respect,” he replied. “Next question.” I questioned the Doctor all morning. He answered cheerfully, though I could see him becoming discouraged as the hours ticked away. We looked everywhere. The sun slowly crossed the sky and shadows lengthened across the streets. As shoppers finished their errands and went home, the crowds thinned and eventually disappeared. The box refused to be found. “Like, what’s in the box we’re looking for?” I asked. “A bomb,” said the Doctor. “A what?” “A device that explodes.” I laughed. “Like those things they hand out at parties that go ‘Pop!’ when you pull the string?” “You’ve the general idea of the thing,” said the Doctor, frowning. “But you need to multiply by a factor of, oh, several trillion, and add quite a lot of fire, and some radiation.” “So it’s a big firework,” I said. “Sounds cool. Why do you need it?” The Doctor sighed, and I stopped asking questions. We walked in silence for a minute, and then I saw a friend of mine across the street. “Hey Colgate!” I said. “I’ve got like, a super-duper-important question for you.” “What’s that?” “We’re looking for a box. It’s wooden and has DIN on its side.” “That’s eerie,” said Colgate, looking a little spooked. “I saw a box like that just this morning.” The Doctor reacted as though somepony had prodded him with a bolt of lightning. “Where?” he shouted. “In heaven’s name, where?” “The storage room of town hall,” said Colgate. “You know, the building where tonight’s concert will be held.” At that moment, the Doctor did something really strange. He laughed. “Dash it all, that’s perfect! I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Thank you, Ms. Colgate.” As Colgate strolled away, the Doctor turned to me and grinned. “Well, that’s that. Now I just need to check on tonight’s performers.” “I’m performing tonight,” I said proudly. The Doctor looked away and coughed once or twice. “Ah, yes. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly, Lyra, but the musicians whom I need to see are none other than Ms. Octavia and Ms. Scratch. It’s imperative that their instruments are in working order, and I must tell them to perform a duet tonight. Where is their house?” “The mansion at the end of Oat Avenue,” I told him. “Rose bushes and tons of ivy. You can’t miss it.” “Many thanks,” he said, smiling. “Now if you’ll pardon me, Lyra, I must be going. I’ve a world to save—three-quarters of it, at any rate.” He walked away, humming to himself. You know the rest, Twilight. The concert was a huge success. We raised lots of money for that orphanage in Canterlot, and Princess Celestia loved the show. Octavia and Vinyl Scratch put on a rocking performance right at the end. After the concert, the audience left town hall to see smoke pouring out of the upper windows. The building burned down quickly. Nopony was hurt, but it was still like, really tragic. I guess the box the Doctor was looking for burned up in the fire. I didn’t hear any explosions, though, so I guess the firework bomb thingy was a dud. I wonder how he knew so much about humans, and I wish I knew what he meant by “I’ve a world to save.” He wasn’t talking about Equestria, was he? It’s too bad, because it would have been like, totally cool if he’d really saved the world. But that’s just silly. That’s all I’ve got, Twilight. I hope it helps! Part 5 - The Tale of the DoctorFrankly, Ms. Sparkle, I’m not sure how much I can tell you. I suppose I ought to start with an introduction and get that out of the way. I go by Doctor Hooves—spelt with a W occasionally—but I much prefer to be known as the Doctor. You’ve seen me round Ponyville, though you’ve probably mixed me up with Time Turner. We’re the very image of each other. Even our marks—Cutie Marks, aren’t they called?—are identical. The only way to tell us apart is to hear us speak, since our accents are markedly different. I’m something of a traveler. There aren’t many places I haven’t been. My business is to meddle in the affairs of other people—other ponies; sorry—and it’s quite an entertaining business, let me tell you! I came to Ponyville after a longish trek across Equestria. It’s a lovely land, Equestria. The Everfree Forest is a wee bit rough-and-tumble, it’s true, but it’s quite pretty from a distance. I was looking for something. A wooden crate with the letters DIN stamped on it. It was very important for me to find that crate. Ms. Sparkle, I can already tell that it’s no use trying to be discreet. This case is confusing enough without me withholding half the facts! I’m going to lay out all my cards on the table. Some of the information you’re about to read is… delicate. Be careful to whom you entrust it. To put it simply, I’m a time-traveler whose purpose in coming to Equestria was to track down a weapon of mass destruction misplaced across several dimensions. That wasn’t very simple, was it? Let me start over. I, the Doctor, came from another dimension in search of a device called a bomb. You probably aren’t familiar with bombs. All you really need to know is that they destroy things. This particular bomb could have destroyed roughly three-quarters of Equestria. It was a Disintegration Initiation Node (DIN for short) left over from a vicious war in… well, another dimension. I won’t bore you with details. Someone misplaced this bomb, and it wandered from one dimension to another like flotsam drifting on a stormy sea. By the time I arrived in Equestria, I’d been hunting the bomb for quite some time. Sooner or later it was bound to detonate. When it did, it would take quite a number of innocent ponies with it. I couldn’t allow that, now could I? I hadn’t expected to become a pony, but it seems to have been a side effect of setting foot—or hoof, if you prefer—in Equestria. Not that I mind. Ponies are remarkable creatures. I rather wish I could have been a unicorn, but I won’t complain. My journey began in Canterlot. I’ve heard you have family there, Ms. Sparkle. It’s quite a pleasant city, though I can’t say I care much for its criminal underworld. In retrospect, it may have been a mistake to ask the Canterlot mob for its help in tracking down the bomb. It seemed like a good idea at the time, you see. The Canterlot mob was, in fact, remarkably unhelpful. (I thought I’d never get out of that alligator pit.) Since the local mob was of no use, I settled for the next best thing and paid a visit to Princess Celestia. I generally find criminals to be more dependable than politicians, but I’m happy to report that your monarch is an outstanding exception. She listened patiently to my explanations, and served excellent cake. In the end, she pointed me toward the Everfree Forest. “Everything dangerous ends up there,” she told me. “It’s a magnet for trouble. If it’s danger you’re looking for, the Everfree Forest is a good place to start.” Your Princess was right, Ms. Sparkle. Everything dangerous ends up in the Everfree Forest, and I met most of it. A dragon, one or two wyverns, any number of wolves—everything dangerous, in fact, except for a wooden crate with DIN on its side. As I began to lose hope, a zebra pointed me toward your little town. A zebra, of all things! She had heard rumours of a mysterious box arriving in Ponyville. After weeks without a lead, I didn’t hesitate to follow this one. I came to this town and renewed my search. A full account of my searches would take quite a lot of ink, I’m afraid. I looked high and low and near and far and everywhere else I could think to look. The box eluded me, and I realized with growing panic that I was running out of time. At long, long last, I succeeded in tracking the bomb to the Ponyville post office. How exactly it got there, I can’t say. (The universe is a funny thing, Ms. Sparkle; please don’t expect it to make sense.) I lost track of the bomb after the post office, but two ponies—Lyra and Colgate were their names, I think—helped me to find the blighted thing at last. It had wound up in the storage room in town hall, the very place where a concert was to be held that night. This was a serendipitous turn of events. You see, Ms. Sparkle, the bomb could be deactivated by certain sonic frequencies—or to put it in simpler terms, certain kinds of sound. As it happened, the frequencies needed to shut off this particular bomb were exactly those emitted by a couple of instruments played during your concert. The key instruments were a string bass and a music console. They had to be played simultaneously for the deactivation of the bomb to occur. A duet, you understand. It turns out that both of the instruments involved had been damaged. Vinyl Scratch, to whom the console belonged, very kindly paid to have her friend Octavia’s bass repaired. I mended the console myself using my Sonic Screwdriver, which is—how shall I describe it?—a sort of magic wand. After telling Ms. Octavia to perform a duet with Scratch at your concert, I had some cider at the local café and waited. Your concert was, may I say, a smashing success. It was grand to see Princess Celestia again, and I was happy to tell her I’d found the missing box. Ms. Octavia and Scratch concluded with a triumphant performance, the sound of which filtered up to the storage room and switched off the bomb. One thing, however, didn’t quite go according to plan. The bomb short circuited and threw out sparks as it switched off. The sparks set the wooden crate alight. By the time I arrived in the storage room, the whole place was a blazing mess. I’m sorry to have ruined your town hall. At the same time, its destruction seems a small price to pay to prevent three-quarters of Equestria from going up in smoke and ashes. Now that I’ve finished my business with the bomb, I suppose I should be moving on. My work is never done, it seems. It’s time for me to go be a nuisance somewhere else. I leave you with my humblest apologies for the fire, and my sincerest congratulations on a magnificent concert! Part 6 - The Tale of Derpy HoovesI like muffins. Blueberry muffins are my favorite, but I like banana muffins too. I like any kind of muffins, actually. You know, Twilight, your house kind of looks like a muffin—a big green one. No, I guess your house looks more like a mushroom than a muffin. Mostly it looks like a tree. I’m a mail carrier. You’ve probably seen me around. I dropped a piano on you once, but you might not remember that. I should apologize. Sorry. I sent you a box of muffins, but it might have been delivered to the wrong pony. That happens a lot when I work. I wonder why that is. You probably want to know about the box in the storage room in town hall. At least, that’s what the Doctor told me. He’s sitting next to me and eating a muffin. I asked him if he wants to say hi, and he said yes, so “Hi” from the Doctor. That box showed up a week ago at the office and my boss told me to take it to the lost and found department at the police station. I went to deliver it, but… I… um, I… I made a mistake. When I was a filly, the mare who ran the orphanage got mad at me whenever I made a mistake. She told me my eyes are weird. Like a chameleon’s. I don’t even know what a chameleon is, but it hurt me somewhere inside every time she told me that. The Doctor is reading everything I write, and he says a chameleon is a fascinating reptile. I guess that makes me feel a little better. I took the box to town hall instead of the police station, and I guess they put it up in that dirty old storage room. I’m not sure what else I should write. I guess I can write about bubbles. They’re just beautiful. I love bubbles. There’s something sad about them, though. They only last a few seconds. I wish bubbles didn’t go away so soon. Things always go away too soon. The Doctor is telling me I should write about the letter I delivered to the blue unicorn. Trixie. That was her name. I don’t like her. She makes me think of the mean mare who ran the orphanage where I was a filly. Wait, now the Doctor’s telling me I’ve got the wrong blue unicorn. That’s right! Trixe was the one who gave me the letter, and I delivered it to Colgate. Colgate reminds me of the cook from the orphanage. She was nice. She gave me muffins every time the mean mare made me cry. I guess I made another mistake and gave Colgate the wrong letter. Things worked out okay, though, in the end. Didn’t they? The Doctor tells me it’s a good thing I made that mistake because it helped him find the missing box. He says three-quarters of Equestria would probably be gone if I hadn’t given Colgate the wrong letter. Three-quarters of Equestria—gone. Totally gone. Like bubbles. I guess things did work out okay. The Doctor showed up at my house just after you asked me to write this report. He brought a box of muffins and said he’d help me remember everything you needed to know. He’s nice, the Doctor. I’m sad now because the Doctor just told me that he’ll be going away soon. Just like bubbles. He says he might visit, though. That’s good. That’s all I have to write, I think. I hope you get it all figured out, Twilight. Derpy Hooves signing off!
Introduction - A Letter to the PrincessDear Princess Celestia, After the fire at town hall, I felt the need to do a little investigating. Several ponies were involved, so I asked each of them to give me their version of what happened that day. You won’t believe the stories they gave me, strange tales about break-ins and blackmail and a mysterious box that almost destroyed Equestria—well, three-quarters of it. I’ve asked Spike to send you those tales along with this letter. I know there’s a lesson to be learned here somewhere, but I’m not sure what it is. Your faithful student, Twilight Sparkle
Part 1 - The Tale of OctaviaI assure you, Ms. Sparkle, that I am just as perplexed as you concerning yesterday’s events. These were not limited to the tragic blaze at town hall. Between brutal break-ins and miraculous gifts, it was a most peculiar day. I awoke yesterday feeling exhausted. Vinyl Scratch, with whom I share my home, had been up late washing dishes the night before. As much as I appreciated her help in the kitchen, it prevented me from getting an adequate night’s rest. (Her dishwasher is very loud.) Suffice it to say I felt tired yesterday morning, and my day was about to take an abrupt turn for the worse. I had heard of magic that breaks locks, but I had never seen its effects. At least, not until yesterday morning. My instruments are kept in a locked cabinet in the living room. I take no chances, Ms. Sparkle. As a musician, my instruments are everything to me. Imagine my shock when I found the cabinet doors thrown open, swinging gently in the breeze from a smashed window. Slivers of bright steel covered the carpet around the cabinet. They were what was left of the lock. It was broken—not broken, shattered. I froze, but only for an instant. Then I rummaged through the cabinet as quickly as I dared, searching for the instrument that mattered most. It was ruined. My string bass, my most precious instrument, was ruined. Its bow was snapped in two and its strings were cut. There is something you must understand, Ms. Sparkle. My bass is the tool of my trade and my most valuable possession. Nothing else compares. Imagine somepony scrawling vulgar words in every book in your library. That may give you just an inkling of the desolation that crept over me as I regarded the wreck that had been my greatest treasure. “Chill out, Octy,” said Vinyl, trying vainly to be encouraging. “We’ll get it fixed before the concert tonight.” “Did you do this?” I snapped. “No way I’d do that to you.” Vinyl raised her shades and peered reproachfully at me. “Magic’s not my thing, anyway. I may be a unicorn, but I couldn’t bust that lock if my life depended on it. Whatever unicorn killed your bass messed up my console, too.” Vinyl waved at her console, a beastly machine that she uses to make the noise she calls music. A panel had been torn away. Several wires dangled sadly from the opening. “It’ll take all day to fix, and all my bits,” she said. “So much for my savings. We’ll fix your bass too, Octy. We’re gonna rock tonight, and a couple of busted instruments won’t stop us.” “Vinyl, I have no money,” I said, repressing tears. Vinyl’s shades came off. She polished them thoughtfully, staring at me. “No money? But you’re like, the richest pony in town.” “Not anymore,” I whispered. “I took the plunge and bought this house. I was going to tell you after the concert.” I must pause for a moment, Ms. Sparkle. There is something you need to know. Two years ago, I left Canterlot in order to pursue an honest living as a musician in Ponyville. (I will spare you the details of my career in Canterlot; it is probably best that you not know.) Vinyl, whom I met on the train, was also settling in this town. We decided to rent a house together. I fell in love with the place almost immediately. The ivy clinging to the walls, the roses blooming in the garden, the antique furniture standing gracefully in every room—everything was perfect. The decision to buy my house was easy to make, but it came at a price. I was left without two bits to rub together. With not a coin to spare, repairing my beloved bass was impossible. Vinyl had been stunned to silence by my news. After sitting frozen for a moment, she whistled and said, with a return of her usual jauntiness, “I’ll be moving out then, Octy. I’m no freeloader. The Scratches earn their living fair and square.” “You shall stay,” I said. I could no longer hold back tears. “You are a dear friend, Vinyl, despite your… unusual habits.” Vinyl put on her shades, and then opened and closed her mouth several times. She was evidently searching for something to say. “I’m not good at saying thanks, but, um, thanks, Octy,” she mumbled at last. “You the best. Go get some rest. I’ll think of something.” I felt too tired to protest. Retreating upstairs to my bedroom, I threw myself upon my bed and wept. When I came downstairs, Vinyl and my bass were gone. So were the broken glass and scattered fragments of the lock. A garish blue Wonderbolts poster had been taped over the broken window. Vinyl, bless her, had apparently made some effort to tidy up the scene. I brewed a pot of Earl Hay tea, sat down at the kitchen table and stared desolately at the glitter-encrusted records Vinyl had, in a fit of artistic fervor some days previously, suspended from the ceiling. The doorbell rang. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I called, “Please enter.” My visitor was a brown pony whom I recognized. I was in no mood to entertain guests, but the first duty of a lady is to be gracious. “Good afternoon, Time Turner,” I said, blinking back tears. “Have some tea.” “You’ve confused me with another pony,” said my visitor in an odd accent. “You may call me the Doctor. I’d love some tea, if the offer still stands.” “Who are you and what do you want?” “I suppose that’s a ‘No’ for the tea,” sighed the Doctor. “Pity. To answer your question, Ms. Octavia, I was asked to deliver something.” He smiled and held out an enormous bag. “Open it.” What was in the bag, you ask? That bag, Ms. Sparkle, held a miracle. It was my bass. Fully restored. After a few moments of incoherent stammering, I gasped out, “How… I mean… Doctor, where did you get this?” “That’s a charming poster,” he replied vaguely. “The one in the living room, I mean. I couldn’t help but notice it on my way in. It’s quite bold, though I can’t say I like that electric blue color.” I said nothing, gazing at my bass. It was as good as new. It had even been polished, and it gleamed in the light. “Never mind the poster,” said the Doctor. “Let’s get down to business. It’s important that you perform tonight at the concert. Very important. The fate of Equestria—well, three-quarters of it—depends upon your performance.” This bizarre pronouncement pulled me out of my trance. “I beg your pardon?” I said, frowning at the Doctor. “Never mind the details,” he replied impatiently. “Listen to me, Ms. Octavia. You must perform tonight, and it’s important for your friend Scratch to perform with you. A duet, you understand. That is all I ask. Well, there is one more thing.” “What more can I do for you, Doctor?” “A cup of tea, if you wouldn’t mind.” As I poured out some tea for the Doctor, he strolled into the living room and examined Vinyl’s console. “Interesting machine,” he said, tapping it with what looked like the metal handle of a screwdriver. “Fascinating. Ah yes, thank you for the tea. It smells like Earl Grey—pardon me, Earl Hay. This ruddy country and its ruddy horse talk take some getting used to.” “I beg your pardon?” “Just the ramblings of a very old pony, Ms. Octavia.” My guest drank his tea. “Good afternoon. Thank you for the tea. And remember,” he added, lifting a hoof and gesturing for emphasis, “you and Vinyl must perform a duet tonight. Everything depends upon it.” “But Vinyl’s console is broken,” I said. “Is it?” he asked, and winked. With that he was gone. Vinyl entered moments later. “Dude, you fixed your bass!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you didn’t sell the house to pay for it.” I explained. “That’s sweet,” she replied. “Totally sweet! Now you can perform tonight at the concert.” “Vinyl, try out your console. The Doctor hinted it might be working again.” Vinyl’s face fell. Without a word, she crossed the room and began fiddling listlessly with the knobs on her machine. The house was suddenly shaken to its foundation by an almighty wub wub wub. “Turn it off!” I bellowed, and the din subsided. Vinyl beamed. Though my ears were ringing, I heard her speak one word: “Working.” “Kindly refrain from turning it on again,” I said, shaking my head. “I just bought this house, and I do not want you wubbing it down.” You were present at the concert, Ms. Sparkle, so I will not describe the tragic events that transpired last night at town hall. How was the fire started? That is for you to discover, I am afraid. Good luck in your investigation!
Part 2 - The Tale of ColgateI’m happy to help you out with your investigation, Ms. Twilight, but I’m not sure I have any useful information about the tragedy at town hall. I didn’t attend the concert last night. I saw the smoke, but that was all. What caused the fire? I don’t know, but I have a theory. Let’s start with what happened two days ago. The day before the concert, a mail carrier gave me a letter in a blank envelope. What was her name? Ditzy, maybe? She told me the letter was an extra-special one that she had been asked to deliver personally. I was curious, of course, so I opened up the envelope and took a look at it. My heart froze. The letter read, Your secret isn’t a secret anymore. Come to the town hall storage room at five o’clock tomorrow morning, or else. It was blackmail. Somepony knew my secret. Soon everypony would know it. I had only one chance to make things right. At five o’clock in the morning, I’d be waiting in the storage room in town hall. I had no other choice. What was my secret? I’ll tell you, Ms. Twilight. I’ve wasted too many years worrying about what other ponies think of me. It’s time for me to be myself. I want to be a dentist. It’s crazy, but I think my Cutie Mark is wrong. Who decides our Cutie Marks, anyway? Is my destiny really determined by a mark on my flank? Not anymore! I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul! I wasn’t exactly this confident when I received the letter two days ago. I was terrified. I wanted to keep my secret, well, a secret. The next day—the day of the fire—I found myself shivering in the dark, frigid storage room on the uppermost floor of town hall. Now that the building is a smoking mound of ashes, the room is gone. I’ll have to describe it to you. Junk was piled everywhere, which surprised me. I’d expected the storage room to be neat because town hall was the cleanest, tidiest place in Ponyville. The building was especially elegant because of the upcoming concert. Everything had been scrubbed, polished and decorated until the hall was a bright blaze of colored silks and shining surfaces. Looking back, I bet town hall was so neat because all its mess was crammed willy-nilly into that storage room. Besides the clutter, the place was just dirty. Moonlight filtered in through two grimy windows, barely illuminating crates, boxes, chairs, podiums and tapestries, all covered by a thick layer of dust. Gritty cobwebs filled the corners, and one or two brave spiders struggled across the filthy floor. One thing was weird. There was a single crate that wasn’t covered in dust. It was a plain wooden box with the letters DIN printed on the side. I still wonder what it was. It’s weird for such a small detail to leave such a large impression, but I can’t shake the feeling that the box was really, really important. It even came up in a conversation later that day—but I should get back to my story, shouldn’t I? A pony arrived at last, a blue unicorn with a starry robe and a pointed hat. Lifting the hem of her robe, she dusted it off and looked around with an expression of bitter distaste. “What is this?” she demanded. “Who the hay are you? The great and powerful Trixie demands to know what you’re doing in this disgusting place!” I cleared my throat. “Um, hi. I, uh, got your letter.” The great and powerful Trixie dropped the hem of her robe. It raised a little cloud of dust as it hit the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You got my letter?” she exclaimed. “I told that half-witted mail carrier to give the letter to Mayor Mare.” A wicked glint came into Trixie’s eyes. “So you came instead, did you? That means you have a secret. Well, this might be worth Trixie’s time after all. Out with it. What’s your secret?” I changed the subject. “You sent that letter to Mayor Mare?” “She dyes her mane,” said Trixie, shrugging. “It’s naturally pink, but she tries to fool everypony into thinking it’s a respectable, professional gray. I thought I could blackmail her into canceling tonight’s concert.” “Why?” A shadow passed over Trixie’s face. “Twilight Sparkle,” she hissed. “That smug, awful, ugly excuse for a magician humiliated Trixie, and Trixie does not forgive. This concert is Twilight’s special project. She’s been planning it for months.” Trixie kicked at the floor, raising a storm of dust. “Princess Celestia herself is coming to hear the performances. Trixie will ruin this concert, and Twilight will be totally disgraced.” I stared at Trixie in horror. She was smiling, but it was an ugly smile, and there was something awful in her eyes. A snarl of hatred would have been less frightening that that bitter, mocking smirk. As we stood looking at each other, something happened that’s hard for me to describe. I saw myself in Trixie. No, that’s not it. I looked at Trixie and saw the pony I was becoming: a pony obsessed with her image, a pony who would do anything, anything to make it seem perfect. To see myself in Trixie frightened me. It also made me angry. “How dare you!” I advanced on Trixie. Her smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of panic, and she began to back away. “I don’t know what Twilight did to you, but what you’re planning is evil,” I yelled, stamping for emphasis. A gentle shower of dust fell from the ceiling. “I should be going—” began Trixie, but I didn’t give her the chance to finish. “Mayor Mare is innocent, and you’re trying to blackmail her!” I shouted. “And has it occurred to you that by ruining the concert you’ll be hurting every single pony involved? What about the musicians who’ve spent weeks practicing? What about the audience members who’ve paid for tickets? And did you know the profits from the concert will be donated to an orphanage in Canterlot? What about those orphans, Trixie?” Trixie had backed up against the dirty wall of the storage room. Unable to retreat farther, she cowered beneath her hat with her eyes shut. I took a deep breath and continued in a colder, calmer voice. “You want to know my secret? Fine. I want to be a dentist, and I don’t care anymore if you or anypony in Equestria think I’m crazy. If I keep obsessing over my image, I’m going to end up a selfish, narcissistic pony like you.” Trixie whimpered. “Go ahead and value your reputation more than the lives of other ponies,” I said, resisting the urge to yell again. “I can’t stop you, but I won’t let you stop Twilight’s concert. Now get out of Ponyville, and don’t come back until you’ve learned some kindness!” I finished, breathing heavily. A moment passed. The dust settled. Trixie opened an eye and peered nervously at me. “This town is crazy,” she murmured. “The great and powerful Trixie won’t stick around any longer.” Her alarm seemed to subside, and a smirk slipped onto her face. “Don’t think this is over. Trixie may not have prevented the concert, but she made sure it will end badly.” “What have you done?” “Oh, not much. A few hours ago, Trixie broke into a house and damaged a couple of instruments—a string bass and a music console—that are supposed to be used in the concert tonight. That’s two flaws in Twilight’s perfect project. It’s not quite the grand finale Trixie hoped to see, but it’s better than nothing. Now it’s time for the great and powerful Trixie to be shaking the dust from her hooves and moving on!” A puff of black smoke filled the room. By the time it cleared, Trixie was gone. That’s my story, Twilight. While I’m not sure, I think Trixie may have slipped back into town hall last night and started the fire that burned down the building. It’s just a theory. I may have yelled at the great and powerful Trixie, but I was really screaming at myself. It took her smirking face to show me how wrong I’ve been all this time. I don’t want to be like Trixie, worrying constantly about my reputation. I want to follow my dreams. I am the master of my fate, and I’ve decided to be a dentist. I sure hope you figure out what caused that fire, Ms. Twilight. Good luck!
Part 3 - The Tale of Vinyl ScratchSo, Twi—is it cool if I call you Twi? “Twilight” is too fancy. It makes me uncomfortable just hearing it, the same way I feel every time I see fashion models onstage. You’d never catch Vinyl Scratch wearing clothes like that, and I’m sure glad my old mare didn’t name me Twilight. No offense. Yeah, you know all about me. Vinyl Scratch, DJ extraordinaire. I was honored when you asked me to perform in the concert you were planning for Princess Celestia. I mean, she’s in charge of the sun. That’s pretty dang serious, you know? You can bet your books I was upset to stroll into the living room on the morning before the concert and find somepony had busted up Trib. That’s my music console, by the way. Tribulation, or Trib for short. Old Trib and I have had some crazy times together, and it cut me up to find somepony had torn off a panel, pulled some wires and made a mess of the circuit board. I guess whatever pony wrecked Trib came in through the living room window. It was smashed. Glass everywhere. And there was something else mixed in with the glass. Splinters of metal. I can’t even call them splinters. They were splinters of splinters: tiny shards of steel. I was wondering what the hay they were when I noticed a cabinet was open and realized where its lock had gone. It wasn’t just any cabinet. It was the cabinet, where Octy—Octavia, I mean—keeps her instruments, including her bass. She loves that bass. Dang, it’s almost creepy how much she loves that thing. When I saw the cabinet open and its lock scattered in little pieces over the carpet, I had a really bad feeling. Octy came downstairs minutes later. The look on her face was awful, Twi. She looked like somepony had died. After staring for a second, she ransacked the cabinet and found her bass. It was busted just as bad as my console. The stick thingy—you know, what she drags across the strings to make music—was broken, and the strings were cut. Overall, the instrument was in pretty bad shape. As much as I wanted to make a joke about “dropping the bass,” I decided it probably wasn’t the best time. The whole thing was a shock, but I figured it would be easy to fix. I had enough cash on hoof to get Trib fixed, and I thought Octy would have enough bits to get her bass repaired. She comes from a rich family. I’ve also heard rumors she had ties to the Canterlot mob in her younger days. Either way, I assumed she was loaded. Turns out she had just bought the house we live in and didn’t have a bit left over. Now, Twi, our house is pretty much the nicest place ever. Have you seen the mansion at the end of Oat Avenue? The one with the rose garden and ivy climbing up the walls? That’s us, baby. We’ve got five bedrooms and a hot tub and even a basement with soundproofing where I can play my music loud. The furniture is made of shiny wood. There’s a statue of that wacky Discord guy in the foyer. (I think it’s just a statue.) You could sleep on the carpet, it’s so plush. Seriously, this house is glorious. In fact, it’s a little too glorious for a pony like me. I figured Octy would have the same idea, so I made the first move. “I’ll be moving out then, Octy,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m no freeloader. The Scratches earn their living fair and square.” “You shall stay,” she said, and then began to cry. “You are a dear friend, Vinyl, despite your… unusual habits.” Octy is good with words. I’m not. I still can’t find words to describe how awesome it is that Octy is letting me stay in her house, and I’ve been trying for hours. At the time, after struggling to speak for a minute, all I could manage was, “I’m not good at saying thanks, but, um, thanks, Octy. You the best. Go get some rest. I’ll think of something.” She went upstairs, and I realized what I needed to do. To Tartarus with Trib. Octy’s bass needed fixing, and never mind the cost. After cleaning up the living room and taping a Wonderbolts poster over the busted window, I took the bass to the shop. It took an hour and about a million bits, but I got it repaired and took it back to the house. I stood in the rose garden, reluctant to go inside. You see, Twi, I don’t like mushy, sentimental stuff. It’s hard enough to say stuff like “Thank you.” Hearing it from other ponies is even worse. I’m not sure how long I waited, clutching the bass and listening to bees hum through the roses, but it was a pretty long time. A pony came to the front door. “Hey you,” I said. “Yeah, you. Brown guy with the hourglass Cutie Mark.” “Good day,” he replied. He sounded foreign. “You’re visiting Octy?” He chuckled. “If by ‘Octy’ you mean Ms. Octavia, I am.” “Give her the bass in this bag,” I said, holding it out. The pony took the bag, peered inside and declared, “A beautiful instrument. Ms. Octavia asked you to have it tuned, I presume.” “The bass was busted, actually. I just paid to have it fixed.” The pony whistled. “It’s lucky that you repaired it in time for the concert. I’d better check on your console while I’m here.” “Somepony messed with it,” I mumbled, fixing my gaze on a rosebush. “It’s not working.” “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” “Knock yourself out,” I replied, staring at the bush and wishing the brown pony would stop asking questions. “Very good,” he said. “I’m the Doctor, by the way. You must be Ms. Scratch.” That did it. Turning away from the rosebush, I frowned at the Doctor and growled, “Don’t ever call me that again. Seriously, it’s ‘Vinyl’ or ‘Scratch’ or ‘Vinyl Scratch.’ Now get in there and give Octy her bass. One more thing. Don’t tell her it’s from me. If she asks, change the subject. Talk about the Wonderbolts poster in the living room or something. Got that, Doc?” The Doctor nodded, took the bass and entered the house. He came out smiling a few minutes later. “The coast is clear,” he said, and winked. “You’re quite a heroine, Scratch. Ms. Octavia is happy to have her bass again. More to the point, you’ve helped save Equestria.” “I did what?” “Well,” said the Doctor pensively, “you’ve helped save three-quarters of it. Good day, Scratch.” The Doctor trotted off, leaving me with absolutely no idea of what the hay he meant. I helped save Equestria… by fixing Octy’s bass? Weird, man. And what was with the three-quarters thing? Seriously, I’m beginning to wonder about that Doctor pony. I bet he doesn’t even have a degree. The Doctor turned the corner at the end of the avenue and disappeared from view. There was no point in waiting outside any longer. I swallowed hard, went inside and found Octy hugging her bass. I told you it was creepy how much she loves that thing. “Dude, you fixed your bass!” I said, grinning at Octy. “Tell me you didn’t sell the house to pay for it.” “I did nothing of the kind,” she said. Her eyes had lit up. “That pony, the Doctor, gave it to me. I do not even know how he obtained it, let alone repaired it.” “That’s sweet,” I said. “Totally sweet! Now you can perform tonight at the concert.” “Vinyl, try out your console. The Doctor hinted it might be working again.” My heart sank. Trib was still broke, I was sure. The broken panel was lying on the floor where I left it, and a few wires dangled out of the hole it left behind. Old Trib was definitely busted. I turned it on anyway and began playing with the controls. Then the most awesome thing in the history of history happened. Trib shuddered once and began to wub. I cranked the volume and prepared for action. Then I heard somepony say very faintly, “Turn it off!” Reluctantly, I shut off Trib. “Working,” I said, grinning. “Kindly refrain from turning it on again,” said Octy. “I just bought this house, and I do not want you wubbing it down.” We spent the afternoon practicing a duet. The Doctor had apparently told Octy that she and I had to play one at the concert. The fate of Equestria depended on it or something. I wasn’t about to argue. The rest is history. Octy and I went to town hall that night for the concert. The place was totally decked out. Didn’t your friend Rarity handle the decorations? The ribbons and banners and stuff were pretty dang fabulous. The hall was packed. Everypony in Equestria was there, or that’s how it looked from up on stage. I played my duet with Octy. Princess Celestia loved it. Everything was awesome until the fire happened.
Part 4 - The Tale of LyraThe concert was pretty wild, wasn’t it? I mean, even without the fire, it was a crazy night! Seriously, Twilight, so much random, epic stuff has happened in Ponyville since you arrived to run the library. This town was really quiet and peaceful before you came. Maybe you’re like, cursed or something! Apart from playing my harp early in the program, I didn’t have much to do with the concert. But there’s one pony who might have some answers for you. He calls himself “the Doctor,” though he’s not very professional. When you hear “the Doctor,” you expect a certain kind of pony—somepony who’s like, formal and dignified and stuff. The Doctor is really laid back. He doesn’t even wear a tie. I met him the morning before the concert. He was standing beside Sugarcube Corner and looking up at the sky with a frown, which was odd because the weather was like, totally nice. Birds singing, bees buzzing, flowers being beautiful—like, everything was fabulous. The morning even smelled good. I think Pinkie Pie was baking cupcakes. The neighborhood smelled like chocolate and looked lovely, so I assumed the pony beside Sugarcube Corner was soaking in the ambiance. (I think ambiance is the word I’m looking for. It’s either that or suavity.) “Good day,” he said as I passed him. “I’m looking for a box.” “A box?” I replied. “Like, what kind of box?” “A wooden crate with the letters DIN on its side. It’s very, very important that I find it. I’ve been following it all over Equestria, in fact. I tracked the box as far as the local post office, but that’s where its trail ends. I can’t tell you how desperate I am to find the blighted thing.” “Sorry, bro,” I said. “I haven’t seen any kind of box today.” “Please, call me the Doctor,” he replied, nodding politely. “I’ll be flitting around Ponyville today. Do let me know if you hear anything, will you?” “You got it,” I said, wishing I had thumbs. It’s like, really hard to give a thumbs-up with hooves. I added, “My name’s Lyra, by the way.” “Charmed. I see the mark on your flank—” “You mean my Cutie Mark?” I said, pointing. “Ah, that’s the one. It seems to be a harp.” “That’s right. I’m a harpist. It’s like, what I do.” The Doctor cleared his throat, looked away, fidgeted and then looked back at my Cutie Mark. “Something wrong?” I asked. “Pardon my presumption,” he said, smiling apologetically, “but I must ask. How do you play the harp with hooves? Hooves hardly seem suited to that kind of instrument.” “I practice a lot,” I said, shrugging. “Hands would sure be a nice thing to have. Humans are so lucky. At least, they would be if they weren’t like, mythological.” The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Mythological? Are you sure?” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen humans before?” The Doctor seemed to think about his answer. “I’ll strike a bargain with you, Ms. Lyra.” I giggled. “Just ‘Lyra’ is fine, Doctor.” “I need a companion, Lyra, to help me find the missing box. Help me, and I’ll tell you everything I know about humans.” “Let’s find us a box!” I exclaimed. “The lost and found department at the police station is a good place to start. It’s like, just down the street. Can we wait for cupcakes first? They smell like, totally delicious.” The Doctor trotted away. “We’re on a tight schedule, I’m afraid,” he called over his shoulder. “Coming, Lyra?” I caught up and walked alongside him. “Now for my questions,” I said. “Here’s the first. Why do humans wear clothes?” “Modesty, decency, comfort and self-respect,” he replied. “Next question.” I questioned the Doctor all morning. He answered cheerfully, though I could see him becoming discouraged as the hours ticked away. We looked everywhere. The sun slowly crossed the sky and shadows lengthened across the streets. As shoppers finished their errands and went home, the crowds thinned and eventually disappeared. The box refused to be found. “Like, what’s in the box we’re looking for?” I asked. “A bomb,” said the Doctor. “A what?” “A device that explodes.” I laughed. “Like those things they hand out at parties that go ‘Pop!’ when you pull the string?” “You’ve the general idea of the thing,” said the Doctor, frowning. “But you need to multiply by a factor of, oh, several trillion, and add quite a lot of fire, and some radiation.” “So it’s a big firework,” I said. “Sounds cool. Why do you need it?” The Doctor sighed, and I stopped asking questions. We walked in silence for a minute, and then I saw a friend of mine across the street. “Hey Colgate!” I said. “I’ve got like, a super-duper-important question for you.” “What’s that?” “We’re looking for a box. It’s wooden and has DIN on its side.” “That’s eerie,” said Colgate, looking a little spooked. “I saw a box like that just this morning.” The Doctor reacted as though somepony had prodded him with a bolt of lightning. “Where?” he shouted. “In heaven’s name, where?” “The storage room of town hall,” said Colgate. “You know, the building where tonight’s concert will be held.” At that moment, the Doctor did something really strange. He laughed. “Dash it all, that’s perfect! I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Thank you, Ms. Colgate.” As Colgate strolled away, the Doctor turned to me and grinned. “Well, that’s that. Now I just need to check on tonight’s performers.” “I’m performing tonight,” I said proudly. The Doctor looked away and coughed once or twice. “Ah, yes. I’m sure you’ll do splendidly, Lyra, but the musicians whom I need to see are none other than Ms. Octavia and Ms. Scratch. It’s imperative that their instruments are in working order, and I must tell them to perform a duet tonight. Where is their house?” “The mansion at the end of Oat Avenue,” I told him. “Rose bushes and tons of ivy. You can’t miss it.” “Many thanks,” he said, smiling. “Now if you’ll pardon me, Lyra, I must be going. I’ve a world to save—three-quarters of it, at any rate.” He walked away, humming to himself. You know the rest, Twilight. The concert was a huge success. We raised lots of money for that orphanage in Canterlot, and Princess Celestia loved the show. Octavia and Vinyl Scratch put on a rocking performance right at the end. After the concert, the audience left town hall to see smoke pouring out of the upper windows. The building burned down quickly. Nopony was hurt, but it was still like, really tragic. I guess the box the Doctor was looking for burned up in the fire. I didn’t hear any explosions, though, so I guess the firework bomb thingy was a dud. I wonder how he knew so much about humans, and I wish I knew what he meant by “I’ve a world to save.” He wasn’t talking about Equestria, was he? It’s too bad, because it would have been like, totally cool if he’d really saved the world. But that’s just silly. That’s all I’ve got, Twilight. I hope it helps!
Part 5 - The Tale of the DoctorFrankly, Ms. Sparkle, I’m not sure how much I can tell you. I suppose I ought to start with an introduction and get that out of the way. I go by Doctor Hooves—spelt with a W occasionally—but I much prefer to be known as the Doctor. You’ve seen me round Ponyville, though you’ve probably mixed me up with Time Turner. We’re the very image of each other. Even our marks—Cutie Marks, aren’t they called?—are identical. The only way to tell us apart is to hear us speak, since our accents are markedly different. I’m something of a traveler. There aren’t many places I haven’t been. My business is to meddle in the affairs of other people—other ponies; sorry—and it’s quite an entertaining business, let me tell you! I came to Ponyville after a longish trek across Equestria. It’s a lovely land, Equestria. The Everfree Forest is a wee bit rough-and-tumble, it’s true, but it’s quite pretty from a distance. I was looking for something. A wooden crate with the letters DIN stamped on it. It was very important for me to find that crate. Ms. Sparkle, I can already tell that it’s no use trying to be discreet. This case is confusing enough without me withholding half the facts! I’m going to lay out all my cards on the table. Some of the information you’re about to read is… delicate. Be careful to whom you entrust it. To put it simply, I’m a time-traveler whose purpose in coming to Equestria was to track down a weapon of mass destruction misplaced across several dimensions. That wasn’t very simple, was it? Let me start over. I, the Doctor, came from another dimension in search of a device called a bomb. You probably aren’t familiar with bombs. All you really need to know is that they destroy things. This particular bomb could have destroyed roughly three-quarters of Equestria. It was a Disintegration Initiation Node (DIN for short) left over from a vicious war in… well, another dimension. I won’t bore you with details. Someone misplaced this bomb, and it wandered from one dimension to another like flotsam drifting on a stormy sea. By the time I arrived in Equestria, I’d been hunting the bomb for quite some time. Sooner or later it was bound to detonate. When it did, it would take quite a number of innocent ponies with it. I couldn’t allow that, now could I? I hadn’t expected to become a pony, but it seems to have been a side effect of setting foot—or hoof, if you prefer—in Equestria. Not that I mind. Ponies are remarkable creatures. I rather wish I could have been a unicorn, but I won’t complain. My journey began in Canterlot. I’ve heard you have family there, Ms. Sparkle. It’s quite a pleasant city, though I can’t say I care much for its criminal underworld. In retrospect, it may have been a mistake to ask the Canterlot mob for its help in tracking down the bomb. It seemed like a good idea at the time, you see. The Canterlot mob was, in fact, remarkably unhelpful. (I thought I’d never get out of that alligator pit.) Since the local mob was of no use, I settled for the next best thing and paid a visit to Princess Celestia. I generally find criminals to be more dependable than politicians, but I’m happy to report that your monarch is an outstanding exception. She listened patiently to my explanations, and served excellent cake. In the end, she pointed me toward the Everfree Forest. “Everything dangerous ends up there,” she told me. “It’s a magnet for trouble. If it’s danger you’re looking for, the Everfree Forest is a good place to start.” Your Princess was right, Ms. Sparkle. Everything dangerous ends up in the Everfree Forest, and I met most of it. A dragon, one or two wyverns, any number of wolves—everything dangerous, in fact, except for a wooden crate with DIN on its side. As I began to lose hope, a zebra pointed me toward your little town. A zebra, of all things! She had heard rumours of a mysterious box arriving in Ponyville. After weeks without a lead, I didn’t hesitate to follow this one. I came to this town and renewed my search. A full account of my searches would take quite a lot of ink, I’m afraid. I looked high and low and near and far and everywhere else I could think to look. The box eluded me, and I realized with growing panic that I was running out of time. At long, long last, I succeeded in tracking the bomb to the Ponyville post office. How exactly it got there, I can’t say. (The universe is a funny thing, Ms. Sparkle; please don’t expect it to make sense.) I lost track of the bomb after the post office, but two ponies—Lyra and Colgate were their names, I think—helped me to find the blighted thing at last. It had wound up in the storage room in town hall, the very place where a concert was to be held that night. This was a serendipitous turn of events. You see, Ms. Sparkle, the bomb could be deactivated by certain sonic frequencies—or to put it in simpler terms, certain kinds of sound. As it happened, the frequencies needed to shut off this particular bomb were exactly those emitted by a couple of instruments played during your concert. The key instruments were a string bass and a music console. They had to be played simultaneously for the deactivation of the bomb to occur. A duet, you understand. It turns out that both of the instruments involved had been damaged. Vinyl Scratch, to whom the console belonged, very kindly paid to have her friend Octavia’s bass repaired. I mended the console myself using my Sonic Screwdriver, which is—how shall I describe it?—a sort of magic wand. After telling Ms. Octavia to perform a duet with Scratch at your concert, I had some cider at the local café and waited. Your concert was, may I say, a smashing success. It was grand to see Princess Celestia again, and I was happy to tell her I’d found the missing box. Ms. Octavia and Scratch concluded with a triumphant performance, the sound of which filtered up to the storage room and switched off the bomb. One thing, however, didn’t quite go according to plan. The bomb short circuited and threw out sparks as it switched off. The sparks set the wooden crate alight. By the time I arrived in the storage room, the whole place was a blazing mess. I’m sorry to have ruined your town hall. At the same time, its destruction seems a small price to pay to prevent three-quarters of Equestria from going up in smoke and ashes. Now that I’ve finished my business with the bomb, I suppose I should be moving on. My work is never done, it seems. It’s time for me to go be a nuisance somewhere else. I leave you with my humblest apologies for the fire, and my sincerest congratulations on a magnificent concert!
Part 6 - The Tale of Derpy HoovesI like muffins. Blueberry muffins are my favorite, but I like banana muffins too. I like any kind of muffins, actually. You know, Twilight, your house kind of looks like a muffin—a big green one. No, I guess your house looks more like a mushroom than a muffin. Mostly it looks like a tree. I’m a mail carrier. You’ve probably seen me around. I dropped a piano on you once, but you might not remember that. I should apologize. Sorry. I sent you a box of muffins, but it might have been delivered to the wrong pony. That happens a lot when I work. I wonder why that is. You probably want to know about the box in the storage room in town hall. At least, that’s what the Doctor told me. He’s sitting next to me and eating a muffin. I asked him if he wants to say hi, and he said yes, so “Hi” from the Doctor. That box showed up a week ago at the office and my boss told me to take it to the lost and found department at the police station. I went to deliver it, but… I… um, I… I made a mistake. When I was a filly, the mare who ran the orphanage got mad at me whenever I made a mistake. She told me my eyes are weird. Like a chameleon’s. I don’t even know what a chameleon is, but it hurt me somewhere inside every time she told me that. The Doctor is reading everything I write, and he says a chameleon is a fascinating reptile. I guess that makes me feel a little better. I took the box to town hall instead of the police station, and I guess they put it up in that dirty old storage room. I’m not sure what else I should write. I guess I can write about bubbles. They’re just beautiful. I love bubbles. There’s something sad about them, though. They only last a few seconds. I wish bubbles didn’t go away so soon. Things always go away too soon. The Doctor is telling me I should write about the letter I delivered to the blue unicorn. Trixie. That was her name. I don’t like her. She makes me think of the mean mare who ran the orphanage where I was a filly. Wait, now the Doctor’s telling me I’ve got the wrong blue unicorn. That’s right! Trixe was the one who gave me the letter, and I delivered it to Colgate. Colgate reminds me of the cook from the orphanage. She was nice. She gave me muffins every time the mean mare made me cry. I guess I made another mistake and gave Colgate the wrong letter. Things worked out okay, though, in the end. Didn’t they? The Doctor tells me it’s a good thing I made that mistake because it helped him find the missing box. He says three-quarters of Equestria would probably be gone if I hadn’t given Colgate the wrong letter. Three-quarters of Equestria—gone. Totally gone. Like bubbles. I guess things did work out okay. The Doctor showed up at my house just after you asked me to write this report. He brought a box of muffins and said he’d help me remember everything you needed to know. He’s nice, the Doctor. I’m sad now because the Doctor just told me that he’ll be going away soon. Just like bubbles. He says he might visit, though. That’s good. That’s all I have to write, I think. I hope you get it all figured out, Twilight. Derpy Hooves signing off!
