Clear Skies huffs as she kicks the top of the cloud she is resting on, watching the Everfree Forest for any sign of incursion. Next to her rests her brother, Open Skies, resting his eyes as he waits for his half of the night shift.

“Trouble?” Open Skies asks, though he doesn’t move quite yet.

“No,” Clear Skies spits out, glancing down at Sweet Apple Acres. Even though the storm clouds are in the way, she still knows which direction to glare. “I can’t believe what that… human did to Rainbow Dash.”

“A crying shame,” Open Skies commiserates, sighing forlornly. “She would have been great.”

Clear Skies smacks her brother across the head, barely messing the curly purple mane they both share. “You just wish you put that foal in her belly.”

Open Skies chuckles. “Hey, can you blame me? She’s the best flyer there is!”

“I guess not,” Clear Skies concedes with a roll of her eyes. “You think she’ll be as good a head weathermare as Fluffy Clouds?”

“I think she’ll wing it,” Open Skies says without a hint of remorse, earning himself another smack.

*

An orange glass vase slams into the wall, shattering into a hundred razor sharp shards.

“I can’t believe it!”

Spoiled Rich, clad in three Barnyard Bargain heavy-duty waders and one lighter boot, grunts as Randolph, push broom in his mouth, gathers the shards into a corner. She hefts a cerulean vase, waiting for the gray butler to clear the area.

“All that work-”

The cerulean vase shatters against the same spot.

“-wasted!”

“Indeed,” the butler replies as he sweeps the cerulean pieces to a different corner.

Spoiled Rich next lifts a white vase, comparing it to the yellow still remaining. “Unless something can be done it will be another generation before Sweet Apple Acres joins the Rich brand!”

“Of course,” Randolph says, impassively watching the white vase soar through the room and smash into the wall. He dutifully collects the pieces, this pile closest to Spoiled Rich.

With a frustrated growl she chucks the yellow vase at the wall. Her destructive outburst complete, she takes a deep breath, her thinly clad hoof pressing against her chest. Then the hoof drops down to the pile of orange shards, finding a long, jagged piece. She places it point down, then finds another, forming the first of eight rays in her celestial mosaic. Art always helps her think, planning where every piece goes one color at a time, especially without having the whole picture in front of you.

*

Cookie Crumbles stares at a wall as she sits at the dinner table, the rest of the herd already in bed. She can scarcely believe the news, that her precious filly is pregnant and joined a herd. But is it the best time for her to be making these decisions? What would it mean for her career, her dreams?

And with the Apples? Everypony knows they, while not exactly wasteful with their bits, nonetheless have bitten off more than they can chew when they acquired the Pear’s farm. Would they expect her to subsidize their excess of land? Worse, would they expect Rarity to toil like a farmpony?

She can feel the bile churning in her stomach. She wishes Hondo was here, but he’s off at Canterlot. She wants her stallion to listen to her, to help her come to a conclusion, to find a way out. But, especially, she wishes her stallion was there to help convince Rarity that the road she is travelling is not the one she should be.

He would help. Her little filly always listens to her sire.

*

A solitary unicorn, clad in a wrinkled, shabby overcoat atop a snug sweater vest, reclines in an otherwise pristine office. The walls are covered in awards, recognitions, and diplomas, with nary a personal picture among them. A single window shows it is night outside, though with the fluorescent lighting it could have been the middle of the day and the scene would be unchanged. His desk, small compared to what might fit in the room, is neatly arranged with pens and paper easily accessible, markers for the two whiteboards, and a single medical textbook open to a seemingly random page. A placard says ‘Dr. G. Horse’, with an ‘H. D.’ precisely etched on one end, though not by his hoof; he just can’t be bothered to replace it.

A dark brown hoof reaches back behind his head, smoothly tossing a small rubber ball. It hits the sole scuff mark on the wall, rebounding perfectly to his waiting hoof with a distinctive *thwack-thump*. The hoof reaches back, another toss hitting the exact same spot with the same noise.

This continues for some time, the unicorn not really paying attention to anything as he stares at the ceiling, lost in some medical mystery or another. Or maybe he’s so far past boredom that he might look envious of the ball if he showed any emotion at all. It’s hard to tell.

A green aura surrounds the doorknob to the office, the translucent door opening about two hoof widths before it runs into a stack of textbooks presumably placed there for this exact reason. This does not stop the ball from its prescribed path, the steady *thwack-thump* continuing unabated.

A tan head pokes through the opening, barely squeezing through, a sly gleam in his green eyes. While his lab coat is crisp, almost as a point, it fails to distract from the distinct whorl that comprises nearly the entirety of his face. Exactly how a pony can have all the hair point the ‘wrong’ direction is a mystery, though he wears it proudly.

“Thought you might want to take a look at this,” Dr. Whorlson says chipperly, a hoof holding up a single folder.

The steady *thwack-thump* subsides, if briefly. Dr. Horse fits an entire evening’s worth of condescension in one sigh as he turns, fixing Dr. Whorlson with a dispassionate glare. “Do you know,” he demands with a distinct pause, “how cliched that sounds?” He unerringly throws the ball and hits the same scuff mark. His attention turns back to the ceiling. “I’m busy.”

“I can see that,” Dr. Whorlson responds, chipper attitude unwavering. He tantalizingly waves the folder up and down, his taunting smirk only growing larger.

The ball pauses its flight again. “You think you have something interesting,” Dr. Horse remarks, yet it’s not really directed at the lone pony he might consider his friend. His head abruptly turns to regard the tan unicorn, his mouth opening in something between a sneer and questioning ‘what’. “You know I don’t get up for at least three somethings.”

With a swish of his hoof that belongs in a magic show instead of a hospital office Dr. Whorlson spreads the single folder into three.

This closes Dr. Horse’s mouth, at least for a brief yet blessed second. “Impressive. If I didn’t know any better I would say you planned on me saying that.”

“You are nothing if not predictable,” Dr. Whorlson concedes. “Buuut, if you don’t want to take a look-see, then-”

Dr. Whorlson goes to pull his head out of the doorway, except a dark blue aura surrounds the translucent door, trapping him. The rest of his body can be partially seen, three legs scraping at the floor, and yet his smile never fades; he looks entirely too comfortable, or at least used, to being in this position.

“And, what... exactly makes these three cases interesting?” Dr. Horse muses, rearing his hoof back.

“Abnormally low thaumic levels in each, possibly-”

*Thwack-thump*

“Bored,” Dr. Horse says, sounding far, far more than the simple word conveys.

Dr. Whorlson maneuvers one folder with the assistance of his horn, opening it to the first page. He reads, “It’s an estimate. The embryos apparently don’t show up on thaumic scans.”

Dr. Horse rolls his eyes. “Then they should be calling the morgue, and a grief counselor.”

*Thwack-thump*

“They do show up on ultrasound, quite clearly,” Dr. Whorlson continues, a gleam in his eye. “Other than the thaumic scans, all three foals perfectly healthy and growing.” He glances back at the paper. “Well, at least as far as they can tell.”

The ball catches in the brown hoof and remains there. “That is interesting,” Dr. Horse concedes, squeezing the ball. He glances at a calendar. “Three weeks old?” he mutters to himself, Dr. Whorlson unnecessarily nodding along as best he can with his head stuck. The brown doctor shakes his head. “Too early. Nothing but a... bundle of undifferentiated cells.”

*Thwack-thump*

“Check back in six weeks,” Dr. Horse orders. Then he pauses, remorselessly adding, “That is, if they’re still alive.” He cocks his head as a shadowy figure pauses somewhere on the other side of the door. “Cuddly? Is that you?”

“That’s not my name,” Head Administrator Dr. Daily Queue sings out as they go through this song and dance again. She sighs heavily as she observes the stallion ‘stuck’ in the doorway, two of her best doctors ‘investigating’ some new mystery that managed to crop up this week. Like it does every week.

“Doctor Cuddly?” Dr. Horse tries again, sounding like a confused child guessing at the right answer and not sure what was wrong with the last one.

The doctor in question merely rolls her eyes, turning back to her office. At least if she stays away she doesn’t get swept up in whatever zany adventures they have, and she can truthfully plead ignorance when her boss comes down on her.

*

In the Celestial Office, atop the golden sun and the great mahogany desk a seemingly endless stack of reports flits, one paper at a time, from one side to the other. A single sheet rests off to the side, stately magenta eyes occasionally flicking back to it. Until she comes to a second sheet, the doctor’s nearly illegible hornscratch as clear as day to her. She reads it, as carefully as any other, her eyes widening at the implications.

For the first time since the Griffons nearly declared war decades ago the relentless flow of paper ceases.

The Dawn Blazer nearly fulfills her name as the solitary page crinkles from the radiating heat, corners curling as wisps of smoke spew from blackened corners.

A golden aura surrounds a blank roll of parchment, etching a message in glowing charcoal before the scroll vanishes in a burst of green flame.

Burnt red eyes, careful not to rest on any section for too long lest the paper burst further into flames, scan the doctor’s report from Ponyville. It has more details than the report from the Wonderbolt Academy, yet not enough to slake her thirst, merely fanning the flames of her desire. She can barely suppress that burning passion, the Breaker of Day threatening to consume her in a firestorm of fervent lust.

Yet suppress it she must, and she does, long minutes before the room returns to a pale glow.

Only when she feels it is safe does a cyan bead of light appear in the entryway to the office, ripples of color fizzing down to form a pony sized portal of teal and black. A light gray unicorn stallion, long black mane that sweeps back along his neck, steps through. His thin smile twitches his short goatee as turquoise eyes scan the room, resting on the sole ruler of Equestria.

“Your Highness,” Chancellor Neighsay greets formally with the barest nod of his head. “How may your most maligned adviser be of assistance?”

Princess Celestia wishes she could smile at the self deprecation; after all, an adviser whose sole responsibility is to play Lunar’s Advocate with any proposal at all, regardless of the actual merits, doesn’t earn many friends. But she doesn’t trust herself to any emotion right now, and needs the check against her desires.

She levitates the two pages, waiting the long seconds only with great effort.

Chancellor Neighsay reaches the end, his natural frown deeper than normal. “The ramifications of pursuing this are… incalculable.”

Princess Celestia’s voice is barely constrained, a harried siege waging against her self-control. “Every fiber of my being cries out to pursue this lead, to test the possibilities.” Magenta eyes glimmer, revealing a shade of black and red, as a corona of red fire surrounds her. It licks at the nearby pages, withering heat emanating in every direction. Unearthly echoes come from every corner of the room as she bellows, “I Must Know!!”

“Then I would advise against action,” Chancellor Neighsay continues neutrally, masking his utter terror at potentially being roasted alive, “and counsel caution.” It’s the first time he’s ever seen Princess Celestia this distraught over anything, yet he holds firmly to his position. “You are no slave to your passions! And your little ponies would suffer should you give in!”

A thin smile pulls his goatee slightly higher as the fire fades and the room is no longer bathed in the harsh light.

“Then I shall wait,” Princess Celestia states, her voice carefully controlled. “I have waited more than eleven hundred years. I shall wait another few.”

“There are too many unknowns at this point,” Chancellor Neighsay says with a hint of pride at his recommendation being taken. He frowns to himself. “No, that is what any would say, to take the passive approach.” He bows his head contritely. “I am afraid I need more time to properly analyze the situation as a whole, though I also feel my… unique contribution to be unnecessary at this juncture. You would consider any action prudently, judiciously taking all sides into account.”

A benevolent smile graces Princess Celestia’s pristine muzzle. “Thank you for your counsel, Chancellor.”

Chancellor Neighsay nods formally as his horn lights a harsh orange, stepping through the cyan portal that closes up behind him.

Princess Celestia takes a deep breath, her eyes closing as she concentrates. A moment later she blinks out of existence. She reappears in a formless sea of nothing, meditating among the tens if not hundreds of thousands of softly blinking lights surrounding her in every direction. It is a question she has not considered for centuries. A question she long thought moot due to the impossibility.

What would it mean for her little ponies should she, the Everburning Sun, become pregnant?

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