The air stank of ice and death, the walls themselves covered in a thin veneer of glass that collected rays of the dim hanging bulbs. The rusted sheet that made the room shown like giant, flimsy slabs of jet, chocolate, and silver under frost and bulb light. Nothing was left untainted by the dawn of winter; chairs, terminals, desks, all painted with the whites and nothing of chill.

Cold, Torrid thought, breath leaving a sizable cloud, all this is...

I wake up on the best day of the week, to have a displaced Twilight Sparkle sitting on my sofa. In real life. I'm not having anything to do with this, NOTHING!

A/N
Just a small piece that came to mind that I thought would be funny.
Sequel in the works

The wasteland, as such a name entitles, is a quagmire. Spawned by the stubbornness and pure idiocy of its forefathers as they bathed the lands in balefire. One virtually devoid of amenities and pleasantries. But why bother ponder on such trivial, well known knowledge.

How about the wanderers? Those of self interest, the mobile hermits of the wastes? Survival is their only objective, only drive, this to be what Pax believes to be his own virtue. Past, as much as it stung, is pushed to farthest depths of his mind as he seeks to remain living, breathing, and thinking. No matter how much the wastes could throw at him, he was sure he could just step out of the way rather than toss it back ten fold.

But neither the wasteland nor his past have any recollection of sympathy.