Author's Notes:

Credit where it's due. Doctor Who to BBC, MLP FIM to Hasbro. Otherwise, this story in itself is credited to me, on account of the fact that I've put a lot of effort and ideas into it.

I will be honest with you. I did not take fixing this story nearly sufficiently seriously enough. I finally caught some sense, and fixed it up a bit. Just a bit, though. Originally, this whole chapter was 9000 words of uneventful, tedious, clumsy bullshit. I skigot to the point. Now it's a lot less... long. It's still uneventful. Man, I sucked when I first started out. Oh well, you live you learn.

Time was tricky inside the TARDIS. How would one measure time inside a time machine? Well, to answer that question properly, it wasn't a matter of paradox, but of context. Of course time passed inside, otherwise everything there would've just been frozen in place. No, the issue was not with the flow of the vast ocean that was time, but with the exact nature of the small ark that made the Doctor's craft.

Here, seconds mixed with eons, lifetimes got split across eternities. Every time machine was where the universe met and unraveled. And the Tardis was no simple time machine.

It was nothing to scoff at. It was about as much of a one-way ticket through time as a Black Hole was just a sink drain... okay, maybe not that much. A tornado just a summer breeze? Meh, close enough.

This ship wasn't just plates and decks, it was part of the ocean as well. It wasn't an island, but an intelligent hurricane, interconnected with the many would-bes and what-ifs that made up more than just time, but the act of travel through time. And in this eternal twister, this never-ending whirlpool made up of the same stuff as stars and possibility, here the Doctor was at home.

On one such mismatch of temporal current, that is to say, on one faithful night, he received a distress signal. Not an S.O.S., this particular message in a bottle was specifically meant for him and his TARDIS' monitor. The Doctor put on his glasses unnecessarily to study the message, curiously, as well as wearily. The many, unreasonable images that appeared in sequence on the respective one of the many monitors present at the control panel were each telling their own tale in manners too quick and complex for any human eye.

He read tentatively through those symbols. Finally, he spoke out in a peeved, British accent, “So there's trouble? ...All right. I don’t have anything better to do right now anyway. Lending some help can't hurt, can it? Let’s see, the coordinates are… unregistered." He stopped for a while, then his tone turned into a more surprised one as he blurted out,"What? How are they unregistered? I was supposed to have the map of all of reality here, plus several extensions! It doesn't make sense!"

For a moment, it'd seemed he was waiting for someone to speak back. But there was no one else on board.

He was alone, he remembered. It had been a long night he just put behind him, and a couple of good-byes which he didn't much care to dwell on.

A choked huff. He resigned himself.

"Guess I could use a distraction. Okay then, message of unknown origin and intent." He went through the switches on his control panel, dramatically pausing through the last few. "...Let's... find you out."

He looked brighter as he said those last few words. Nothing like the promise of a new adventure to make you feel better.

Yes, he was anxious, but it just wouldn't be right to not make a small pause here and there when it mattered, just to take the moment in. This was, after all, what he lived for. He'd hate it if he noticed he started to live these risks down.

Contrary to his common sense, which the Doctor was already used to ignoring by now, he beat the commands into the control panel to send his ship to track down the source of the message. En route, however, something went wrong. No surprise.

The engine started pulsing erratically, eerily yet properly similar to an irregular heartbeat. The monitor which the message was displayed on started on lines upon lines of information, glitching through languages both ancient and yet unfounded, eventually ending with a phrase written in a dialect foreign for the ancient Time Lord, despite his knowledge of all languages that were ever written down.

He didn't have enough time to at least make a double take on the contradictory sight as a brilliant light filled the chamber, numbing all of his senses before he could figure out what was happening. He didn't even realize when he lost consciousness.

Or at least, that was how one would best describe what happened to him. If anything, it was as if he was stuck in the process of waking up, with the addition of his senses either flaring or shutting down. It was all just a little too real to be a dream, yet still not far off enough to deny the association. There was neither pain nor numbness. The only thing he could describe was the feeling of being in a really tight spot, as far as that went to explain anything.

It was eerily familiar to the process of regeneration, yet another surreal experience. It most certainly was not the same thing, however, which offered the Time Lord room to hope. He'd hated it if he died like this. All of a sudden, unremarkably.

Then there was falling, for the short while he had left as the remainder of his consciousness slipped away.

When he woke up, he found himself outside (somewhere), late at night, with the world spinning around in a mist he could barely see through. It was probably the remainder of the inhibition that had so dominated him previously. The reason he woke up at all was because he was being poked at by a very curious creature with a hard object. He couldn’t quite distinguish what the creature looked like, though.

“Dor aehe? Jorho di avi?” the creature spoke, with concern obvious in her tone. He could only guess it was a she from her voice. Beyond that, he knew nothing of the world around him. Furthermore, the fact that he couldn't understand what was being said only offered him more reason to feel out of his element and afraid. It was unlikely that he arrived anywhere he couldn't understand the local language.

All he could do was contemplate whether he messed up his head. He couldn't even give a decent answer beyond a few groans and a half-mouthed "what".

More concerned mutterings ensued. The Doctor didn't know what was going on. He was in no state to manage concrete thought processes either way. He merely managed a few tired mumblings before he lost consciousness again.

A kettle was whistling loudly in the other room. It seemed someone had forgotten the tea on. The sound was loud enough to wake the Doctor up. As he worked through his blurry vision, he found himself in a bed, in a brightly-colored room. Well, "bright" might not be the right choice of words.

It was as if, as the sunlight was flooding through the window, accompanied by warmth and bird song, it was all taken in by the matter around him. Like everything absorbed a sense of warmth. Everything was serene to the point of seeming surreal. He was pretty certain that this wasn't the kind of place where you're supposed to find yourself in after you answer a mysterious (and very likely dangerous) interdimensional ambush call.

'I do hope this isn't another Isolus drawing,' the Doctor’s mind automatically considered.

He tried to get up, then crashed back into his pillow as his head started spinning and his muscles refused to respond.

'I've never felt a bed this nice in my life. Certainly not a child's scribble... Or a hospital bed.' His eyes slowly focused and he got control of his motion. His entire body felt like it was made of an entirely different material. Everything felt far too… soft. And spicy.

At least his faculties weren’t affected. He made a few mathematical equations in his head to make certain his logic added up with his memories of what said equations were supposed to yield. They did, he noticed, much to his relief. However his next uttered words did come off the tongue rather... oddly, because he couldn’t recognize the words once they came out. He decided to just focus on the here and now.

He took the room in again. Yep, still pastel. But other than that, he could only assume that this was a normal household. There were a few wooden cupboards along one wall, a desk in the corner near the fireplace, and a nightstand near his bed. On the chair at the desk he found his coat, which was surprisingly offered quite graciously by his supposed kidnappers. There were a few drawn picture frames on the walls, though none digital and none of any people. Landscapes, mostly. Purely aesthetic, no glass casings.

There was a lack of a light bulb on the ceiling, nor any evidence of any other kind of technology, so he was left to assume he arrived in a world where light bulbs were not mass produced. There were a few books in a shelf, as well as candles, paper, inkwells and writing feathers.. All of those suggested that he arrived somewhere where they most likely didn't invent the television yet, since the books’ states of wear suggested they had been read regularly. It also appeared that the locals were still using flint and steel to get a fire started, evidenced by the two tools near the hearth. On the other hand, comfortable accommodations did not seem to be in much scarcity.

He took only a short few seconds to look around the room and lose interest altogether. By which time he decided to make himself noticed to whomever brought him here. Again finding the words coming out of his mouth notably alien and ill-fitted.

"Where am I? Hello?” he tried to shout out, despite still being tired.

It seemed to have been sufficient, as he could hear a friendly voice answering from another part of the household, “Oh, good! You're awake.”

He recognized the voice as being the same as the one he'd heard right before falling unconscious. Surprisingly enough, however, this time she was talking fluent English. Or at least that was how he registered and understood it.

“Yes, well, the smell of boiling tea sometimes has that effect on me. More importantly, where am I? (And, by all means, when?)” He tried to get up again, but yet to no positive result.

The voice’s source neared the room’s entrance. “You’re in the guest's quarters. I would’ve brought you to a doctor, but this was closer. Somepony did check you out, however, and said you were okay."

"How did you know I wasn't dangerous?" the Time Lord inquired.

"Trust me, I can handle myself." she answered confidently as she walked in, revealing who, and what she was.

He didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. He didn’t have any trouble conceiving the possibility, the Doctor just didn’t want to dignify his senses with admitting that they might possibly be working properly. Unfortunately, he checked, and found that his senses were indeed working right.

He was looking at a large, gray furred, golden maned and eyed pony, with wings attached which, according to all logic and reason, were far too small to be used for flight. The equine creature entered the room carrying a tea plate with her mouth, eyeing him with no small amount of reservation which she tried to hide. How nice of her, she was trying to be polite to the complete stranger. Also, she was intelligent, apparently.

Putting on hold how completely outlandish it all was, beyond that, what else seemed unusual to the thousand-year-old time travelling alien was how she was carrying the tea in her teeth. He would assume that an intelligent alien race could at least manipulate kitchen equipment in some semblance of… convenience, so he assumed that this was some kind of pet, or servant creature, for the actual leading species on the planet. It was not unreasonable to assume as much at all.

The second thing that drew the Time Lord’s attention was that the creature seemed to be having trouble focusing both eyes in any one direction. She was making a valiant effort, but her left eye was clearly intent on stubbornly wandering off. That offered the Doctor no shortage of discouraging ideas for conclusions.

His host continued where she'd left off, her eye starting to drift off before she forcefully realigned it. "At any rate, I understand you might be afraid of doctors, but…”

“Oh, no, it isn't that, it’s just, ugh..." he trailed off, surprised. "Huh. My voice seems to be a bit lighter."

He tried to clear his throat in his fist, with little success beyond noticing his hand was missing. He looked himself over and noticed his normal Gallifreyan body (which was humanoid for a certain reason or another) was now quite different. His skin was covered in chestnut brown fur, his hands were replaced with hooves and all things considered, he seemed to have been turned into one of the locals... Wherever he was.

This certainly seemed like an… odd method of kidnapping. However, it was effective. Turn him into the local subservient race? If only it was so convenient, or even possible for that matter. He actually had no idea how to fill that blank.

He eventually gathered his faculties into a semblance of recovery. "Ugh, what happened?" he asked, befuddled.

"I'd hoped you could explain that. I wasn't sure what I saw either. Anyway, how are you feeling?"

He pulled himself over to the side and on his haunches, heavily. Surprisingly, he finally was able to get used to his new body. "I've felt better," he said as he spun his head around, eliciting a satisfying crack from his neck.

There was only one thing he knew to do when faced with unknown situations. And that was to run his mouth. However, this particular setting made him shelve his go-to tactic, since it would prove a little silly to talk big from his position in bed, when instead he should've been focusing on fishing for information. If he was to talk the talk, he was at least going to wait for introductions first.

So, his best course of actions was to get up as soon as possible, fish for as much information as possible, then get out of dodge.

"So, hello. My name’s the Doctor. What’s yours? Also, is that chamomile tea?"

The strange host eyed him oddly. "The Doctor? That’s actually your name?"

"Yup. Pleasure! Don't wear it out.” He was studying her intently at this point. So far, she didn’t seem to exhibit any hint of ill intent. He was still getting a feel of his sleeping legs. “And about the tea again. Chamomile, right? Antiseptic and anti-inflammatory. Also savory. Good for any occasion. Nice choice, if I may say so myself. Thanks for the treat," he ranted.

The hostess seemed to have figured she could try to keep things as un-awkward as possible with returning the chatting.

"...So, Doctor," she uttered his supposed name, trying the words out similarly to how one would test the waters before going for a swim.

"That's my name." he affirmed, smiling at her and raising a cocky eyebrow.

The mare couldn't help but smile back. ‘He seems friendly enough…’ She got to pouring him a cup and leaving it to cool. "You're very welcome for the tea. I just didn't know what you'd like…” She trailed off, and questioned, “Anyway, what happened? I didn’t see much, but from what I could gather, it seemed like you took quite the fall.”

“That so? I don’t suppose you could show me where you found me, could you?” he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and steadily dropped off. “Also, you didn’t give me your name yed.”

“It’s Ditzy Doo.”

He chose that moment to get up, but his new legs, combined with hearing the unreasonable name, disoriented him enough to nearly fall on his face.

"Ditzy Doo?” He steadied himself, staring at the mare sceptically. “That's... that's a nice name," he finally managed to reply half-heartedly. He steadied himself, placed a few solid kicks in the floor to send shock to wake up his new nervous endings, and went over to the tea. He then realized that he had no hands.

He faced ‘Ditzy’ questioningly. “How do you drink this?”

Wonderful thing, chamomile. It actually managed to reach many a star. Can't imagine it being too hard for anyone to believe that good things find their way to being used by those so willing to use them.

However, there was no instance in history in which a world populated by a race of talking ponies ever got their hooves on the stuff.

The Doctor sat down for a talk with Ditzy, in the adjacent chamber, which was the dining room. There were quite a few things he found out, and none of them were reassuring. According to the mare, he had found himself in a world populated by many different intelligent creatures. He was in a country called… sigh… Equestria, which was populated mostly by ponies. In the town of Ponyville, near the capital city of Canterlot. Apparently there was a theme going on. And no, that theme wasn’t the abundance of horse metaphors, but the complete and utter lack of any sense. There were so many things that were going out of their way to not make any sense, that the Doctor was actually impressed, as well as notably overwhelmed.

Apparently he could drink tea by holding the cup in between his front hooves. It was manageable, once Ditzy showed him, although barely. It also appeared that his pants, shoes, shirt, undercoat and undergarments were missing. All that Ditzy found on him was his overcoat. Inside the overcoat’s pockets were all the things which he had left there, including his keys to his Tardis, his screwdriver, and a number of other miscellaneous things of varying life-saving or amusement usefulness.

She was an unassuming, average Jane. She worked as a mail-mare… which was a thing that existed. She used her ability to fly (another argument and a half) to deliver mail in a timely fashion across the country. A country which apparently held a respectably low total settlement area. It's under a hundred square miles, and under a tenth of the total territory, leaving out Everfree territory. And conveniently, they were square in the middle of said country, so she could manage getting to and back within the day. When she got back from her job, she found a star falling out of the sky in the distance. She approached in order to investigate, and the only thing she found was him, fading in and out of consciousness. She didn't want him to be picked off by wild animals from the nearby forest, so she brought him with her. But when the Doctor asked her why she didn’t just drop him off at the hospital, she seemed to be having trouble focusing on a sufficient answer. Like the information was eluding her somehow. Something which caught the Doctor’s attention.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, it’s just… I ran into someone. I think he was a medic… he said that you were okay. I just…”

“And you trusted this person?” she returned a meek look. “Can you describe them?”

“…No.”

He regarded her carefully. She really didn’t remember. ‘Questions to ask later,’ he decided. He’d need to come back to her about this.

Surprisingly, he didn’t feel all that concerned of his not being ginger-haired. Or about the things called “cutie marks”, which was not at all flattering. What he was concerned by, was Ditzy’s name, which apparently was an acceptable means of referring to someone although it essentially describes her as a foolish klutz. Apparently her namesake somehow translated into her poor depth perception and ever-shifting sight range during flight. Somehow, fate’s cruelty thought ahead. However, she did not seem perturbed enough to change her name.

“Leaving aside my parents’ uninspired choice in names,” she asked, a surprisingly small hint of annoyance in her voice, “you haven’t explained to me, who are you? How can you not know any of this?”

“I’m not from around these parts.”

Now was Ditzy’s turn to stare at him. He shook his head, “When you saw that star falling out of the sky, that was most likely me entering the atmosphere.”

“Right…” She regarded him with renewed suspicion. “Or maybe you just hit your head, and I should’ve brought you to the hospital anyway.”

“I suppose I can’t expect you to assume any differently.” He got up from his seat, “Thanks for the tea, and everything. I truly appreciate it.”

“Where are you going?”

“No idea. Brand new world out there, but I’m pretty sure I can find my way.”

The mare could only stare at him as he reached the door and fumbled helplessly with the knob. She sighed, and got up from her seat.

“I suppose I can spare a couple of hours. I might as well show you around town.”