Up and down the star-lined lanes he drifts, jaundiced eyes crinkled in thought. When left to its own devices life is boring and boring is life, and so here he floats in this glittering void that only he can call home, navigating the myriad paths that only he can see. He can come to this world anytime he wants—it always has been and always will be here, waiting to welcome him into its cold, lifeless embrace. Now, however, he darts about, sinuous body slithering this way and that as a single thought burns inside him.

Confound those damned ponies.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he snarls and snaps his fingers. Dozens of miniscule stars converge in front of him, shaping themselves into a light-studded rosebush small enough for him to hold in his hands. He runs his finger along the petals’ fluorescent veins, tests the sharpness of the miniature thorns before he releases it into the air in front of him. Another snap, another barrage of lights, and a sextuplet of ponies now rings the bush, vivid manes fluttering in a wind that doesn’t exist.

He stares intently at them as they slowly, mesmerizingly dance around the roses. These ponies know him, trust him, call him their friend, but what does that mean? Does it matter? What will their friendship count for in a century, when all of them are dead and buried and gone? Do they expect him to be good forever, to play nice forever?

To be bored forever?

His loud snort echoes in the starry void. Perhaps not forever, but definitely for as long as these peace-loving ponies have him wrapped about their collective hoof like a bracelet. Maybe some day, when his meddlesome ties to goodness had given up the ghost, he would make the world into his play thing once more.

The miniature ponies’ movements become more exaggerated as they accelerate into an almost-tarantella.

Or why even wait? If he wanted, he could make them all his in an instant. He could shape the world into any image he wished and make them all bow before him, adore him, love him. Salt-lick picnics underneath a raging waterfall, games of armadillo polo amidst the clouds, underwater concerts performed by a chorus of shoe boxes and salamanders—all this and more he could coerce them into enjoying with him, and he would have a wonderful time, and they would think they had a wonderful time, and everybody would be happy.

And after a century they would all be gone anyway, and he would have nothing but that cold, lonely world to rule over and this cold, lonely world to return to.

The dance slowed to a crawl, then finally stopped altogether.

When left to its own devices life is boring and boring is life, and so here he floats in this glittering void that only he can call home, navigating the myriad paths that only he can see, waiting for a sorrow that only he can anticipate. He waves his paw and the rosebush breaks apart as the stars composing it return to their fellows all around him.

“Ashes, ashes—”

The ponies, too, dissipate one by one until only a yellow pegasus, no larger than a mouse, stands before him, seemingly gazing into his face. Eyes narrowed, he puffs on it, and like the others it shatters. Both the chill wind and the thick emptiness press in on him from all sides as he stares at the space where she had been, until finally he whirls away and goes home to pick up the tray of cookies he had prepared earlier, muttered words lingering behind.

“—they all fall down.”