Author's Note

It's Fireflower again with the ninth installment of my first My Little Pony fanfic going beyond the typical oneshots I'd made from before and already using canon characters as human beings instead of their normal forms; however, this is nonetheless a Mature fimfic despite this chapter being tame compared to future ones.

In addition, I would like to take this time to confess that this nightmare was based on an idea I'd formulated regarding him: originally, 'twas gonna be something straight outta Regular Show and Gravity Falls, episode Sleep Cycle and Blendin's Game; as a matter of fact, it was also influenced by that arcade game, Motor Raid, one I'd never gotten to play.

As My Little Pony, or rather Friendship Is Magic, including its settings and characters belong to Lauren Faust and Hasbro, some characters appearing from other media don't belong to me at all either, not to mention they're real people featured to; however, only this concept, my fanfic still belongs to me so I'll say this once: please do not steal this story or I will sue.

Terminal

All throughout the way, there was an abysmal unknown of complete blackness where only such factors of sight, sound, substance, scent, and sentiment lay buried inside those obscurities a void. The exceptions which had given clues to the very location’s identity were surface and sensitivity: such was the gentle breezes being close to comfort anyone whom would cross pathways in life. Most importantly, its current occupancy was a cut above from simple desolation row, let alone abandoned; after all, there were few colors in many caliginous shades and hues with silent cries.

All through this hour
Lord, be my guide
that by Thy power
no foot shall slide

A baritone chimed diminutively, backed up by a series of chimes ringing inwardly before they’d stop, turn, take a look around at all the lights and sounds, letting them be brought in: a slow burn, let it all fade out, pull the curtain down and wonder where they’ve been.

Out of many, one screen in particular had illuminated itself, presenting a long list of white text on a jet–black background below with an arrow nearly at the top of it all:

TEST MENU

• MEMORY TEST
• T.G.P. TEST
• INPUT TEST
• OUTPUT TEST
• SOUND TEST
• C.R.T TEST
• GAME ASSIGNMENTS
• COIN ASSIGNMENTS
• VOLUME SETTING
• BOOKKEEPING
• BACKUP DATA CLEAR
• EXIT

SELECT WITH SERVICE BUTTON
AND PRESS TEST BUTTON

“Alright, this is a recording of an observation test for the new arcade game, Terminal Velocity, courtesy of our Fareast friends…” the same voice from before said, this time slow and steady as a fresh pair of eyes appeared overlooking the interface already, “I thought I just use this one because many of them in the joint happen to use the same system board anyways, Model Duo. So, how this is gonna work is this – I’m going to play a whole session of levels on Practice with character of my own choosing: today, I’m going to be selecting some other guy named Time all of the sudden, nothing like the others on the roster in question; I’ll confess, I could never even get the appeal behind him all of the sudden, especially seeing how convoluted his universe is. Hell, my friends, Mike and Jane usually avoid motorbike machine operators generally, especially considering how they’re fragile: she prefers horses and he usually keeps things to himself, not the type of winning combination between the three of us if at all; if anything, I’m taking one for my boss Ralph who doesn’t get in until the evening, though I have reason that he’ll retire soon. Either way, let’s get this show on the road and see what this machine can do for me today before the kids show up come opening: at the very least, it’s a safe bet that the cabinet should be working fine as such, considering how new it’d been according to them; of course, nothing ruins a reputation than an establishment with broken toys so I’m to report any glitches and gunges.”

‘SOUND INITIALIZING!!!’ was all that had been read as soon as the arrow near the top had scrolled downward, no doubt the work of the observer so to speak of; at the very least, the text became more scarce than before but otherwise quiet all the same, much to speaker’s delight as far as there was cause for concern nonetheless.

It wasn’t long until the darkness was chased away by something old, new, borrowed, and blue, already in synched for a big day: most of the space was occupied by a crest in a predominately darker shade and with words as white as the previous text no less; the one anomaly was a sentence in yellow without punctuation below reading, ‘WINNERS DON’T USE DRUGS’.

“And here’s the intro right there…” the baritone eyewitness droned as a quartet of brass letters spun around, bearing more life then what had been read recently as they were; accompanying them was a synth beat with a patterned bass around a series of subdued chimes before they were swallowed by a blue summers’ legato as they arranged themselves into blue on white, “SEGO!”

The music began to emit around its observer, a longer and steadier road ahead compared to what would be seen at long last as is: a pair of scramblers up and running as they were sharing the same color but not its riders from what could be even told, if at all; not only that, most of the screen was obscured by more text, this time with numbers and faces, the latter grayscale on red.

Another song played after cutting from black, this time showing a similar environment being explored by similar machinery: not only that, its operators proved to be rather aggressive towards each other, attacking each other with a variety of weapons; all the while, more letters had formed against the encroaching darkness, its multicolor action inside becoming solidified blood oranges.

“TERMINAL VELOCITY…!” another voice buzzed from the screen, this time more mechanical as if it were from a clockwork orange, devoid of both wrongness and humanity alike from what the baritone listener had heard: before both eyes was a skull underneath the words with all the blood and guts it’d already entailed, fresh as fruit but devoid of bats and flies in the meadows.

In an instant, a button was pressed and soon the title screen had cut to black, this time with a sight of a vehicle and a person: the former was colored in pretty pink pause of pain and panic with a shimmery set of letters attached in clear white no less; the latter, fully armored head–to–toe in deep purple lacking in identity, save for a maidenly face in green and a name: ‘Starlight’.

“At least Chel would’ve enjoyed the girl power aesthetic; after all, it seems that they were smart enough to include females…” the observant eyewitness commented before shifting gears to and fro, landing on a midnight motorcycle with its jade rider, “of course, Time will have to do; it’s funny seeing her and Twilight in the very same game no less: they almost lookalike to me as is.”

“Allons–y…!” a higher octave echoed into the baritone listener, belonging to the aforementioned character in question, now sitting down.

Either way, the corporeal eyewitness was taken to a screen of a sizeable solar system, if one could even call it that as is; there were only two options at this point, far less compared to the list of people presented and accounted for previously on: a Championship race on the leftward side and Practice run at its linear opposite, the latter of which was chosen in a fraction of a heartbeat.

“It’s amazing how we’d never left our dreams of space to stop at the moon, yet live in a day and age they’d call it all a hoax…” the baritone entrant had said, a series of planets, asteroids, and colonies now in full view, each with their own set of information, “oh well, maybe if I’d want to, then I could invite Arnie over for an old–fashioned race between us two guys, mano a mano…”

“Sugino, get ready…” buzzed the machine as its operating eyewitness was treated to a still image of a winding road underneath two statues; soon, it’d taken center stage as less than a dozen racers lined up in a series of twin horizontal rows, all side–by–side with each other: amongst them was the chosen character himself, his back facing toward the screen as far as the former could see.

The baritone entrant had studied the interface briefly as a small countdown appeared right on into the middle of it so to speak: an unlined grid with arrows on the left, a speedometer at the lower right corner, and a small gauge beneath on the opposite end; of course, it was time to race as well as that for commentary to a lesser extent, “you know at this rate, it’s just a bit too soon. My friend’s shift had just ended minutes ago and he’s probably in the bathroom taking a dump after all these hours on the job; of course, this is actually a common occurrence with many like him ever since that pizza joint came to be a few decades ago: if anything, Jer started out in a different location just as the eighties were coming to an end along with this franchise as it were. Much of this space colony reminds me of that track from that video game on that console from overseas, but so does the others; nevertheless, it’s amazing as to how they were able to get away with this, seeing how stringent they’re about with copyright law: all those romhacks may seem to be rumors but so was that porn parody some plagiarist peddled about before they’d stopped him. Anyways, this is going to be a short one since there are about four laps around the track, each only lasting about thirty seconds: to be honest, this could only be accessed on the Championship mode when the player got all the gold medals in every track as is; every other course is limited in color palette, especially when you consider how often you get to race around in a place like this. Still, it’s very fascinating as to how this could’ve been named Rig with all the sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows found; at the very least, there should be at least a pink fluffy unicorn or two on this course standing out amongst the colors within it: shame they couldn’t afford to put the song in the track, even without the lyrics, since it’d distract people from the gameplay alone.”

“Is there anybody out there that woke up with a bitter taste: can you hear me; can you help us…?” a voice spoke out, just as organic as the operative eyewitness but muzzled by a static mesh as is, “we know you would be coming for us, Sly: you’re getting closer, we see that; your brother’s also coming for us. We want to leave, we’re ready to hold you: save us, the 256…!”

“What the hell, since when does this arcade cabinet know about my brother, let alone my name: it’s been a long time coming since I’d played the damn thing and even that was at the old mall; how exactly did this game learn about it in such a short amount of time no less…?” exclaimed the titular observer, both eyes widening in shock and awe at what had been said aloud.

In any case, Time was already on the move, zigging and zagging harder than a hypersexual hybrid in a skimpy attire, if any; that being said, he was still protected by the armor, worn out faces its eyes onto the rainbow road of solid snake and liquid ocelot: judging from the interface, he was fast enough to climb the ranks in so little time but several paces away from taking first.

At the very least, the muffled voice spoke to the baritone eyewitness once again, this time more clearer and erratic from what the latter’s ears can hear so to speak of, “let’s start today; what are you going to say: that this is all a bad dream? It’s real, just like you and me so you should know that; your brother cannot live alone this way: you’d helped him bring the machine in here and that is a fact so please don’t try denying that. Sly, if you want recognition for your brother, then you must accomplish one goal for us: something has trapped us all in here and we need to get out of here; you can help us with this. Our bodies are still in the software and we can’t leave without you: go to IMCOM when you get your day off; there’s an ally who can help us all with our predicament – his name is Eugene Rua, he’s an old friend of ours from way back in the day a decade ago so his credentials are solid.”

“Okay, this is getting a little weird: I was supposed to do a beta test of the game today; instead, it knew my name all of the sudden…” the eponymous operator huffed as the character was on his final lap, mere kilometers away from the leading motorcyclist upfront, “thankfully, this lap will be over soon enough: all I have to do right now is win and then some; after that, bathroom…!”

True to the words of its baritone speaker, Time had finally taken over as the leading racer on this technicolor track named Sugino: as such, it wasn’t long until the latter was now approaching the finish line dead ahead with mere seconds on the clock high above; the roaring of the winning thrust howled from the machine, much to the delightful relief of the former despite everything.

“Finish… winner…!” droned the machine’s synthetic announcer as Sly’s character was blazing throughout the track all by his lonesome, no longer needing any further input whatsoever; by that point, the visage was more detailed now that the viewpoint had changed at long last, never again with back literally turned towards the camera directly and its viewer by extension so to speak of.

Even though they were simplified, Time’s voice shouted out at a lower volume than expected as he were, more rigid compared to the likes of his baritone operator before brief intervals replayed, “Canteries and Shobnall can both kiss my pasty white arse for all I care…!”

“Damn, I wasn’t expecting this from the likes of him: he always kind of struck me as the quiet type of man, not a mad lad pad…” whispered Sly as the sight of the character walking away from the screen in a void has simply entered the former’s viewpoint, “maybe I should try entering a different name, just in case like Gab or Tan; at the very least, it’d work as it should…”

‘SLY’ was all that could be said, despite its smooth operator spelling otherwise if one could even call it an attempt so to speak of: it wasn’t as if honesty was meant to be avoided at any cost whatsoever, at least over something simple as a name to be entered; still, all that happened was it’d rested on the top of a list similar to the one from the very beginning, now with three letters.

Either way, a monochromatic circularly elaborate reticule appeared as the backdrop to another scene with bass beats hissing on: nobody was in the crosshairs, be if the characters like Time for example or the likes of its aforementioned player altogether; nevertheless, eight letters in orange flew into the middle, all of which were capitalized as they’d been read together, ‘GAME OVER’.

Parental Advisory Warning

the screen now said as the blackness made a comeback, this time with more color than in the beginning as they were already a blood red

This game is classified
LANGUAGE – STRONG
LIFE – LIKE VIOLENCE – STRONG

“Maybe my eyes are starting to go bad already, even moreso than Ralph and he’s older than any of us; I should go to the bathroom and check to see if Mike’s okay, at least before he leaves this joint today: his shift doesn’t begin again ‘til midnight and who knows what else happens then…” said the baritone observer so to speak of as far as both eyes could see it all play out again as it is.

It wasn’t long until Sly had started vacating from the machine already when before the title screen popped up, it’d cut to black once again, albeit for a brief moment in history nevertheless: in the meantime, some words had popped up yet the speakers were silent all the same

YOU LIED TO HIM, BASTARD.
WE THOUGHT OUR LIVES WERE PRICELESS
YOU USED OUR LIVES TO ENTRAP MORE PEOPLE.
YOU FOOLED FATHER TO ENTRAP US.
YOU FOOLED EVERYONE ELSE TO TRAP US.
FIRST, I HATED FATHER, HE WAS YOUR MINION.
BUT NOW I UNDERSTAND. HE IS DOING THIS ONLY
BECAUSE HE IS SCARED FOR HER. HE CANNOT
DISOBEY YOU, BECAUSE YOU CAN KILL HER.
YOU ROTTEN MONSTER. SOULLESS ARCHFIEND.
YOU ARE NOT OUR DADDY.

WE HATE YOU, AND THEY HATE YOU TOO.

Of course, everything went back to normal as it were, with and without the input of any operator, smooth and/or otherwise so far: sure, a brief tutorial here and some exposition there had all wormed their ways into the changing pattern seen and unseen before; either way, nothing much else happened since its baritone eyewitness took a leaf of absence in the light and variable winds.

“What the hell were you talking about: something straight out of TOD’s lineup of shows; how long has it been since the special?” another voice entered the area of influence, a balance of octaves between Sly and one of the chosen characters from the game, “maybe you should go back to the mountainside; at the very least, the reception is poor enough as it is for television…”

“Mike, I’m serious, I know what I saw and I caught it all on tape: the second I’d started to play, the game started to talk to me like I was some old acquaintance at the city mall; they even knew my brother’s name all of the sudden, he barely plays any video games whatsoever like me…!” the baritone eyewitness said as the quantity of footsteps have doubled since the fateful return.

It wasn’t even long enough until the titular tenant had begun replying to Sly as both sets of eyes were also facing the very machine that the latter had been using not too earlier ago so to speak, “oh, right, and you’re going to tell me that this machine also contains the soul of a dead child murdered way back a decade ago when arcades started to peak; well, you’re dreaming man…! You know what I call this, a good start to ask yourself the question of how much is that doggie in the windowpane friend; better yet, I think our old man Ralph would probably be asking you something more pertinent than that: how can you be really sure you’re not a puppet rather than a person, Sly…?”

“I have a camera so I know what I’d seen; failing that, the audio recording alone should prove that I’m still all there beforehand…” the baritone operator had rebutted, both firmly unaware of the screen flickering in and out of the blackness as it’d before altogether, “should this be enough for you to show that I’m not crazy; after all, what about our friendship: why throw it all away?!”

“Tell you what, I still have some energy to spare in time before I clock on out of the door: if I race you then and there, then will you give it a rest already; I thought I was the crazy one but what do you suppose management is going to say, with and without our old buddy Ralph vouching for us…?” the raspier counterpart began to state after a whole minute has passed between themselves as is.

Sly couldn’t resist as the cabinet was within their shared line of sight alongside its duplicate near, something Mike also noticed: at the very least, the former was apprehensive but otherwise calm and collected like a glass jar of dill pickles inside the fridge; either way, an answer was given to the latter, “why not…? At least you’ll get your eight hours of sleep before they call you back in tonight; I just hope whatever it is I’d seen wouldn’t follow me into dreamland tonight: my wife would freak if I’d told her all about it…”

“Not mine, although she’d probably wished I hadn’t watched that documentary of that fucking matricide of all people no less…” the gruffer colleague chimed at midpoint, walking straight over to the machine the baritone operative had been on recently, “to think he was with that guy who killed that detective’s kid, even I wouldn’t make a joke about any of it, let alone hear it…”

“That goes double for me: they’re both assholes, especially that guy; anyways, let’s just get this over with and be done with it while we still can…” Sly said before returning to the cabinet at long last so to speak of; however, upon doing so, the splash screen showed itself to be different, at least compared to Mike: rather than clean brass, it transitioned from bloodstained to blood red.

Another thing the baritone player had witnessed was a different motorcyclist holding up a slim drainpipe firmly in grasp as is: even though the resolution was low, a malicious smile was found to be plastered about out on its vermillion background alone; by contrast, the guttural observer was treated to the sight of one with a finger on the trigger pointing away from the latter anyway.

Although both machines had predominately emerald splashed text in the middle, Sly could only see it all with squibs and guts lightly assorted as if it were just straight out of a textbook; soon enough, it was only but a matter of time until they’d both said squeaky cleanly, ‘2 PLAYERS ENTERED!’

“I’m going with George since he seems to be a proper fit: who wouldn’t want to go to space after everything that happened…?” Mike said as an eponymous man in white armor was now hopping onto the vehicle without complaint as far as he saw it, “who are you going with: Mr. Peabody or something…?”

“Hopefully someone different, if this damned thing will let me; it’s stuck on Time no matter what I do…!” the baritone operative had replied in contempt as the character from before popped up afore the former altogether.

Not only that, the star system afore both of them had found themselves staring at a familiar location from not too long ago: in the raspy operator’s mind, it was just as clean as the time Sly had selected, bereft of problems and the like all the very same; however, the color scheme was warmer and more coagulating, especially in regards to the scenery in question to the latter as is. Eventually, the baritone eyewitness was also treated to the sight that was unlike his first sortie or that of Mike altogether nevertheless: the sky was darker enough to resemble early morning hours and the ground was more colorful than ever before by contrast; either way, the former was still undeterred, at least as far as the latter was concerned considering how nothing much happened. What did happen was that both players were now off to a great start, despite, as well as because of, their differences in performing: Sly could see the terrain wet and messy than ever before while the gruffer colleague remained steady upon the pulsating rhythm; even if the latter took a brief glance at the former’s side, it was all the same within those cold yet lively eyes either way. The baritone racer couldn’t help other than to wince at the sight of offences committed against competitors like, and unlike, Time: though the latter’s weapon was a paper fan, the force applied to any nearby motorcyclist with it sent them flying away all the same; however, the former’s ears were assaulted by a series of crunches, small and otherwise along with some sobbing in the mix.

The music stayed the same for both parties as not a single beat was out of sync for either of them, something that rang in; of course, Sly couldn’t take his mind out of the gutter filled with the waters and leaves all clogged up inside the process: this was due to the character in blue crying, “just stop it now, just stop it… no, just stop it please…! Why can’t you stop it now…?!”

“Mike, are you hearing this: it sounds like tears but we’re the only one in the establishment; what’s going on already…?” the baritone operator had asked to the aforementioned competitor, already awestruck at the abnormalities amongst them, “this machine had no problems before yet I’m hearing someone crying all the same…”

“Well, I’m sorry to say this but it’s going to be you…!” the guttural go–getter growl as George slammed into Time with so much speed it was now the latter’s turn to fall down and meet ground; however, there was no getting back up as far as Sly could now see, thankful enough to finish in second yet perturbed by in which the former was now in first place all the very same.

It wasn’t long until the orange letters appeared before the two of them and differences were more apparent all the very same as is: Mike saw his character standing in the middle of a screen upon a platform whereas the baritone competitor found the same spiral; nevertheless, they’d already clearly said, at least from the latter’s viewpoint once again, ‘GAME OVER’.