As a part-time employee of the Stratusberg weather factory, Dewdrop knew the weather schedule by heart. Today’s morning forecast was a sunny spring day, which made the existence of a particular rain cloud somewhat dubious. But he wasn’t on shift today, which absolved him of any responsibilities regarding the weather.
And besides, Dewdrop thought to himself, pegasi are allowed to do some small-scale cloud weaving of their own. He hovered above the rain cloud, discreetly pouring in a can of solution that he had snuck out from the rainbow vats. Though the Stratusberg weather factory was nowhere near as impressive as the one in Cloudsdale, it still had some luxuries, including the rainbow production facility. For Dewdrop, a chance to access the solution that formed the rainbows was worth the poor pay that factory workers earned. And despite the value of the rainbow solution, the vats were not heavily guarded; few pegasi had the skill and magic to manipulate the solution without the supporting infrastructure of the weather factory. Dewdrop was an exception.
The rain cloud shimmered with colour, and with some careful prodding, Dewdrop managed to keep the rainbow solution contained. A sheet of canvas lay on the ground below the cloud, and it remained free of any colour. The sun shone at an angle, casting a brilliant white light on the blank canvas. A brush and a few more scraps of fabric lay to the side. This was all that was needed.
Dewdrop was outside on this sunny day, only enjoying the sun because of the perfect lighting it provided. The lack of rain mattered only because extraneous moisture was undesirable for his current project. He didn't care much for the scenic beauty of the countryside, or the possibility of a sunlit flight.
Indeed, Dewdrop didn’t particularly like how the sun made him look. He caused ponies to turn heads in both directions: towards him because his wet-seeming grey mane was just off in the absence of rain; and away because his brilliant white coat was a little painful to look at. But that didn’t matter to Dewdrop right now.
Dewdrop was an artist, and the only thing which mattered was the painting.
Dewdrop was commissioned to create a piece for a Wonderbolts gallery on display during the coming Summer Sun Celebration—sorry, the Festival of the Two Sisters. Each Wonderbolt was asked to choose an artist, and Vapor Trail, the newest members of that prestigious group, had recommended Dewdrop. Dewdrop was confused at how Vapor Trail knew him, until he remembered that he had painted the portraits commemorating the “Bests of Stratusberg”—Vapor Trail was, if he recalled correctly, the “best sneeze.” Dewdrop never expected Vapor Trail to make the Wonderbolts so quickly—he had placed his bets on Sky Stinger, the “most promising flier.” That pegasus was still a reservist. Dewdrop felt a bit of sympathy for Sky Stinger, though it came with a twinge of melancholy.
Still, Dewdrop was honoured that Vapor Trail would nominate him to make something for the Wonderbolts. And for such an important commission, Dewdrop decided that traditional painting techniques, while wonderful and versatile, could not adequately capture the intensity of the Wonderbolts, nor show off his skill as an artist. He needed more. Dewdrop, as a locally known artist in a small town, needed the exposure and the bits, and this was his once-in-a-lifetime chance. He had always admired the Wonderbolts… This painting needed to be perfect.
Dewdrop was ready to begin. A gentle tap on the infused rain cloud, and a special sort of focus channeled through his hooves, brought about the desired effect. A few drops of grey paint splashed onto the canvas. This method of creating paint, invented by Pablo Pegasso himself, was a legend among pegasi artists.
Dewdrop let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Even after mastering the technique for years, every time he used it still filled Dewdrop with worry. But now, reassured that he could utilize the difficult technique, Dewdrop settled into a trance of artistic creation.
Dewdrop weighed down the canvas with a hoof and flapped his wings, generating a breeze. Towards Dewdrop, there was still a large patch of blank canvas, while the paint streaked away from him, forming a grey background with a few bars of untouched white. Another tap of the rain cloud, and dark green paint landed near him. Without any further intervention, the paint spread out to fill the blank patch of canvas. Such was the versatility of this painting technique; Dewdrop could control the colour and viscosity of the paint, and also control the shape and size of the drops, manipulating how the paint would spread out.
Dewdrop landed and stuck his muzzle deep into his wing, coming out with a tuft of white down. The flaps of his wings had left ripples in the grey paint, which Dewdrop used as a guide. Dewdrop pressed a downy feather beside one of the ripples, and it came back stained with grey as paint lifted from where the feather was pressed. Dewdrop pressed the feather on the canvas again, this time to colour one of the white stripes with a patch of grey.
Dewdrop repeated this process, adding light patches to the grey and darker patches to the white. Soon, the background was recognizable as a dark sky, with rays of sunlight piercing the clouds. The ground remained green, plain and uninviting.
Later, Dewdrop thought to himself. The clouds needed more; a few drops of dark, viscous paint on key locations would be enough.
He flew back up. Dark paint was hard to coax out of the rain cloud, and Dewdrop suspected it was because of a rainbow’s bright disposition. Still, it could be done.
He imagined the feeling of sluggishness, a dense and infinite darkness. He brought his hooves up, feeling as though he were dragging it through molasses. He imagined that the hoof was invisible, because darkness was the absence of light. Imagined it invisible and yet drawing the attention of everypony around. Distinction, after all, was the absence of normality.
Dewdrop refocused this attention, imagining several parts of the cloud buckling under the intensity. It was with this feeling that Dewdrop pressed his hoof against the cloud.
A few drops of very dark grey rained down onto the canvas.
This was the only way Dewdrop knew to produce a dark grey from the rain cloud. It was a little excessive for something that wasn’t even black—the method for producing black was perhaps even more so—but it worked.
Dewdrop did not waste any of the dark grey paint. He plucked a feather from his wing and broke it in half, using the hollow shaft as a straw. He blew on the paint with precision, spreading it out to emphasize the gloomy clouds.
Dewdrop continued to work on the clouds, slowly shaping them into a dramatic backdrop fitting of the Wonderbolts. He remembered flying like this, the wind over his wings, the storms at his back. It was wonderful then, but Dewdrop was a different pony now. As an aspiring artist, and part-time factory worker, Dewdrop had no time to go frolicking about in the sky. But, Dewdrop sometimes wondered, had his life gone another way...
Mostly satisfied with the clouds, he finally added some detail to the ground. Dewdrop opted for a more traditional technique, adding the paint to a piece of fabric used as an impromptu palette. He made a thin stalk of dark paint with his brush, then added a series of flat strokes beside it. Dark, imposing pines sprouted from the ground, stretching tall but never quite reaching the sky.
Next was the Wonderbolts themselves. Dewdrop had decided that he would start with Vapor Trail, the most junior of the Wonderbolts. She was near the right edge of the frame, and would allow Dewdrop to warm up his skills.
While the Wonderbolts were a disciplined and unified group, individuality came from their manes and tails. It was the primary way to identify each member in uniform, and it added a flair of colour to the otherwise uniform flight suits. Dewdrop would start here.
Dewdrop took a moment to collect himself, before tapping the cloud. A globule of multicoloured paint splashed onto the canvas, which quickly resolved into a gradient ranging from a light yellow to a pastel blue. Its shape perfectly matched the outline of Vapor Trail’s mane. Dewdrop focused again, and then tapped the cloud to do the same for the tail.
Dewdrop plucked a feather from his wing, and drew it across Vapor Trail’s mane. The barbs left thin, wavy lines in the paint. Another pass with the feather, and the paint seemed to form strands of hair swept by the wind. Satisfied with the result, he repeated the process for the tail.
Now he had to draw the body. For this, Dewdrop wanted clear, solid colours, with defined boundaries. He grabbed the pieces of water-repellent fabric he had prepared for this purpose. After adding a bit of solid blue paint, Dewdrop used the fabric to guide the paint and form it into a coherent shape. A few more applications of paint was enough to complete Vapor Trail’s body.
Dewdrop flew up to evaluate the newest addition to the painting. Seems good, he thought. It was time to repeat the process for the other Wonderbolts. Rainbow Dash took the left edge of the five-pony formation, Spitfire took the centre, while Thunderlane and Soarin flanked her to the left and right. (He was very briefly tempted… but no. He didn’t deserve it.)
Dewdrop then painted the contrails, a signature form of pegasus magic. And while Dewdrop had never produced his own (though not from lack of trying), the Wonderbolts all left a smoky trail behind them during their performances.
For the cloud-like texture of the contrails, Dewdrop once again used downy feathers to spread the paint. He used a darker colour to distinguish it from the background, though their darkest shades were identical.
The Wonderbolts were arranged in an arrowhead flight formation, and golden rays of sunlight broke through the dark clouds behind them. Dewdrop thought the painting to be adequate, on par with his previous works. It was also midday now, and the somewhat overbearing heat of noon provided an interesting contrast to the dark atmosphere of the painting. However, he could tell it was still missing something. Contrast, light, dark… he thought… the contrails. They could use some deeper shadows.
While the contrails were generally darker than the background, the darkest parts were the same, making the contrails seem washed out. He needed parts of the contrail to be darker. But it needed to be something darker than the darkest paints the rain cloud could provide. Something with unrivaled intensity. Something which could only be produced by the one last trick up his sleeve.
Dewdrop waited for his painting to dry, before tapping the cloud one last time. This time, the drops were clear, but still filled with impurities. The drops spread exactly where Dewdrop had wanted the painting to be darkened.
A good thing about rain clouds was that they were multi-purpose.
The sound of a muffled stomp was quickly overshadowed by a booming clap of thunder, and in a bright flash of light the painting was complete.
While he recovered from the thunderclap, Dewdrop looked over his newest masterpiece. The darkened contrails truly brought the painting to life. This, he thought, must be my greatest work yet. He stood back to admire his painting. But, his ears perked up as a familiar voice was heard over the residual ringing.
I swear I was off work today, he thought. Why is my supervisor here?
“… were NO SCHEDULED THUNDERSTORMS!”
Dewdrop had to deal with a different form of being “knocked off his hooves” that day.
Dewdrop opened his eyes, and for a moment could not remember where he was. He lay on his side, and a cream-coloured pegasus was watching him.
A blazing fire suddenly lit up his wings. He screamed, and a shaky voice spoke out.
“Hey, hey, i-it’s going to be alright,” the pegasus said. “Some ponies are getting th-the ambulance. Try to s-stay still and don’t hurt your wing.”
Dewdrop nodded his head, and a fierce pain shot down his spine.
He closed his eyes, and tried to distract himself.
Soaring through the sky, ponies before, ponies behind. One by one, they entered a glide, then performed a sharp bank into a deep dive. He could hear his heart pounding over the wind between his ears as he, too, stilled his wings and leaned into the air, pushing himself slightly towards the right, before twisting his body into a dive as he followed his peers. He drew his wings inward as he picked up speed. The roaring of the wind grew louder, but his frantic heartbeat sounded just as clear as it had a few moments ago. A wall of white flashed by his eyes as they flew past a cloud.
They had each practiced this maneuver individually, of course, but flying together was different. He had to be mindful of the others, never outpacing them, and most importantly, never falling behind.
A pony in front of him left a streak of colour in the sky. A contrail, one of a pegasus’ most distinctive forms of magic. Anypony could change weather, with varying degrees of skill, but each pegasus had their own distinctive pattern that they could use to mark their path. Except for him.
Flight goggles pressed against his face as he focused on staying in formation. The ponies started to pull out of their dives, and soon it was his turn. He broadened his wings and angled them, pushing back the air as the ground tilted from being in front of his nose to being below his hooves. He pictured the ponies behind him doing the same. Once again horizontal, they flew in for the landing.
With the runway stretched in front of him, he tilted his body upwards and braced his back hooves for the landing. He hit the asphalt earlier than expected, and tried to bring his front legs down. But his back hooves missed their purchase, and he found himself back in the air. Panic was taken over in a split second by instinct and training, and he twisted in a side aerial, landing safely. He faced the wrong way as he watched the rest of the ponies land, and heard a growl from the pony that was in front of him.
He sheepishly smiled back, much too close for comfort, and felt the exhilaration of a flight completed, the shame of a botched landing, the relief of a disaster averted. It was only later that the aching of his wings set in, though it was much less than the pain he was currently feeling.
Dewdrop blinked, and saw a few unfamiliar pegasi pulling a stretcher. A unicorn also trotted over.
“Want me to put you under for this?” the unicorn asked.
Wishing to return to his dreams, Dewdrop nodded. The unicorn’s horn glowed.
Dewdrop opened his eyes to opportunity, until he realized that the hospital would not appreciate vandalism on its blank, pristine walls.
“Where… am I?” Dewdrop asked the walls of the hospital.
“You’re in a hospital, dear.” A soft voice floated out from somewhere to the left. “Although you should be quite familiar with hospitals. You’ve stayed at the Cloudsdale and Ponyville hospitals, right?”
“Sure?” Dewdrop replied. His medical history was not something he could immediately recall, but he trusted the nurse’s records.
"We can discharge you today," the nurse said, now standing in front of his bed, "but you’re going to need a final check-up. Your 'accident' today was quite serious. Broken bones in both wings, and a neck injury, in addition to a concussion. You'll most likely be in a wing cast and a neck brace for a few months."
Dewdrop tried to look down, and sure enough, the neck brace stopped him. He tested his wings, which were locked in an upright position.
At least you’re not in a full body wing-and-hoof cast, drinkin’ through a straw! A familiar voice popped out from the recesses of his mind, one which Dewdrop hadn't heard in over a decade. He had an impression, one of when he was in a hospital just like this one.
“Do you need anything?” the nurse asked, bringing him back to Stratusberg.
Dewdrop hesitated. He tried to shake his head, but realized that the neck brace forced him to speak.
“N-no,” Dewdrop rasped. “Actually, a g-glass of water would be nice.”
The nurse left the room, and Dewdrop spent the time staring at his room. He’d never been in the Stratusberg hospital before, though it was similar enough to the one in Cloudsdale.
The nurse soon returned, and Dewdrop took the glass of water in the crook of his hooves.
“Thanks,” he said between heavy gulps.
The nurse settled down into the chair at the left of the bed. The only sounds in the room were Dewdrop’s sips of water.
“Don’t you have other ponies to help?” Dewdrop asked. Not that he minded the nurse’s presence; he simply worried that the pony had more important matters to tend to.
“Nah. Thankfully, today’s a slow day. So I can just stay here for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Dewdrop said.
They settled into a comfortable silence. The hospital bed was softer than he expected. Wonder if they increased the healthcare budget, he thought to himself.
It was a while before the nurse spoke again.
"So, in case you're wondering, your assailant was arrested. Paramedics told me he was screaming something about 'disobeying protocol'. You might get called on to testify, although I'm pretty sure he'll take a plea deal instead."
The supervisor, right… Heard him complaining about thunderstorms, right after I finished my…
"Painting!" Dewdrop gasped. "My painting! Where is it?" His hooves slipped as he struggled to scramble upright. The empty cup tumbled out of his grasp, ringing as it skittered across the floor.
"Stop moving. Calm down. You're going to hurt yourself." Dewdrop froze, his limbs locked by the nurse's glare. Slowly, he settled back down into the bed.
“Sorry,” Dewdrop said. “But that painting is really important to me. It was a commission, and it’s for the Wonderbolts, and I really can’t mess it up.” (Not like last time, he thought.)
"I’m sorry to hear that. No, I did not hear anything about a painting. I’ll contact the police and ask them to check. Perhaps, after we get everything sorted out, we can help you find this painting."
Dewdrop took a few deep breaths. “Sure, yeah, later. Sure.”
The paramedics hadn't seen it, and neither had the police. Dewdrop resolved to search for it himself. Can never be too sure, he thought, even if others have already tried.
The evening sun dazzled Dewdrop's eyes, and he found it difficult to turn his head away.
He walked quickly, in spite of his recent injuries. Arriving at where he was painting earlier in the day, Dewdrop trotted around. This park near the centre of the town was one of the few places with solid ground. His rain cloud had long since evaporated, though a shimmering rainbow marked where the cloud used to be.
Dewdrop checked right underneath the rainbow, the last place he had seen the canvas. Not even the feathers, paintbrush, or scraps of fabric were to be found, much less a full painting.
He tried to fly up for a better view, and instantly gave up on that attempt. Dewdrop was forced to set out on hoof, checking the surrounding terrain for a sign of his painting.
It has to be around here, somewhere, Dewdrop thought. Have I checked behind that boulder yet? I’m not sure… better make sure. And just like the last three times, no elusive painting was found. I should go check the perimeters again. Maybe the wind blew it away a little. Dewdrop didn’t want to think about what would have happened if the wind blew just a little harder.
Dewdrop wasn’t about to abandon the search. As the Wonderbolts say, ‘Altius volantis—Soaring higher!’ I’m not giving up after one little setback.
But no luck, or painting, was to be found. The sun sank below the horizon, and Dewdrop was ready to admit that, just maybe, he should get back home. His head hung, just a little, and his eyes trained on the ground as he walked. I’ll come back to search tomorrow, he thought. And even if it’s gone, I can go home to make another one. I did it once, I can do it again, right? He chose to ignore the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right about his logic. Well, it could be worse. I could be facing a hefty hospital bill right now. Thank Celestia for free health care.
Dewdrop halted in his steps, before picking up on a derailed train of thought and continuing his trot. Actually, should I be thanking Twilight? Princess Celestia was the one who first implemented universal health care, but Princess Twilight is the one who keeps it running. Plus, she introduced more varied staffing—that unicorn’s anesthetic spell was really nice. Mixed paramedic teams are so much more effective, with pegasus speed, earth pony strength, and unicorn magic. Really wish we had that back in Cloudsdale. Maybe they do, now. (It’s been so long since I’ve been back.) Wonder if a hippogriff paramedic could help, maybe get drowning victims to… stop drowning? Not sure how their transformations work.
Although I do wish hospitals were a little less bland. I could make something to hang up on those blank—
A wall materialized in front of Dewdrop, and the ground rushed forth to meet him. Dewdrop tried to cock his head to take a clearer look at his surroundings, before flailing his limbs back and forth. He met a light yellow hoof, and was spared from any further embarrassment as he was helped to his hooves.
“Well, who do we have here?” A smiling mustachioed muzzle made Dewdrop’s eyes cross. The pony who helped him up had a somewhat raspy voice.
“It seems you could be in need of some new gadgets!” A brighter voice came from behind him, and Dewdrop spun on his hooves. This one was clean-shaven, and towered over Dewdrop on lanky legs. A black bowtie rested on top of a pinstriped shirt, and a top hat and horn adorned the stranger’s head.
“And there’s no need to apologize,” the first stallion said. Dewdrop spun around again, and noted the similar build and attire of the two ponies.
“We were just about to take down, but you seem to have helped us with that!” Dewdrop spun a third time to face the smooth-faced pony, and the ground was becoming wobbly.
“So as a thank you, we’d like to show you some—” Dewdrop turned again, and the mustache was becoming dangerously tilted.
A hoof from behind stabilized him. “Don’t want you falling down again, now do we?” the brighter voice exclaimed. The two ponies stepped beside each other, and Dewdrop could clearly see the resemblance. Brothers?
“Here’s an inventory of our Bitparter products!”
“We’ve got anything you might need! Take a look!”
Dewdrop found himself being led to a toppled shelf filled with oddities and a paintbrush, before failing to shake his head. “Sorry, I have this painting I need to finish. Maybe I’ll come back later!” And Dewdrop was gone.
“Flim, I must say, that was an unexpected response,” the mustachioed stallion said.
“We almost had him there. Wonder what’s on his mind?” the clean-shaven one replied.
“He said something about a painting, and his coloured raindrop of a cutie mark certainly fits an artist.”
“How does he plan to paint, with a neck brace and that double wing cast?”
“Hoof painting? Few ponies know how, but it’s a good thing we have a Bitparter product for that.”
“He seemed like a nice pony,” the clean-shaven one pondered. “I bet you he'll be back tomorrow to apologize, Flam.”
“And we have the perfect product to help him. No need for him to pout over his present predicament!”
“I like this plan, brother o’mine!” the unicorns exclaimed together.
Dewdrop’s cloud house squatted on its foundation, near the edge of the town.
He had called it home for almost a decade now, ever since he moved away from Cloudsdale. Moving to a small town where everypony knew each other was somewhat difficult. But Dewdrop’s skill with pegasus magic earned him a living at the weather factory, and his artistic creations gave him a reason to keep living. Still, with a part-time job and infrequent commissions, his home’s single story was sparsely furnished. Dewdrop was too busy to add anything more.
Stepping up to the door, Dewdrop used his hoof and stuck a key in the lock. He fumbled a little before managing to get inside.
He saw the floor that he had created himself; he remembered how simple it was to form a flat surface from clouds.
The walls, too, he had made from scratch, though this was more uncommon among pegasi. It is harder to make a vertical barrier, ensuring that the walls were straight, that corners were at right angles, and that the entire wall was of even height. Additionally, walls would have to support extra floors, or at least the roof. Most ponies opted to have a wall made of other materials, such as reinforced cloud bricks.
But as a starving artist, Dewdrop didn’t have the bits for such luxuries. He was a talented pegasus, and having extensive experience with cloud sculpting and cloud busting, he figured he knew enough about clouds to make his own home. How hard could it be?
He only needed to spend an average of one hour a day on repairs, although calling this wildly unpredictable value an “average” was perhaps a little disingenuous. (A truly talented pegasus would be capable of making a sturdy cloud home, he thought.)
Given the walls’ integrity, or lack thereof, the lock on the door was perhaps more decorative than necessary.
Despite the sparse furnishings in the single-story house, a few paintings, photographs, and a single newspaper clipping hung in simple wooden frames. The paintings would not look out of place in a fancy Cloudominium—especially since several of them depicted the Wonderbolts—but they were awkward here. They were wasted, masterpieces tucked away in the shabby corner of a small town.
Dewdrop went to his easel. It, along with the rest of his art supplies, were his most valued possessions. I should try to get at least some background sketches done today. Just in case I can’t find the original. He needed the day to end with something to show for his efforts.
He turned to face the empty easel, and imagined his masterpiece there. The Wonderbolts soaring through the sky, heads up, braving the storm. He imagined, several weeks later, a pale imitation hanging from the Wonderbolts’ gallery where the original deserved to shine. It wouldn’t be fair.
He knew that he couldn’t make this painting again. It would be a crime, a sin, a forgery to recreate it.
But then he imagined a blank canvas, with a notice that the artist did not submit any work.
Though Dewdrop hated the idea of inferior work, especially for the group that he had most admired, something had to be done. But he wasn’t going to tarnish the legacy of the original...
The weight of the day’s events caught up to him. It started out fine, like a dream come true, a wonderful painting, but then an accident, and losing the painting... Please, in the name of Princess Celestia, today’s been hard enough. Let me do something.
He tried to pick up the pencil with his wings, as he was most comfortable with those pegasi limbs. But upon reminder that his wings were bound, Dewdrop decided that the muzzle was an acceptable substitute. Dewdrop bent his knees awkwardly until he could clamp his jaws around the pencil.
And remembered that he hadn’t placed a canvas on his easel yet.
The pencil was spat out, and the canvas was placed.
Dewdrop once again performed the awkward genuflection, one which would have pleased any monarch. Though the pencil seemed to find it lacking, for it would decide not to cooperate.
Dewdrop walked to the easel, where he pressed the graphite against the canvas. He attempted to sketch the horizon, and promptly tripped over when he tried to perform an unfamiliar sideways shuffle on his hooves.
He got up again. Grabbed his eraser, tried to erase the pencil mark. But he couldn’t force his body to once again match the wild squiggles of his first line—to erase it completely would probably require tripping again.
Drawing like this was impossible.
He collapsed. He wanted to scream at the heavens. But the neck brace wouldn’t even allow him to lift his head.
Dewdrop woke up, and for a moment tried to fly out of bed. He struggled with his wings, wondering why he couldn’t turn his head to see what was wrong, before the memory of yesterday’s events crashed down on him. He collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh.
He saw the easel through his open door, and was reminded of his attempt at drawing the night before. He saw a pencil discarded on the floor, and the shreds of canvas that littered the room. The hazy memory of last night’s events came back to him.
Clean up the mess I made, figure out what to do… Maybe try to find where the painting was. No. It’s gone by now.
So what else am I supposed to do with my time? Try to make another painting, with broken wings and a neck brace?
No. I’m bucking done.
He sat on the bed. It was easier this way, to not deal with the cruel comedy of the real world. He closed his eyes again.
Each pegasus at the Academy had a chance for one-on-one training, to work on whatever they wished. In Dewdrop’s case, he'd wanted to work on lightning protection—the art of allowing lightning to strike without being injured. A pegasus learned how to let electricity flow through the body, without impediment. Somehow, this prevented the lightning from hurting the pegasus.
“You sure you wanna waste time on this, Dewdrop?” Spitfire asked. “Lightning protection ain’t easy. I’ve told you to practice making a contrail, yet you still can’t make one. And you know you can’t be a Wonderbolt if you can’t produce a contrail.”
“I know, ma’am,” Dewdrop replied. Over the last few days at the Academy, Dewdrop had spent every last bit of free time working on his contrail. Nothing helped, and he was honestly sick of trying things that didn’t work. So Dewdrop was doing something different for his personal training session.
They walked a few steps before he continued. “There’s an, umm, art technique that uses lightning. And I want to make sure I won’t hurt myself.”
“Using lightning for art? Never heard of it,” Spitfire said. “But you'll be fine as long as you discharge it properly. I never saw the point of lightning protection myself.”
“Just want to be sure I’m safe,” Dewdrop said.
“But lightning protection is a party trick at best. Dewdrop, you’re a talented flyer, and your choreography is excellent. Those are the hard parts. You wanna be a Wonderbolt? Just figure out contrail creation and you’re set. I don’t want to lose out on a talented pony like you.”
“I can practice making a contrail anytime, but only the Academy has lightning generators. Ma’am.” He gulped.
The corner of Spitfire’s lips dipped down in a frown, but she didn’t argue any further. “Fine. I’ve got Whiplash here to teach you about lightning protection, ‘cause I sure can’t do it myself. Take it away, Whiplash.”
“Well,” Whiplash said with a surprisingly mellow tone, “Let’s get started. You know the basics?”
Dewdrop nodded. He’d rarely heard Whiplash speak—he and Fast Clip, Captain Spitfire’s assistants, were mostly silent in her presence.
Whiplash went to set up the generator.
The preparations were completed in a haze of activity.
Soon, Dewdrop found himself in a special protective suit, designed to keep pegasi safe within storms. Any charge that a pegasus was unable to avoid was absorbed into the suit instead. The suit flashed brighter the more charge it absorbed.
In Dewdrop's case, a flashing suit would indicate failure.
Dewdrop indicated he was ready, then entered a special sort of awareness that was required for lightning protection. He imagined the current flowing through his hooves, his body simply a conduit. There was nothing for the lightning to catch onto, so it would simply move past Dewdrop when it struck.
The machine activated. The technique should have worked—Dewdrop was incredibly familiar with it.
Instead, a searing pain burned through him. This had never happened before. The suit had protected him each time his own technique failed. He tried to gasp, but his lungs wouldn’t respond. This wasn't what happened!
The pain faded. Dewdrop tried to get up, but he couldn't feel his limbs. He was paralyzed.
How am I supposed to finish my painting now, he thought. Can't even move. He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a voice boomed with the thunder. It seemed familiar, though he could not tell where it came from. The voice almost seemed… royal?
"Dewdrop, you cannot give up like this.”
“Who is this?” Dewdrop asked.
“Who we are is not of importance. What is important is that you need to stop wallowing.”
“But how am I supposed to do that?” Dewdrop snorted. “I can’t even paint anymore. I’m useless.”
The voice grew colder. “You think you are useless? From a simple injury? It is a coward’s behavior, to hide from such a little setback. Life is more than just a painting.”
A second, or an eternity, passed. “Sure, sure,” Dewdrop conceded. “I’m more than just an artist. But I can’t do any of the other things I’m good at. Not with broken wings.”
The voice grew softer. “No, Dewdrop. Your worth is not determined by your talents. You are a good pony, and that is inherently worthwhile. It does not matter what you have failed to do. It only matters that you get up and keep going.”
The voice fell silent, before continuing.
“You think you are paralyzed? The only thing paralyzing you is your own inaction.
“Now stop hiding, Dewdrop, and face the world.”
He opened his eyes with a start. Dewdrop groaned. Celestia knows what that was. But already, the dream was fading away from him.
Dewdrop turned and glanced at the clock.
… well, it’s been an hour. I should probably get out of bed. There were those nice stallions who helped me up after I crashed into their market stand. I should go apologize. At least there is some kindness left in this world…