In a split second, Picard found himself outdoors somewhere, still staring into Q’s smug visage.
“And you’re expecting us to believe that this is magic?” Picard snarled, his temper reduced to nothing but cinders. “Some...fancy form of transportation or illusion that we haven’t yet fully worked out the mechanisms for?”
“Oh, no, not that, although if you looked at yourselves now, maybe you’d wonder--”
The Q’s smug retort was interrupted by an unearthly bellow behind the captain.
“Ah, I see Worf’s found out what he looks like.”
The captain glared at Q, even though by now he was used to his officers being insulted.
“No, really! I mean it! Turn around and look!”
The captain turned around to find that the source of the noise was coming from a strange creature in a group of many. This particular one was dark brown, a rather muted color compared to all the others, and it was rearing up on its hind legs and bellowing--no, not bellowing...was it...saying something?
“NO!!! NO!!! I WILL NOT LET YOU DO THIS TO ME!!!”
“...Worf?!” The captain addressed the voice that he knew to be of his chief security officer.
The beast’s head turned, and, seeing the face of the entity who had transformed him, seethed with rage and uttered a low growl.
“Oh, I must say, this IS an improvement!” The Q grinned in a condescending manner. “Much better than that ugly Klingon form--oh, Worf, let me just say that you make an ab-so-lute-ly adorable little Pony!”
This rose the beast’s level of rage even higher, a feat that nobody at the time deemed possible. Slowly it stepped back, not taking eyes off its assailant. The beast then stopped, uttering a snort of fury.
“I.”
The beast began to move forward, slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed.
“Am NOT.”
The entity stood (for he had been crouching previously), not making eye contact with the enraged animal, and in affected nonchalance began to inspect his fingernails.
“A.”
The trot became a canter, and the canter became a gallop.
“LITTLE.”
The gallop became faster and faster, exceeding speeds that anyone had expected of the creature. Its head tilted downwards, but its eyes never left the Q. Still it ran. Harder and harder, faster and faster...
“PONY!!!”
At the last second, the Q vanished in a flash, causing the animal in momentum to ram head-first into a tree. The Q rematerialized as abruptly as he had vanished, leaning against another tree, giving a slow clap.
“Oh, well done, Worf! You hit that tree spot on! You know, I think I know somepony who might be interested in your services, as...limited as they may be.”
The beast turned again, still snorting and growling, attempting to once again ram into the Q, the second attempt meeting with the same results.
“Careful, Worfie, you don’t want to kill any more brain cells than you already have.” The entity was once again at the first tree. The beast backed up again, intending to repeat the process, but was interrupted by the voice of the captain.
“Worf, that’s enough,” the captain barked authoritatively. The look in the brown beast’s eyes changed from one of rage to an expression of confusion and perhaps fear.
“...Captain?”
“That’s an order, Mr. Worf,” the captain said in the same tone.
“...Aye, sir...but do you realize--!”
“Aaand that’s my exit cue,” said the entity, shifting his weight back to his feet. “I’ll see you around, Picard.” He gave the captain a friendly rub on the head, turned around and vanished once again.
“Q--” the captain called after the entity. Then he stopped. Something wasn’t right. He looked down at the ground between his legs. A pair of peach-colored cylinders were the only thing he could see other than the grass beneath his...his...
“Q, what the devil...” The captain turned around to the herd of creatures behind him. He looked at them, then turned to the Worf-creature. It was quadrupedal, with a blunt, nearly rectangular muzzle and a large pair of dark, angry eyes. On its forehead was a rather familiar ridged pattern. The rest of the body seemed largely undefined, all a solid brown except for a mark on the haunch in the shape of a bat’leth.
“Am I...” the captain asked the creature.
“...yes,” the creature returned bluntly.
“But...what the devil are we?”
“Q called Worf a ‘pony’, but he does not look like any equine that I am familiar with.” A light yellow creature, seemingly of the same species, stepped out from the herd. Its black mane was closely cropped, and there was the mark of what appeared to be a calculator on its haunches. Its golden eyes were alive with a sort of reserved inquisitiveness.
“Whatever this is, I don’t want to be one,” grumbled the brown Klingon-Pony.
“Well, we might as well play along with Q’s little game,” said a crimson stallion, sporting what seemed to be a beard. “The sooner we appease him, the sooner we can get the hay back to our ship.”
Picard and the other creatures stared at the stallion at this remark.
“What?”
A dark-eyed violet creature broke the awkward silence with a soft laugh. “I...I’m sorry, but did you just say ‘get the hay back to our ship’?” This creature had a softer and less angular face, a long dark mane and a noticeable protrusion from its forehead.
“What? No! I...” The red stallion blinked. “...I said,” he spoke slowly and clearly. “...’get...the...hay... back...to......our....ohhhh...horseapples.’”
At this the captain himself couldn’t help but let a small smile appear on his face. The violet mare allowed her smile to grow bigger, and a tan creature with its eyes obstructed by a visor broke into an audible chuckle.
“I...think...I’ll just shut up now...” said the red stallion, clearly embarrassed by his rather odd turns of phrase.
“Your expressions are forgiven, Number One, considering the circumstances we’re in...” The captain smiled, deciding that this was one of those situations in which he would have to once again “bow to the absurd”.
“So, what do we do now?” asked the visored Pony.
“There appears to be a town about a half-mile to the west of us,” stated the yellow-eyed stallion. “It would be a reasonable assumption that Q would expect us to go there.”
“Make it so, Mister...er, Mister Data,” said the captain. The group--or “herd”, as it were--set off in the direction of the town.