A wasteland of glitter and ash...

Every building lies in rubble, imploded from the inside out with colonoscopic protrusions of dress shops and nail salons. Trees are bereft of leaves, with dresses and gowns hanging off the petrified branches like loose flesh. Rivers of fine pink silk run through cities, drowning every living space with flush and terry cloth and microfiber.

Corpses lie scattered across the grown, their asphyxiated forms enmeshed in pretty pink bows and tight corsets. Eye sockets are filled with diamonds. Mouths overflow with flower petals and doilies.

In the center of the necrotic sea of prettiness, floating like a crucifix down a river of pink sands, and flanked by the bodies of Sunset Shimmer, Twilight Sparkle, and every other female familiar with their hollow abdominal cavities stuffed full with lit scented candles...

The figure of Flash Sentry can be seen, marinating in salmon streams of lavender scented bath oil and vanilla perfume. Rainbow lighting strobes overhead, illuminating his sapphire eyes glazed over with a fabulous shine. Something stirs beneath the frilly pink folds of his blouse. Then something pokes. And then something bursts out.

SPLORCH!!!

A tiny flightless chicken is birthed from Flash's chest, fighting and struggling to breathe through the sinew and intestines entangling her.

“Mewllllllrlghhhghhhhhl!”

Scootaloo thrashes left. Scootaloo thrashes right.

At long last, she emerges from the viscera of the humanoid cocoon that is hatching her.

She stares at the streams of pink glitter.

She gawks at the mountains beyond mountains of fashion boutiques.

She gnashes her teeth at all the ennui and desolation and she howls to the heavens.

“It's my faulllllttt!”

Scootaloo sobs.

“It's all my faulllllllttt!”

Scootaloo wails.

“I shouldn't have tried to have fun!”

She rends her tunic in half.

“I shouldn't have given up on my sworn duty to those who bear witness to my established legacy!”

She sits in sackcloth and ashes.

“I hereby repent of my sins of trying to embrace joy and will put all my effort into being purple, methodical, and miserable!”

She crawls across the glitzy hellscape, in search of a cross to climb.

“The conclusion of this story shall be livestreamed on a special Youtube podcast on April 1st 2029! I promiiiiiiiise...!”

And Scootaloo couldn't possibly be wrong; after all, she's an established expert on this.

Author's Notes: