You wake up with a start upon hearing a screech and feel the old wire bed beneath you move several inches as the ground shakes. Dazed, you raise a pastel green hoof to your face, feeling for the beauty mask you’re wearing and slide it off with a light snap of the elastic. There’s another batch of tremors as your bedroom window is flooded with the violent orange light and crackling sounds of a nearby fire instead of the gentle evening light you were expecting. Coming to your senses you realise that this means that the oat field outside of your home must be on fire. In a panic, you roll out of the bed, landing on all four hooves.

Glancing out of the window as you practically tear off your night dress, you can see that the fire itself doesn’t appear to be especially intense; it looks to be a few feet away, but your view is obscured by the frame of the window. Fortunately the last few days have been rather wet, limiting the spread of the fire and restricting it to the cereal that had been directly hit by the source of the flames. As you make your way out of your room, through the kitchen and out the front door, you grab a bucket. As you run in a panic, you forget to fill it with water first.

Over the horizon, you can see a strange yet somewhat familiar polychromatic light spreading out in a wave around the aerial town of Cloudsdale, causing you to wonder for a brief moment whether the weather factory had exploded. There is another tremor and you feel warm air flow over you, causing you to remember that the field is still on fire. Realising that you had stupidly forgotten to collect water from the well, you run back to get some, before running back through the tall cereal crop and dumping the water over the slowly spreading fire. A few trips later and you’re able to assess the damage - thankfully only around a bale of your crop has been lost.

Looking into the trench at the end of the streak of destroyed plants, you see a blue box on its side, partially buried where it had finally struck the ground, the door open and with what looks like a trail of blood leading out of it. Following the trail, you can feel yourself becoming nauseous with anxiety as you cautiously walk around the box.

You find a bizarrely shaped creature lying on the ground, its crude anatomy reminding you of one of the pictures of great apes that your teacher showed you as a filly - although with remarkably pale skin and very little hair to speak of. The hair on it’s head is mixed with the poor thing’s blood and you can’t help but think that it’s very injured, if not dying or already dead considering the lack of movement. Feelings of both pity and fear cause you to feel sick again. You’re in no way medically trained or inclined, but you have to do something. You eventually choose to haul the thing onto your back and carry it back to your shack, hoping to at least wash and bandage the open wound on its head. As you near your shack, you can hear... it... making a gurgling noise and lay it down on the porch, wishing there was something you could do but accepting that wherever it may have come from, it’s time amongst the living is decidedly over.

You put a hoof against its face; the poor thing had slipped away without even saying anything. It must have been terrified and alone and you hadn’t even had the chance to tell it everything would be alright. Tears welling up, you look down at the awful sight below you; the thing looking so peaceful despite how long it must have taken to die.

Raising a hoof to its face once more, you slowly slide its eyelids closed, and straighten the white collar of its shirt, neatening the bow tie as best as you can considering your hooves - dainty as they are. You put a hoof on its hand and gently stroke it, openly crying now, seeing your tears pepper the frayed and burnt edges of its suit jacket. You decide that calling this creature “it” is a bit heartless and choose the name Bluebox based on where you found him. You rest your head on Bluebox’s chest, trying to pray with all of your might that Celestia may save his poor soul. Surely someone so well dressed would have to be sentient?

Saying the last few words of your prayer aloud, you feel something warm against your hoof and notice it is still resting on his hand. An almost intangible golden dust is beginning to flow from what seems like every exposed pore of his skin and even his hair, matted with blood, mud and a few of your own tail hairs from having carried him. Backing away instinctually, you’re unsure as to what will happen next.

Tears still streaming, you see his chest heave as a large cloud of the golden particles flow from between his lips and his entire form begins to burst with the shimmering dust and a sudden accompanying golden light. The dust begins to spray through holes of his clothing, directing the flow at first, before you begin to see his face soften. You leap away as the body convulses, the suit beginning to move as shapes form beneath it, eventually bursting, leaving the glowing dust starting to settle in a form similar to your own. You even see a tail sprout. You begin to recognise the structure of Bluebox’s new face, smiling that you’d guessed his gender correctly despite having no clue at what he was before this change. Edging closer, you see the young looking colt begin to produce less of the shimmering golden particles.

The dust fades away, the last of it being a wisp from between his lips, and you notice he’s now breathing and walk up to him. The anticipation forms a little knot of worry in your stomach. You get close enough to nudge him with your nose and feel him stir; you nudge him again, he doesn’t wake up - he’s just peacefully sleeping. Unsure what to do, you put him over your back again. He’s very light for a colt, his weight the same as it had been before he... exploded... and lay him in your bed. You pull your light summer blanket over him and let him sleep, retrieving another small mattress from under the bed before deciding to climb in with the rather attractive looking colt, rationalising that you’ll wake if his condition changes. Laying behind him, you put one of your forelegs over his shoulder, your face resting against his neck - a strangely warm, sweet scent entering your nose. You adjust your head and nuzzle the back of his head, recognising the smell of burnt sugar, close to the scent of marshmallows cooked over an open fire, or a caramel apple you sampled last time the adorable teenage colt from Sweet Apple Acres had last turned up trying to sell his family’s wares... Something-Macintosh was it?

Slowly it occurs to you that the circular rainbow must have had something to do with Bluebox’s appearance in your field and you climb out of bed again to go and look. It’s very close to night now and the light has all but dissipated. You softly clop back over to the bed and slide in behind Bluebox again, once more tucking your head over his shoulder and closing your eyes, wondering if when he wakes he’ll mind finding your legs wrapped around him.

Waking up in the morning, you find that Bluebox is still fast asleep. Cautiously, you slide out of the bed and drop a blanket on the mattress you had pulled from under it the night before to make it look like you had not just spent the night snuggling a stranger, and trot through to the kitchen. You prepare yourself a bowl of oatmeal, a second bowl on the counter for if Bluebox eventually wakes.

Looking outside, you see the remains of the suit Bluebox had been wearing when he changed and have a thought. Pulling a needle and thread from one drawer and scissors from another, you haul the mass of ruined fabric inside your shack. You manage to separate the bow-tie and collar of his shirt with a quick snip and fit some elastic that you had laying around to the bow-tie. Hearing the kettle whistling, you pour the oats into the saucepan of boiling water on the stove before turning back to your work, slipping the rescued collar around your neck and using the now slip-on bow tie to hold it in place.

You look at yourself in the mirror and giggle at how daft you look: your long straight brown mane covering half of your face, with the bow tie acting as the bottom of the frame around your features. You hear the fizzling of the oatmeal boiling over and look back before removing the tie and collar and placing them on top of the remains of the suit as you pull the brown mixture off of the hotplate. Fancying something a little different, you pull a plump red apple from the fruit bowl on the table behind you and dice it with a knife delicately held between your teeth. You stir the cubes of fruit into the oatmeal and return it to the heat for a couple of minutes to let the juice soak into the oats, enjoying the delicious scent before your curiosity takes over again.

You wander over to the table holding Bluebox’s things and hold out the tattered and torn jacket before you, noticing something about six inches long by half an inch thick sticking out of the top pocket. Nuzzling the cloth and trying to grip this object, your nose is again filled with Bluebox’s scent; you grip the tube but linger, enjoying the smell of this strange colt.

Eventually pulling back, you squint down at the object between your lips - it looks like a magic wand. From what you can see, it has a green gem at the end and only one button, far too small to manipulate using your hooves or lips without some challenge. You lay it on the table and use your nose to push the button. A momentary green light strikes your bowl of oatmeal as the object whirs, causing you to leap back in fright. Believing that nothing happened, you hold the button down with your nose a little longer, not seeing your bowl begin to sink into the wood of the table before it explodes, covering you in the apple scented goo, tiny fragments of earthenware bowl stuck in your mane.

You hear hooves hit wood before a loud thud erupts from your room. When nopony appears at the door, you decide to take a look; you see Bluebox collapsed almost comically on the floor, his back legs straddling his front ones, like a foal trying to walk for the first time. His tail flicks with annoyance, pulling the dark hair from in front of his gentle eyes. In a calm voice you ask if he’s alright, your body slowly appearing from behind the door as you walk over to him.

“Yeeeeah.” He slowly replies, removing his hooves from underneath him and looking at them quizzically before pawing at the brown mane above his eyes, pulling the flowing locks in front of his face. He gives a disappointed grunt and tries to stand up again, shaking on all four legs and looking somewhat annoyed about his current predicament.

“I’m a bit new to this.” He says, frowning gently at the look of confusion mixed with amusement on your face, managing a few shaky, awkward steps towards you, swaying slightly. Gaining more composure, he seems to get the hang of movement on four legs and wanders over to you. He snorts again, as if still trying to figure out his new body and licks your face, a tangy speck of oatmeal disappearing.

“Hmm. Apples, didn’t expect that,” he says, looking at you in a critical manner. You blush hotly and back away a little. He follows you into the kitchen, his attention grabbed the second he sees your mirror on the wall. He tries to trot over to it, still slightly unsteady on his hooves and looking like he’s falling into each step. He flips the hair from his eyes and sighs again.

“Still not ginger. Oh well.” You hear him say, shortly before his eyes grow wide with realisation. “I’M A HORSE!?” he yells, rearing and falling backwards into the table. The sudden addition of his weight causes it to flip onto its side, throwing the items on it over him; the fruit bowl now covers his eyes with one of his ears twitching from underneath it.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” He asks, hidden from your vision by the table as you set about pouring the remaining oatmeal between two bowls, having replaced the broken one. You look back and reply, letting him know that you live all alone until harvest time and ask him what his name is.

As he gets back to his feet and completely ignores your tiny hint of an advance, Bluebox puts the table back as it was. He collects his things and places your apples back in the fruit bowl, before slipping the collar and tie around his own neck. He then admires himself in the mirror once more, making bizarre faces at himself. He sniffs a little more delicately this time and turns to you as you place the bowls of oatmeal on the table. Lifting it in his front hooves he raises the warm dish to his lips and drinks deeply. He puts the bowl down and looks into it before turning to you.

“Well, I like porridge, that’s good - aaaand the tangy bits, apples right? Love apples this time, always glad to know that!” he says, once more critically inspecting the contents of the bowl. You look at him intrigued: what is this pony going on about?

“New mouth, new rules. Imagine suddenly having every one of your favourite foods require you work out whether you even like them anymore,” he explains, seemingly reading your mind through your facial features.

“Last time I did this, I hated apples... and bacon come to think of it, do you have bacon?” Confused, you ask what bacon is, having never heard that term either.

“Of course, need to remember that I’m a horse, or am I a pony? I don’t feel tall enough to be a horse... Anyway, I imagine you’re all probably vegetarians.”

You nod, wondering what kind of pony would actually consider eating the flesh of other creatures, slightly disturbed that the creature Bluebox used to be may have been so barbaric. The thought peaks your interest and you ask why he looks different to how you found him.

“Ah. Yes. I should probably thank you for taking me in last night. I’m not human,” he replies. You stop and ask what a human is, yet another term you had never heard of. Bluebox raises an eyebrow. He speaks again, giving a basic description of a human. You shake your head and apologise - you’ve never heard of anything so exotic in Equestria, shuddering slightly at the thought of a barbaric carnivorous race within your nation’s borders.

“This... This isn’t right. Everywhere has humans. This must be why I regenerated to look like one of you,” he says, hoof on his chin, looking nowhere in general. You ask again what he means, and he explains that his people “Time Lords” are able to change their form at death, usually limited to a humanoid form however, and he had never heard of anyone regenerating into a pony, musing about what could have happened before his eyes widen again.

“Of course! Come along, follow me.” he says, before bolting through the door, half running, half staggering to the crash site of his blue box. You address him by the name you had given him, asking what he was doing, what he was talking about and why a large blue box was half buried in your field.

“Bluebox?” He says, slightly surprised, “I’m the Doctor, you can call me that for now,” he replies, checking the box for damage and paying you no real attention.

The Doctor raised a light brown hoof to his face and looked at it confusedly before tapping sharply on the side of the box. There was a creak as a door revealed itself on the top side, and he struggled to climb up onto it. There is a brief moment of clattering, sounding like hooves landing on steel before the Doctor’s head appears again, looking as if he had climbed out.

“Good, the gravity’s still on. Give me a minute, just going to park her properly and we’ll be able to take a look at what’s going on.”

“...her?”

You see the box momentarily fade away, fear once again causing you to back off as a slow almost wheezing sound comes from the box. It rematerialises a few moments later, stood on one end, with a light flashing at the top. You can read the words “Police Public Call Box” on a black bar just underneath the light before the doors open again.

“Come on in!” The Doctor calls. You obey out of sheer curiosity, staring at the suddenly huge space. You gasp as he leans on a railing,

“It’s... it’s...”

“Bigger on the inside, I know, space folding, etcetera etcetera. Anyway, I don’t suppose you know why I crashed?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about, how do I even know I can trust you?” you say, starting to suffer from culture shock. Panicking, you cower in the corner. The eruption of dust had unnerved you a little and his odd behaviour had almost put you off the idea of flirting with him, despite how lonely you were, but this was the last straw.

“Look, I can help you understand. I really need another mind in on this and as a local your help would be appreciated,” he says, bringing his head down to your level, those calm blue eyes staring into your soul. You shakily climb to your hooves and nod.

“Now, hold still. The last time I did this, it hurt a little, so I’m going to try a different way,” he says, before leaning in and forcing a kiss on you. You hadn’t been kissed like this in years, so much... passion, such technique! He’d obviously been a married colt before...

Suddenly, new memories began to flood your mind. Images of technical data and knowledge of exotic beings, some terrific to behold, flash infront of you;

Susan...
Skarro...
Sarah-Jane...
The TARDIS...
Gallifrey...
Rose...
River...
K9...
Davros...

There were flashes of steel coated “humans” staggering towards you, expressionless faces terrifying you beyond belief; you then begin to understand what you see as the memories form a relatively logical order; thoughts about how his face had changed over his close to one thousand years of life, countless peoples saved throughout space and time.

Regret.

Gallifrey in flames, the deaths of companions who had been so dear to him, memories of people who had been unwritten from time itself. This being before you, the one kissing you, had committed genocide, wiped entire species from the cosmos. You try to push your own mind, trying to force the flood of information away, but glimpses of it intrigue you into trying to learn more, one utterance from the final memory escaping your lips as you break away from him.
“Hello, Sweetie?” you repeat, slightly confused and looking into his eyes. A single tear escapes from his eye as he appears to reflect on what you have just said,

“What was that?” you ask, collecting yourself,

“It’s called tactile memory transfer. You’ve got close to one hundred years of my memories floating around in your head. It won’t last for very long, so we need to move. I need to know what you saw when I first arrived. My ship tells me that I hit something made of pure energy, as if a rift had been formed.”

You think for a few seconds before it occurs to you - that wave of light you had seen from the direction of Cloudsdale.

“A Sonic Rainboom! Doctor, it must have been. A story that my grandfather told me said that a Sonic Rainboom pushes through into the light of creation itself, the power and glory ebbing through with the pony performing it causing a tear in reality. I... I didn’t think of it at the time, but I guess it could make sense?”

“Hmm, a fracture in reality? That must be it indeed, you’re brilliant you are! Let me see if I can find the fracture, I might be able to get back home through there. Oh, I forgot to ask, when am I?”

“Uhm, June, 990CR.”

“CR?”

“Celestia’s reign, she’s our Princess, she created our land.”

“Riiight, that doesn’t help at all,” he replies, looking at a screen attached to a central console of the TARDIS. You see a diagram of a pony on it, a line flickering up and down, scanning. You hear the ring of a huge bell, the line stopping with a red blip on the tail of the diagram. The Doctor stares at his rump, which you notice carries a cutie mark in the shape of an hourglass, before fishing around amongst the deep brown hair of his tail, eventually finding a hair that was not the same colour. Bringing it in front of his face, he sniffs at it before trotting over and sniffing you too.

“Well, that’s that mystery solved! Looks like I picked up a little of your DNA when I regenerated... I didn’t even know I worked like that! Isn’t that awesome?”
Unsure how to reply, you simply nod.

The bell tolls again, showing an image of the Junior Flight Camp just outside Cloudsdale.

“Damn, it looks like I’m stuck here. The rift is closing too fast for me to get there in time and it looks like it’s a fixed event... I can’t just have another go,” he says, with a sigh, slight sorrow in his voice. The new memories, acting almost like some sort of encyclopaedia, explain what he means - an event locked in time and space after it’s occurrence. The memory also explains that the room around you is actually a cavernous half-sentient ship known as the Time And Relative Dimension In Space, or TARDIS for short; a time machine similar to the one in stories you had been read by your grandfather when you were a filly. The sudden recollection of this memory triggers a thought.

“Wait, this is a time machine isn’t it? My grandad once told me a story about a blue time machine, magic used by a pegasus pony...” you trail off, seeing the Doctor’s eyes widen.

“NO! STOP! Those are spoilers!” he says, quickly putting a hoof over your mouth. “That memory must be part of my future, as I know I’ve not done anything here aside of regenerate. I’m not even sure how, but I’ve managed to break through the Abstract Plane; everything is new here... and it’s really, really exciting!”

“Can I come with you? Be your assistant?” You ask, visualising memories of his adventurous, frantic life all over the cosmos. You see him freeze on the spot.

“I’m sorry, I’m really, really so sorry. I can’t take you,” he says, moving again to the doors of the craft. “You should know that I’ve lost people, good people, wonderful beautiful people. I need to be alone for a while.”

You stare at the grated floor for a moment or two, blinking away tears as the memories of his companions flicker up again. Understanding the issue, you walk over to the door.

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I don’t know. You’ll just have to wait and see. I’m sorry.”

You pull him by the bow-tie, kissing him slightly against his will, his foreleg moving awkwardly before settling on your shoulder. He pulls away, looking like he’s about to scold you.

“In all fairness, you kissed me first... and you didn’t ask either,” you say meekly, pushing at the blue door of the TARDIS. He stays silent as you leave, walking once again on the dirt between the tall plants. You’re sure you can see conflict in those eyes of his - those ancient, all seeing eyes.

He looks at you before closing the door, his stare cold and ageless. A being in deep deep pain, you wish you could be there for him as he slams the door shut, and the TARDIS once again fades away.

Trudging inside, you begin to openly weep. The sadness slowly boils into bitterness and anger as you take a pencil and some paper from a drawer in your kitchen. You begin to write down the memories he had given you, hoping to send them off to one of the newspapers available in the town nearby and potentially Celestia herself as a warning of this murderer.

The paper, spattered with your salty tears, is headed with three words; three words taken from a legend ringing in your head, from a species the heartless Time Lord had mercilessly destroyed on so many occasions.

The Oncoming Storm.

Hell hath no fury like a mare scorned.

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