First Pony View
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic
By Suomibrony

Chapter 14
Turbulence Before Headwind

A song had started playing. A likeable song I recognized by its appreciable bass guitars. A song David would've disparaged for being "lame." Since death metal with more guttural snarling than actual singing was his cup of tea (a drink he wouldn't deign to consume, I presumed), his opinion on music was close to null and void anyhow. We did have great times playing Saints Row 2 in co-op, however. He was a trigger-happy spitting image of Nathan Explosion, and I was a measured and tactical, chronologically-displaced Wehrmacht soldier! Both with the same British English voice. Uncanny, but amusing.

“Viv or Vivienne? Hmmm . . .” I thought she should call me a duplicitous coward for submitting to a complex sense of shame and—er, no. This was negative thinking. I was . . . I was exceptionally courageous for taking on the challenge of upholding my perceived gender, thereby attaining unique and possibly enlightening insights on female existence itself! “I'll leave that up to you,” I replied in a deliberately sweet tone, almost indifferent to what name she called me by, although Vivienne sounded a tad more charming. I had been called by my middle name before, albeit rarely, so this shouldn't . . . Hold on. My sort-of namesake had been called that. I neither wanted nor needed to know more.

“I think Vivienne's a very nice name.” Embee presented her choice with such mellowness that I felt a shred flattered. “Don't you think so, too?”

“Um.” I rested my chin on my elevated pastern as I looked towards my bangs. “I guess I must agree . . .” Frankly, hiding behind a new alias was going to be hard on me. Furthermore, my middle name wasn't so much 'me' as Rosy was . . . and neither name should be mine!

“Hey,” Embee said softly. “Don't doubt yourself.” I was initially puzzled as to why she said that, but I quickly presumed that my outward impression of reluctance had something to do with it. “I truly think your name's beautiful.” She sighed, creasing her lips to a smile, whereas I felt a little dirty about letting her believe a lie. “You should cherish it, and think of it as your own. It's your name. You said so yourself.” I didn't reply; I was asking myself if I had put my neck on the line by pretending to be a female human in a mare's body. I was afraid of Embee's reaction to knowing my true gender. Being straight with her from the get-go would've been right, but would it have been safe? I didn't believe she'd make fun of me, but she could unwittingly pressure me to act male, and she could suspect I never was anything but a mare if I didn't. However, what if my pretense placed my gender identity at peril? My eyes had opened to how conditioned . . . no, indoctrinated I was to automatically resent any personal aspects of femininity, or the suspicion thereof—“It is your name, isn't it, hon?”

Embee's careful query engendered a small gasp from me. “Of course it is,” I affirmed impulsively, forgoing my contemplations and forging a smile. Darn it. I could've just blurted a definite 'no' instead.

“Ah, don't worry, I wasn't. I was repeating it in my head. My name, that is. So it would stick. So I wouldn't forget that my name's, uh, Vivienne. Like you said it is. Like I said it is. Like it's supposed to be. Geez, sorry!” Broken sentences spoken meekly and Embee's inquiring look weren't boosting my confidence. Nevertheless I frowned in determination, lowering my voice. “You saw what happened to me, right?” Embee nodded with a hum. “I can't let that awful disaster happen again, so I must tell myself who I am. Repeatedly.” Heeding her concern and my fib, I began chanting the masculine name internally. The name that should be more mine than Vivienne was! I had to stay firm. That was how I obeyed speed limits, even when despicable drivers behind me reduced the three-second rule to a third or less. Irresponsible and thoughtless morons! Just like my friends when they were corrupted into a raucous bliss and egged me to drop the hammer. I was certain they were good people; alas, aside from a few exceptions, I hadn't seen their good sides in a year. But that was neither here nor there. I had to stay firm! This was a matter of survival! I had to denounce my imposed name and repeat the correct name until it felt like it was mine ag—Wait . . . Repeats? Repeating movements of . . . windshield wipers? Was I onto something?

“Sounds like you got a technique down.” Embee's voice was replete with consideration. She may've said something more, but I was too preoccupied to hear it. There was something I could almost recall . . . Something yesterday? Something about the windshield wipers . . . or maybe not? It could be just a random thing that seemed relevant by being the latest memory from before the start of my incident. I should focus on the name instead. My name. Yes. Did it feel like mine yet? Only a little, but if I kept at it . . . “Not to interrupt, but would you like to make yourself comfortable?” She glanced at a cushion—the one I sat on before. “I could bring you the coffee in the meantime. Then we can talk more.”

“Uhm . . . sure.” My—no, Rosy's humanized visage inexplicably reappeared in my mind, miming my speech. Its association with me was weirding me out. I was building a resistance to these things. I hoped. “Relaxation is, ah . . . It ranks high on my priorities list, right after getting to the bottom of my mind swap predicament.” Despite the imagined face speaking my lines, my resolution held steady. Alas, the cushion I laid my eyes on stopped me in my tracks. Could I really let it get a feel for the two down theres, like it had before? Was it better to stand on my four hooves and receive a strange look from Embee in return? Comfort over customs? Decisions, decisions.

Embee's soothing tone swiveled my ears. “I know you're worried, Vivienne, but—”

“I know I know,” I interjected, facing her after a beat. “You don't have to tell me.” Discerning that I was getting worked up, I tried to retain a calm demeanor after a quick cough. “But hey, um, I . . .” The recent humanized image brought to mind that perhaps I had it easier; I had Embee. “Just to remind you and myself, this isn't my predicament alone.” I looked at the rain-streaked windows and the lit-up apartments beyond. “She . . . Rosy Stripes,” I struggled a bit; it felt like I was referring to myself in the third-person. “She's in my body, feeling all kinds of lost, I think.” Spooked a little by the fuzzy reflection of a white-coated pony in the window, I turned my head back to Embee. “Maybe she has an idea about what's happened.” A memory attempted to invade my mental canvas; I screwed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or disappointed.

“An idea?” Embee inserted, interest in her voice. “You mean Rosy has an idea? How do you know?”

I had to consciously stop conflating my name to myself. My not-name! “I actually don't, and I'm not sure I want to purposely unlock more of her memories. Just imagine my name problem, but more widespread. Anyhow, it doesn't matter if she knows. Her situation is arguably worse . . .” She was stuck in an unfamiliar form in a world where her kind was pure fiction, possibly overwhelmed by despair and distress as the truth was dismissed or ignored. The awfulness of that swiftly disintegrated my mild frustration, and my vision migrated to Embee's forelegs. “Where she is now, she doesn't have anypony to rely on. I believe she's in dire need of help, but sadly, she can't get that. She's more alone and helpless than a faithful car heartlessly abandoned on a frozen lake in late winter as appreciation for a decade of untiring and diligent service.” My sights climbed up to Embee's eyes, recalling that the tale of the car had come from my dad's mouth. I hoped it wasn't true. “So, as you can guess, my concern for her is immeasurable. I hold hope that she can be rescued from a tragic fate.” I would've placed my hands on Embee's shoulders—if we were human. “You and me, we are the first ones who can actually do something about that,” I beseeched earnestly. “Just like I can't stay in this body, she can't stay in mine. For all we know, she may be under the threat of the same identity-threatening effects as I am.” My head and ears slumped. I wished from the bottom of my heart that 'she'—Rosy—hadn't taken her own life. Like I almost had. I could feel the weight of shame and guilt lying upon my heart. For me and her. My mortality had advanced to the forefront of my mind. Before today's ordeal, I had pondered about death a few times, but not in a suicidal manner. I'd had my moments of gloom, but I wasn't a futureless, depressed wreck. Still, what would come after death? Was it eternal sleep without dreams and awareness? Or some form of new beginning? Be that as it may, a gradual transition into something that I wasn't entitled and didn't want to be was contending with the severity of death itself. I was at the risk of involuntarily stealing somepony's life! That was utterly wrong and unjust! At least death was . . . conventional. Was she thinking about these things, too?

“Hey, I'm sure she's fine,” Embee finally got a say, trying to resuscitate my asphyxiating hope. “It can't be so bad for her, right? Just like you have, she's probably found somepony who is—Wait, you said she doesn't have anypony?”

“Yeah, anypony . . .” I said somberly. “As you know, I have her brain. It affects my speech mannerisms. Makes me say somepony and everypony, and so on. It's kind of compulsive, and I don't always bother to correct myself.” I sighed, gazing at Embee weakly. Then it struck me. Was it affecting me in other ways as well? Was I thinking like I used to? Did I exhibit my or 'her' characteristics? How much was I myself?

“No, I'm . . . I'm sorry, let me rephrase my question,” Embee cut off my existential crisis before it dug deeper into my core. My self-preservation instinct was semi-consciously correcting my ponyisms and segregating distinctly pony memories and traits; that was a monumental advantage. “What do you mean by Rosy not having anypony?”

“Oh, right . . .” I languidly rolled my eyes to the right, repeating my true name in my head to ward off my not-really-my-name, and also feeling a touch disappointed Embee hadn't urged me to fight the ponyisms. “Where she is, there aren't ponies, and she's not even physically pony, what with having my body,” I explained glumly. As much as I hated to think of it, she could be ruining my life by trying to pretend she was me, and possibly failing at limiting her female behavior—because unlike tomboys, feminine guys were universally reviled. I felt like dying on the spot just to spare myself the anguish of my cursory speculations . . . which reminded me of a much worse fear: she was dead! The inability to verify my fear quickly breathed oxygen on my embers of hope.

“Listen, can you tell me what you looked like?” Embee asked. I felt a smidgen of disconnect when I brought up my male image. “Your surname?” I could. I felt a shred less disconnected from my name, presumably due to my earlier inner name chanting. “Where you live?” About ten kilometers northwest from this hospital. “Where you were before you realized you were in Rosy's body?” I was in my home, undoubtedly sleeping and dreaming about something irrelevant. Maybe that was the windshield wiper thing? Just a strange dream. Laptop resting on the parking lot, stuff displayed on it, the car's windshield wipers moving. Something had happened soon after? Wait, this wasn't my dream or memory!

“Vivienne?” Embee roused my attention; I hadn't said a single word throughout her questioning.

As I peered into her eyes, a question popped up in my mind. “Hey, what's with these questions about my looks and so on?”

A kind smile formed on her lips. “Rosy's in your body, so naturally, knowing some identifying details and your place of residence will help narrow down the search—”

“No!” I exclaimed, subtly flustered. “You don't understand! She can't be found!” I would've made some kind of gesture, but all I managed was to throw my tail and lean slightly forward. We were almost touching snout to snout.

“Why not?” The puzzlement on Embee's face wasn't surprising. In fact, it was daunting. She was on my side, but one little verbal slip-up could change that.

I put some space between us. “I told you, there are no ponies where I come from,” I reiterated, careful not to let my voice quiver with nervousness. “Not the kind that are sapient and can fly and cast spells. Those are . . . They don't exist there! It's a different world.” A worrisome thought crept in: How could I explain to her that I knew of ponies through a cartoon and associated fandom? Or rather, how would I do that without making myself sound plum crazy?

‘Oh no! Now it's happening! The worst fear of them all! She's disbelieving me for real! I'm screwing up, I'm screwing up, I'm screwing up!’ I couldn't show that panic on the outside. “Okay, uh . . . Let me think how to, um.” What could I think here? Many things were piling up on me already: an existential crisis, easily provoked bodily discomfort, guilt over my gender deceit, worries about the fate of Rosy, memory fragments and her personality possibly twisting up mine. As if that wasn't enough, being female was bestowing me with conflicted feelings. But this wasn't the time to analyze any of that; I had to think of something to say right now! “How about I, err . . . How about I come up with something completely false but plausible.” That was smart; make my attempt to lie as transparent as possible. “I really don't want to, but if I must, then I—”

“Oh, no!” Embee objected, taking a step closer, her frown easing into arches of beseechment. “Don't do that. Stick to the truth. Please.”

Good. My tactic had worked. “You really want the truth?” I was leery nonetheless.

“Naturally,” she affirmed, more softly. “What made you think otherwise?”

I was obliged to answer that, or else I'd be on a short leash. I looked past her to the kitchen and glanced at the radio as I did my best to speak a rational reply: “Well . . . If the truth sounds impossible, or the exposing of it may result in severe repercussions, then an option ensuring continued safety and accord is preferred.” That was pretty much the basis of every social interaction condensed into a slightly cynical nucleus. Or a glimpse on how fear can be used to suppress and deny freedoms.

“This is serious, hon. We both know that.” Embee took a step closer. “It's really important that you're honest and fearless, and I want you to be, no matter what. Can you do that?” she urged softly. I couldn't look her in the eye. I had asked her to be extremely honest, and now she was doing the same to me. “You can't forget the lie you maintained, about who you tried to be?” No, I couldn't forget, and I really didn't want to maintain a lie, but I wasn't the kind who took risks without circumspect evaluation, which I lacked the time and peace of mind for. “It was ruining you.” That pulled my ears down. “Don't repeat that unfortunate mistake. Be brave. Please.”

“Since you asked nicely,” I conceded quietly. I had to be brave, and that meant taking risks. “What do you want to know?” And I hoped she wouldn't ask any questions that would garner trust-jeopardizing answers.

I saw an opportunity for humor. “So says the pony who stands right before my eyes,” I said, smiling on the inside as I lightly poked her supporting foreleg. Her lips pursed, and she eyed me strangely. My ears raised with a pang of dread. Had I done something wrong? Should I run away?

“You do know that's not what I meant, hon,” she said mellowly enough, placing her limb to the floor.

“It was a joke, Embee,” I defined morosely. I had expected her to laugh, maybe chuckle, but not throw cold water on me.

“I know it was, hon,” she appeased, but I didn't feel it. Jokes rely on purposefully subverting expectations. Did that mean I had just been explicitly dishonest? “So, you said Rosy Stripes is in another world, yes? The one you came from?”

Once again, I segregated the imposed name. “Yes.” I closed my eyes, trying to attain a calmer state. “Imagine a realm much like the one we're now in, but populated by humans only.” I opened my eyes but avoided looking at Embee, directing my gaze upwards with a diagonal slant. “That includes the various indigenous flora and fauna, of course.” I would've flung my hand with a flourish—if I had one. When I looked at her, the tiniest smile pricked my lips. “It would've been a drab and lifeless place without them.” As if on cue, a stream of picturesque vistas treated my mind's eye, but too rapidly to tell which belonged to me.

“Mmmh . . . Do you by chance come from the past, before contact was made?” she rolled out another question, ostensibly ignoring my dry wit. My nervousness was transforming into mild aggression. That could cause a problem if I didn't deal with it, as the oft-used phrase went. It entailed . . . I had no clue. Forcibly ignoring grievances? A conscious attempt to ignore my troubles would be as effective as not thinking of a polar bear driving a neon green dirt bike. Another interpretation was acceptance, which—Wait.

“Contact?” I echoed, getting a weird sense of déjà vu. I would've asked about how ponies came to this world, but that question had to wait. It was probably a teleportation mishap or some such, anyhow. I had a much more pertinent query to make. “What date is it?” After Embee provided the answer, I checked and triple-checked my memory to compare the dates. “I should be thankful that hasn't changed,” I said plainly.

“Okay then. Time travel's out of the question,” Embee deduced. “Hmmh . . .” If she was iffy, her thoughtful expression concealed it, and peering past it yielded nothing but paranoia trying to coax me into distrusting her. So, I focused on her weather-ruffled mane in an attempt at self-placation. Not counting the black dye I'd tried on a whim, I wasn't a stickler for hair fashion, but I did have my mane in ribboned twin tails when I was youn—consarn it! “You came from an alternate universe, correct?”

“Ehm.” I retrieved my faculties. “This is the alternate universe.” I emphasized the clarification by tapping the floor. Darn numbness! That shouldn't annoy me! “But yes, you're correct.” I lightly shook my hoof in a futile attempt to recover sensitivity. “There's no time travel involved.” My mind backtracked to the twin tails. It wasn't such a bad look . . . but not for me! Aside from this brain messing me up with a recollection that wasn't mine, did I have deeply repressed feminine desires that only a female body could emancipate? Most likely, but this was inconsequential. What was consequential was that my cerebral chaos could compromise my credibility if it caused the conveying of ill-conceived cogitations.

“I may hav—oh?” I inadvertently spoke over her, but my apology puttered out before it reached my larynx. “Uh, no, no. Let's just get this over with it,” I concluded, screwing my eyes shut and touched my bridge; I would've pinched it, but no fingers, no pinching. “I'm not from the past, not from the future, not from this Earth, and not from the place that I presume is Equestria,” I specified, taking my limb off my face to sweep the room on 'this'. With that said and done, I chanced it by not resting on my laurels. No guts, no glory, or something to that effect. “So uh . . . As the cherry on top, I know of ponies because I saw them on the Internet. To elaborate, they're fictional characters where I used to be. Yeah, that's right. You and every pony are moving pictures come to life. Except not really, because you sure don't look like an artist made you.” I paused briefly at Embee's dumbfounded appearance, as though I had to confirm that she was real. The characteristic horse odor certainly was. “That said, you look very natural and realistic for being a green-furred, winged, miniature horse with cute, big eyes and an expressive face.” That was admittedly an indirect compliment veiled in an agitated tone. “Similarly, this form I'm stuck in feels undoubtedly real, and not like it's produced with a graphics program. I guess at least one universe out of the infinite must have the improbable as a reality, and the chances of inexplicably being transported to one must've been infinitesimal! I bet there's a universe where we are the opposite genders! Or dogs, or mice, ferrets, iguanas, front-end loaders, you name it!” My imagination provided a short vision of each critter—and vehicle—in corresponding colors. “In this universe? Adorable sentient ponies! Uh . . .” An itch at the base of my ear! I flicked it, and the nuisance was gone, thank goodness! “Was, was . . . was I clear enough?” I ended my rant. Could I ignore my itching coat though? Dealing with it meant that, or accepting it, or whatever!

“Ah, yes . . . Yes, you were.” Embee looked taken aback, her ears hanging flaccid. “Ponies on the Internet in a world without Equestrian ponies? That's, huhm . . .” she said very quietly, but not quietly enough for me not to pick it up.

“Deal with it!” I blurted tensely. As if that could make things right, just like it was completely right that my light voice was potentially distorting my self-image on a subconscious level. “You can't imagine how much I wish to throw indisputable evidence at you like confetti. Alas, sticking to the truth is the only thing I can do. If you don't believe it, I'll just say that I couldn't care less.” Just like I shouldn't care less about all the mind-addling inconveniences and concerns amassing into a sphere of bad feelings. The back of my thigh was itching, too . . . The radio wasn't playing a song anymore?

. . . an earth pony riding a horse and going by the alias Horace R! What a brilliant symbiosis, hm? Can't say how many of yous are listening this late, and sleep beckons me off the air waves as well. Just as a reminder though, you can catch my handsome self next Sunday at the horse race track, where I'll partake in an earth pony–only race. Not to boast, but I have experience on how some of you fillies love a sweaty stallion. Mh-mm.

“Ghhrrh,” I tried to growl, but it was so lacking I cursorily thought of denouncing my female act right then and now. “Stupid Sound Wave! I'm not in the mood to hear his carefree drivel!” White magic engulfed the radio, turning it silent; I had manipulated the power button with efficacy comparable to fingers, although I suspected an internal component nearly popped loose. Embee shot a glance at the contraption as if feeling sorry for it. “I wager he's a self-absorbed lecher!” Perturbed by how much I sounded like an angered Pinkie Pie, I placed my pastern to my throat. I would've preferred Twilight's or Rainbow Dash's voice, if I had the choice. Or my original, darn it! I was hurting on the inside, and that's where it had to stay! I had to wear a tough face, because that was what guys had to be 24/7, and . . . that was just ridiculous! I was a softy at heart, with emotions and feelings that I had never had been encouraged to show. Why was I thinking of this now? I had to get a hold of myself, somehow.

“Self-absorbed lecher? I don't know about that.” Embee aimed a studious frown at me with some worry thrown in. “Look, I know you're under a lot of stress, and I don't blame you, but please, try to stay calm,” she said carefully.

‘Stay calm, she says! As if I have an 'instant tranquility' button on me!’ I bit my tongue, looking sour. That was just a defense. A defense I couldn't relinquish! Also, I was striving to be truthful, but I was hiding behind Rosy's middle name and trying to curtail my feelings. The base cause for those was an irrational shame supported with plausibly sound logic. I had to think hard and fast on how to break these obstacles if I wanted to be truly honest with Embee.

Tomboys were okay, but sensitive guys weren't. Tomboys didn't wish to be guys, and I didn't wish to be female. But no! I had learned that having attributes or persuasions for femininity regardless of volition, awareness, and intensity was socially unacceptable and invalidated a male from being male. How utterly moronic was that!? But this rant was equally stupid. Bottom line was, nothing I did or said would change my chromosomes . . . But the impossible had happened; I truly was without XYs. “Vivienne?” Embee said, but whatever. I couldn't do anything about my current biology. That meant I had several indispensably feminine aspects that I had no choice but to live with. However, by countering my anti-feminine sense of masculinity, was I improving myself? Or was I changing into a female? That was a frightening possibility, but I wasn't sure what defining female characteristic a male couldn't have. Where and how did I draw the line? In fact, where did Embee draw the line? As much as I didn't want to admit it now, expressing my allegedly "weaker" feelings had been comforting, even empowering. I was overcoming deeply entrenched gender norms. That didn't make me a female, did it? No, my gender preconceptions were mucking up my judgement. As long as I thought I was male . . . As long as I had faith in being a male at the core—No! I needed to be absolutely certain, without a grain of doubt, that I was still a male in spite of my physical composition! On that thought, what were the downsides of being female? What would I lose if I—Oh foul word! What was I thinking? My gender was integral to my identity, and those were endangered enough! I had to— “Hey, hello?” An aquamarine hoof swept gently before my eyes.

“What do you want from me!?” I snapped. Embee jumped, despite my quivering tone.

“Uh, nothing. Nothing. I'm sorry, I . . .” she began, recovering and folding her wings along with taking her hoof off her chest. “I really think it's best for you to relax. You're shaking a little.” Alerted, a peep of a grunt squeezed up my throat and I tightened several muscles across my body. That worked to some degree. “You're very stressed. There's no doubt about that.” I formed a truculent frown to oppose her assessment. “I have an inkling there's more than just your trust issues playing up. Maybe you'd like to tell what's getting under your skin?” she suggested caringly. “It could help relieve the tension.”

The corners of my lips became taut, and I tilted my head to get a glimpse of my forehooves. “Many things are getting on my nerves.” Such as the absence of a soothing palm on my forehead. “But we shouldn't worry,” I added with dismissive nonchalance, though I felt like my lungs had lost some flexibility. “I'm constrained and confused by a body that's not mine, and my analytical nature is making things harder by producing a bunch of nonsense. But I can shrug these inconveniences off.” That was a daring claim, but I believed in it. Well, I did for as long as my lips were moving. Also, literally shrugging was impossible, which meant that metaphorical figurative was fundamentally dishonest. Or some such. At any rate, supplying Embee with satisfactory information about the important matters topped taking a break to dissolve my agitation. Besides, my inner problems were mine, not hers.

“If you say so,” Embee desisted warily, and I abruptly realized how immeasurably great it'd be if I wasn't robbed of human body language. “I'd prefer if you talked about the inconveniences instead.”

“Oh nononono! You wouldn't want to hear me whining about stuff that doesn't matter,” I objected. “Don't give that a second thought. Just carry on grilling me like normal.” As if I didn't have enough to shoulder, I began to feel like I was a static figure whose only means of dealing with the itchy fur was through sheer willpower. One nuisance was located where my spine turned into a tail! How would I dare to touch that? Could I even reach it? Profanities! I should've taken a fork or a spoon when I had the chance!

“Grilling? Ah, asking questions. Oh . . . Alright then,” Embee started tentatively. Were my ears upright? They weren't, so it was likely they were telling her more than I let on. Was I looking at Embee? Nope. I was facing her, but eye contact was inconceivable; the table's edge parallel to us was an easier target. “I must say,” she continued, but with a touch of curiosity in her tone, “I've never encountered somepony who has been mind swapped—”

“Someone, thank you very much,” I corrected her, as well as overruled my unwanted pony intuition. Aside from emulating human-like gestures with hooves, my means of body language were limited to my ears and tail. What could I do with those? Flick my tail in anger? No, I wasn't that angry, and neither should I intuitively know that tail flicking was a sign of anger.

“Uh . . . Who has been mind swapped from another universe where we . . . ponies are fictional cartoons,” she resumed at a slower pace, lending to a feeling that she had a hard time believing what was coming out her mouth.

“Yeah, you better believe it! Or not. I can't force your mind, and even if I could, I wouldn't because that would be irredeemably unethical. Anyhow, you sound a bit clueless, so you may want to do the smart thing and find somepony who knows about mind swaps,” I demanded. In a less impetuous manner than I had predicted.

“I'm really sorry, hon. I don't know who knows,” Embee said softly, but to me, it sounded like she was covering her back. Also, no minor, half-conscious flexing of the fingers and arms; doing little more than move my neck and tail was becoming cumbersome. “This is very new to me.”

“Excellent! This is very new to me, too!” I commented sardonically. I couldn't stand still any longer, so I began wandering in an erratic pattern. “This is great, just great! I've been transdimensionally dislocated to a mare's body, I'm almost constantly afraid of discrediting myself, the fate of my original body is a worrisome mystery, my identity is being chipped at, being at terms with my present form is an unending challenge, and your means and ideas on how to actually undo this horrendous mess equals jack monkey squat!”

“Jack monkey squat?” Embee's incomprehension brought me to a halt at the opposite end of the table.

I gave her an incredulous glare, my jaw working out nothing for a second. “You must be kidding me! It's a colloq—Oh, forget it!” I whipped my sights to the light brown floor, hiding the spike of despair twisting up my face. No, I couldn't cry about everything, even if at this moment it would feel so right.

“Hon,” Embee started after a few silent seconds, “your situation sounds much more dire than I had thought.”

“Maybe you'll now—” A lump got into my throat. All the support and understanding Embee gave me felt so insignificant when she had nothing which actually helped me.

Embee's sigh made my ears reorient toward her. Why wouldn't she stop torturing me? “I believe I now know how rough you have it, and if anything, I'd be in tears about it, too.”

“I'm not crying!” I interjected in an undulating tone and with . . . Darn it! “I'm only . . .” I looked away. “My eyes have only become overmoistened.”

“But different!” I couldn't get my voice up to strength, and my ears slipped down. The latter seemed to have a will of their own, and I wasn't always aware of their position. “Differently worded and . . . stuff.” This was a futile fight, but I couldn't give up. That would be submission. What was I doing?

“Please, Vivienne. You don't have to be like this. I clearly see that you're upset.” The lameness of my defiance wasn't lost on her either. “There's no danger in admitting that. Just be honest with me. I'm honest with you. I won't judge you or force you to do anything against your will.” My eyes turned toward her, but my neck refused to follow. “I do wish that you'd relax and keep your hopes alive. Things can't be as bad as you think.”

“Easy for you to say when you're perfectly comfortable in your skin and free from the immense stresses I'm subjected to,” I remarked sourly, finally getting the strength to crank my head. “I want to be honest. I'd be happy to be perfectly honest.” My gaze shifted to the abstract painting by my left. “But how can I be honest with you when I'm not honest with myself?” That was all I could say in my forcibly normal voice, as I was certain my next vocalization would expose more of my internal fragility. I wanted to shed tears, and part of me viewed that as an affront to my persona. That wasn't two identities with separate feelings. This was only me, replete with emotional indecision. How could I be like this? How had I driven myself into this unbearably tight spot?

“Viv, ah, I mean, Vivienne.” My ears twitched at hearing Embee's gentle voice. “You don't mind if I were to call you Viv?” Great! Now she was shortening my middle name. Middle name? No! Fight this! “Is there some way I can—”

“Shut up and let me be!” I snapped, my voice on the verge of what I didn't want it to do. Her shocked, then disappointed expression diverted my focus to the painting again. “Sorry,” I mouthed. I couldn't ball up my nonexistent fists or press my temples, both of which might help keep my turmoil from exploding. Or finally break me. I was so deprived of everything . . . But not of my original name! Why was I still hiding, then? Would she treat me differently if she knew I was male? Would she acquiesce her compassion and tell me to suck it up? That would be so horribly callous if she did that!

“Shut up and let you be?” Embee repeated dejectedly. “That's what you want?” I didn't, and I couldn't say that I didn't. For the few silent seconds that followed, I stared at the modern art, guilt swirling in my head. “Please, don't retreat into yourself. I'm trying to help and understand as much as I can, but I can't do that if you shun me. I know why you're behaving as you are, but please, think of what you're doing.” Considering that I had given the impression of being as volatile as a powder keg in a smelter, Embee must've taken a huge risk opening her mouth, let alone speak all that. Nevertheless, she was right on at least two things: I should know better than to take out my frustrations on her, and I shouldn't squander her aid, as little as it was. Hooves clicked, prompting me to take note that she was maneuvering around the table with caution in each step. A humble surrender had been conceivable, but her advance took me out from that mentality. She read my frown and stopped. “Please don't be like this. It's unlike you.”

I turned my head away, consciously aiming my eyes away from my rear end; catching a glimpse of something too incongruous for my self-image at this time could be highly discomposing. “You say this isn't like me?” My question came out in a slightly shaky tone—and I'd hate to think I was offended by her assumption. Embee replied with a non-provocative hum. “Well, you're absolutely right. Being a dainty little equine isn't like me, so there! Does that answer your question?” The mild surprise that my remark had brought to her visage dimmed. I wasn't proud of what my emotionally conflagrant conduct was producing. I cursorily noted that my ears were pricked, which was better than aimed towards my neck or slumped down. “Besides, I haven't told you anything about myself, and we've known each other for about an hour, so what do you really know about me?” She was resuming her approach? No and no! “Nothing! That's what! You know nothing about me! You can't tell me what I'm like!” She balked by the table's last corner, raising her foreleg. Was she feeling threatened? That wasn't my intention. My adequately Pinkie-devoid assertion may've been a little harsh in tone, but it lacked a quintessential masculine brunt. Not that my original voice was much more intimidating.

Embee sighed. “That's true, hon. I don't know you,” she admitted quietly, her hoof reuniting with the floor. “Even so, I believe you're good-hearted and fair-minded.”

“Good-hearted and fair-minded?” I parroted, unconvinced. For her sake, I was going to at least try to play nice. “Well, I'm not a debased criminal, nor do I have any desire to be one, so in that respect you're not wrong. However, I'm positive that—consciously or not—I've allowed my biases, suppositions, and misconceptions dictate my actions and opinions, thus enabling less-than-ideal results. The water-airplane, outbursts at the radio, twisting up your wing, and so on. Lapses in rationality . . . Maybe I'm not as smart as I think I am.”

“Your vocabulary and self-examination makes me think you're intelligent,” Embee inserted, probably to boost my spirits.

“Sure,” I commented flatly, unable to coax myself into thanking her. “I've read books and did okay in school. I peruse the Internet every day to learn new and exciting things. Those may've granted me some insights on a mess of topics and an above-average vocabulary, but I mean . . .” My head inclined. “Those don't equal intelligence or rationality. I wouldn't be in a hospital, and I definitely wouldn't have been extremely reluctant to explain the cause of my erratic behavior if I were genuinely smart. On the contrary, I would've come clean without a shred of mind-addling fright. But I didn't, and I couldn't.” My ears fell. “I observe and contemplate, but usually keep my discoveries to myself. It's just how I am. I'm an introvert thinker, and I like being that.” The impulsive, reassuring smile I showed Embee had the longevity of an ice cream cone in a furnace. Sometimes, I felt that introverts were inferior to extroverts. “In the same vein, honesty is great, but habitually withholding my opinions isn't conducive to that pursuit. I fear saying something irrevocably stupid, controversial, or inappropriate. I play it safe by being non-confrontational and trying to be nice in general. I just can't always live it, as you've seen. When irritation creeps in, I become assertive, but that's at the cost of courtesy and circumspection. Maybe I have good intentions, or maybe I just think I have good intentions. Either way, the execution goes awry and then . . .” Something finally gave in. Namely that whatever thing that prevents eyes from turning too moist. “This is stupid! I'm blabbering my heart out to a stranger and I . . . I kinda sound whiny. I should shut up!” I screwed my eyes shut.

I had to stay quiet. I really had to. I didn't even recognize myself in my voice, and that could hurt more than it ought've. I had also felt like going into a rant about how my traits kept my lips sealed for over a year and through a dozen get-togethers where I subserviently watched four familiar humans degrade themselves into inebriated caricatures whose raucous bliss was highly unsettling and very alienating! Oh geez, Embee absolutely didn't need to know any of that. It was worthless and irrelevant. Although I had been sort of wistful for the quartet when I was seemingly moments away from becoming roadkill. How pathetic! Or maybe, in my utter devastation, I had forgone my dislike for my friends and recognized their merits? Maybe they weren't so bad? Or maybe they were? Would I ever know if they held sincere regrets about the outcome of the latest meet-up, and not just shallow ones? Would I get back in the first place? Oh wait, the tiny grain of hope: this world had unicorns and magic, meaning anything was possible. Optimism rejuvenated! I still felt like crying, though, but that was okay. I didn't want to deny my emotions any longer, and that should be final.

“Hon.” Embee's voice gently drew me out from my extended introspection. “I truly worry for you.” She was blurry; my eyes were wet. She had also come close to me. “You've endured so much stress already, and now you're being awfully hard on yourself as well.”

“Really?” I said in a drained, groaning voice. As much as I would've enjoyed taking Embee into an embrace, apologizing for my indignant behavior, and promising to keep my woes to myself, I carefully turned around and began to lumber around the room. “I think I'm being lenient . . . and more honest. More open. That's good. And . . . more whiny, which is not good.” Due to my current frailness, I was feeling weird all over. I promptly came to a stop opposite the kitchen doorway and chose to rest my forehead against the wall. Except something acted as a lever and things went a bit awry. “Ow,” I moaned almost voicelessly, eyes squinted as if pained when I retracted my head. ‘My stupid horn and my stupid equine nose!’

“You're not whiny, hon. You're only venting your frustrations. It's normal, and nothing to be ashamed of,” Embee offered while I was trying to see if my magic-caster had been bent or driven inwards. Of course I couldn't see it, but I sure did feel nerve endings in my forehead telling a story. I could have rubbed my nose or reached for my horn, but touching either or both was discouraging.

“My voice is tinny and higher than normal.” A lot higher than the normal I was used to. “Make what you will of that. Anyhow . . .” I faced Embee in spite of my reluctance. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. You're correct; I have to work out my frustrations.” I almost reciprocated Embee's smile. “However, I should've never expressed my bad feelings as irritation, and especially not at you. Regrettably, things spiraled out of my control and I stopped thinking straight. That, and my exhaustion is no excuse or justification for my poor conduct, though.”

“Don't worry about it anymore. It's in the past now.” Again, she didn't hesitate to approach me. This time, I didn't act upon a desire to escape her proximity. I was a little surprised she hadn't chewed me out. I was sure I had reduced my worth in her eyes. “Although, you hit your snout there. That didn't hurt, did it?”

“Oh, um, thanks for the concern, but no, I did not . . .” I shouldn't downplay the issue; I had to be open. “Actually, it didn't hurt, but was uncomfortable. It's only painful on a mental level. Kind of like if you were without wings all of a sudden, but painlessly and in the reverse. Okay, that was a bit confusing. All I'm saying is that you know by now that I'm sensitive of everything that deviates from my self-image, so just calling this a snout—” I saw tiny creases form when I scrunched the feature half-consciously. “That's disturbing,” I thought out loud, a grimace staying on me for a few seconds. I had intended to point at my muzzle for her, but that . . . No. Just no.

“Oh?” Embee frowned compunctiously, then looked pensive for a while. “Should I be careful in mentioning, uh, your pony anatomy?”

“Well, I uh, I dunno.” I would've rubbed my neck if I hadn't suddenly doubted the suppleness of my forelimbs. Itches were pricking all over me, though my brief walk had helped solve most of them (somehow) and the remaining ones were tolerable. “It would be odd if you said I have, um . . . not-hooves and a not-snout?” Had I not been recently perturbed, I would've chuckled. Instead, I closed my eyes as I sighed lightly. “Just, um, be direct. I'll be direct, too, whenever I'm capable. It's best to talk about things with their real names.” I was talking with short pauses between words and minute stressing of random syllables. I had to sharpen up. “Sometimes I'm kinda okay about hooves and the fur and so on, but other times, circumstances pull me so far from my comfort zone that I . . . That . . .” A few seconds passed, during which I was recomposing myself. So much for sharpening up. “It's worse than any pain I've ever felt.”

“That's . . . That's awful. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry.” Embee looked like she was ready to nuzzle me, which would've been nice —and awkward. Nuzzles were fundamentally weird to me, but evidently potent. “How are you feeling, hon? I hope you aren't in pain.”

I was starting to think that my misery was making her conscience ache for real—not that it wasn't aching already. So, it ached for more real? Up to eleven? “I'm kind of fine. I try not to pay too much mind to things.” I touched my throat. “You see, a bit of overthinking or a basic self-feeding discomfort loop can set it off.” That was close; I had felt a tiny bit of anxiety circulate within me. I was unable to identify its trigger. Or maybe I was refusing to identify it. Whichever way, it didn't shatter me. Not yet. “Still, don't be too alarmed if I push out a few tears. That's how I'm going to cope from now on. No more trying to act like nothing's wrong, or channeling my bad feelings by being a testy jerk. Those don't solve anything, and at worst, make you resent me.”

“I wouldn't want to resent you. Crying is the best cure, especially when somepony is there for you.” Embee gave me a soft nuzzle. I was so caught off guard that the only thank you I mustered was in my stare. I didn't break into tears. Maybe I had run out? “I don't know how much of a consolation that was, but I hope it helps you stay strong.”

With my gaze on anything but Embee, I hesitated for a moment before I chose to speak. “How little it helps doesn't matter. You did more than nothing, and that's what matters. You're truly wonderful, Embee, putting up with my confusing antics with the patience of a tectonic plate.” The included scientific poeticism was solely to dilute my sappiness with a shred of humor. I wasn't into voicing sappy things. At any rate, Embee's delighted smile aided in improving my mood. “I don't know if I can thank you enough, or truly come to appreciate your commitment and empathy. What I can be grateful for is that you haven't waved the white flag and left me hanging.”

“I would never walk out on you, hon. That's not my contract, but my conscience obliging me,” she said softly, but with an adamant undertone.

“That's very commendable. Really, it is.” I was almost muted by a feeling of warmth, and I wasn't sure I had said enough. “Ah, I, umm, I get this vibe that you're not the kind to whom patients are chores to slog through just so you can scratch out a living. You actually care.” I wasn't being a good orator, but I couldn't let that stop me. “Care for whom you tend to. Care about me, even when I was being difficult . . .” My smile withered, and with my gaze on her hooves again, I didn't see if her smile held. “I didn't mean to be difficult and antagonizing, and I'm ashamed and sorry. I feel like I owe you a favor.”

“Vivienne. Your apology is welcome and I admire your sense of responsibility, but you aren't indebted to me.” Ears still slumped in submission, I rolled my eyes up at Embee. Her face was the picture of kindness. “Now, let's not stand here by the wall.” She gestured toward the table. I took note of her foreleg's flexibility; I shouldn't forget that mine had the same qualities. “Why don't you take a seat and relax instead?” My ears perked up, but not in delight. “We'll spend a few minutes enjoying coffee, taking a break from this stressful seriousness. After that, or if you really wish to skip the coffee altogether, I can go start asking around if anypony knows about mind swaps or transdimensional travel.”

“I think that's exceptional,” I did my best to sound eager, hoping my consternation wasn't apparent. “The asking around part, I mean. It's an excellent start, yeah, better than just wallowing in helplessness and despair. I'm exceedingly happy you take me seriously. However, uhm . . .” If I were to sit down on the cushion, I'd get a feel for the dairy-do's again. Ick! Just the fact that I had those nearly made my lips warp in horrified disgust. “Why should I sit? I can stand just fine, as you can see.” Oh darn. Was I going to avoid mentioning the deterrent?

Embee hemmed thoughtfully. “Are you sure? You'd drink the coffee standing up, and you're obviously disconcerted by your body.” At that deduction, I glanced aside with a low, bothered groan. Could I really do as Embee presumed? “Perhaps being seated would feel more human and help you unwind?”

“Hmmh . . . Uhh, let me check something.” Incentivized by her, albeit slowed by my apprehension, I approached my former seat. I gave it a prod, and my hoof sunk in without much sensory feedback. I looked behind myself at such an angle that I only saw a tiny bit of my tail; I was being too careful about seeing my latter end. Again. “I can't unfeel my body, you know?” I said to her meekly before redirecting my eyes to the cushion. I gave it a second prod, trying to gauge how deep I would sink into it. “I'd have to support myself on my forehooves regardless, and I, uhm, would be very aware that I have fur everywhere and, uhhm . . .” I really couldn't say I had a hairy behind. Or that it was naked. That would be too crass! The primary issue—the parts in between my legs—was just too embarrassing and taboo. I had told her that it was best to talk about things directly! Failure to keep up my side wasn't doing my self-respect a favor.

“I see,” Embee said solemnly. “So there's no way to avoid what you physically are, hmh.” She strolled to her seat, but she didn't plop down on it. “Don't let that get to you, though. A positive attitude can do wonders.”

I stared at her encouraging and possibly wise smile in hopes of contracting it. “I'd like to have that attitude, but I'm afraid it's hard to keep a balanced and positive mentality when it could inadvertently soar up to blind optimism.” Embee's expression failed to propagate to me, so my next focus was the cushion. “That was what kept my fears on the down-low, and my mind deluded. I was willingly ignorant, confident that I had a guaranteed escape plan from what I thought was the most spectacular dream ever.” I scoffed weakly at myself. “I believed a lie, since believing otherwise was simply too frightening. In hindsight, that lie was as solid as a drenched waffle, and I broke quite badly when reality smacked me upside the head. I like to think I've recovered, but I haven't.” I cast a glance at Embee and saw her face painted with commiseration. “My failures in communicating my distress, unending concerns for my identity, and recurring struggles with my physique.” I pawed the cushion for no particular reason. “They're easy to rouse and can bring me down quickly. As if I didn't have enough on my plate, I can't be sure of how much you believe of what I've said of where I'm from and what and who I am and how I learned of ponies.” I raised my head, my own words echoing in my ears as I gazed dumbly ahead. Not a second later, a single-syllable chuckle got its freedom, and my face creased with a tired smile. “I'm sorry, Embee, that must've sounded confusing.”

“No need to apologize, hon. I understood what you said.” Embee's tranquil demeanor put me at ease—to an extent; some of my reservations refused to rescind. Particularly now, when Embee looked hesitant about something. “The part about Equestrian ponies being cartoons in your universe still sounds almost impossible.” I would've shown a desperate, pleading stare, maybe resignedly restated that my hopes and desires shouldn't sway her mind. But I didn't. If anything, I bore a dull gaze over my snout. “Almost,” she emphasized. My breath became trapped for the duration of my surprised blinking; she was willing to keep her mind open, even when the truth had seemingly implausible qualities?

“Well, infinite universes,” I said, nonplussed, as if to remind us both on how the impossible could be possible.

“Infinite universes,” echoed Embee—who I could call just as improbable as her view on ponies being mere fiction. “Maybe there's a universe where our roles are reversed?” she humored me. My active imagination produced a wacky but plausible scenario.

“Or one where a stressed-out, inexplicably human-bodied pony-me is with a human-you, bewildered by what's occurred but nonetheless offering endless support, while admittedly more than puzzled by human-bodied pony-me having said that humans were little more than a fairytale. Haha.” My random speculation and subsequent laugh were of jocular nature, but low on cheerfulness. Embee seemed moderately delighted. Anyhow, my serious attitude came back quickly. “I suppose your disbelief of ponies being fiction isn't surprising, because it really does sound outlandish. Much to my dismay, without irrefutable evidence I can't substantiate the truth.” My ears and voice lost vigor. “All I can do is hope that you take my word for it.”

“Not to diminish your concerns, but I'm facing a great challenge, too. I'm being sincere with you and I do my hardest to comfort you, and I fear I'll push you away if I come off as callous or untrustworthy.” I had suspected that Embee was treading on eggshells and felt responsible for my well-being, but hearing it from her was humbling. Bothered by my obmutescence, I looked around evasively. A lame attempt at innate pony body language raised my foreleg. Just to complete that move, I pawed the cushion again. “Please, know this, Vivienne. I do think you're a human,” Embee said warmly.

Weight rolled off my back and I finally found my voice. “Thank you for that, Embee, and also for showing your perspective. It should help me stay on an equal level with you, so that I can better understand where you come from, thus greatly reducing misunderstandings and unwitting untowardness.” I felt embarrassment tug at my facial muscles. “Um, that came out awkwardly. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's alright.” The now characteristic half-lidded look manifested on Embee. “Your message came across just fine.”

“Well, okay, being on the same level's good,” I said shyly, cursorily noting that Embee had yet to sit down. “Ahm, about being on the level, I do, uhh . . .” The truth would come out eventually, but would it be for the best if I shed my alias before things could take a nasty turn? Or take a nastier turn. “I want to um—I need to tell . . . I really have to ask about . . . uh. How should I say this?” I was hesitant to approach the matter, and I didn't have the stones to blurt it out.

“Yes, hon?” Embee queried after a few seconds had passed. “You have a question?”

Fortunately, she was great at pushing me forward. “Uh, yeah, of course I do,” I affirmed stiltedly, then took a breath to stabilize myself. “I just wonder . . .” An impulse raised my foreleg, like I was going to gesture at something; I wasn't. The same impulse also directed my eyes ceiling-wise. “I mean, I look and sound the part, yeah.” With the impulse's effect worn off, I set my eyes on Embee and placed my hoof to my chest. “But how can you be sure that I'm a feee-lly?” That was really close to success; I had almost said female. Small steps, small steps . . .

I cast a sidelong look at nothing specific. “Mmmh.” Hesitation wrinkled my lips, but my drive to speak prevailed. “Yeah, or no, I meant the, um . . . differences.” I had thought I could overcome my vacillation. I never liked taking risks, and the risk here was that Embee's helpfulness would change from caring support to potentially insensitive urging upon learning and believing my true gender. A male being vulnerable was unfortunately often seen as unacceptable. If Embee held that opinion, what could I do to sway her mind?

“Differences?” Embee's bemusement dug me out from my thoughts. I partly anticipated her to question my perceived gender and make this so much easier for me. “Well, a mare is an adult female pony, and a filly is a young female pony,” she informed cordially, then glanced a little past me. “Hmh. Rosy is definitely a young mare, so it's striking she doesn't have her cutie mark yet. She must be a so-called late bloomer.” Her focus returned to me, whereupon she noted my stymied stare. I tried not to, but I felt like she had talked about me as if I wasn't present; I had yet to succeed in fully separating myself from my name. That name being Rosy Stripes. “Hold on, you didn't ask what separates a filly from a mare, did you?”

“No,” I said tonelessly. “And the lack of a cutie mark isn't my concern, though I guess it's a bit peculiar. Anyhow, I asked, uh, about something else, but I don't have what it takes to be direct.” I sighed, disappointed that I was beating the bush around. No, wait . . . that wasn't how that went.

“Humh.” Embee reached for her jaw. “Oh?” Realization illuminated her visage. “How I can believe you're a female human?” My face blanked at the prospect of her doubting my human origin. “That's what you meant, right?”

I smiled in what I hoped was a calm manner, then inserted alacrity into the breath ascending to my larynx. “Yeah. Sorry for messing up the question. I became a bit nervous, that's all.” I was nearly tittering. Because I was a little nervous. I'm sure Embee knew.

I sighed, closing my eyes. “I try not to.” I sounded almost as soft as her. Me, with a normal speaking voice higher than hers? I already knew that, but this instance was a splash of lemon juice on my lacerated masculine self.

“That's good.” Her mouth was a smile, but her overall facial expression was sad. “You've been so tense all this time.”

“All this time?” I echoed in disbelief. “But I had moments of genuine relaxation and joy, so I wasn't tense all the time. I liked those moments.” They kept me ignorant of what this body could possibly do to me. Like muddle up my birthday, replace my name, and give me conflicting memories on how I came to possess a car. The windshield wipers!

I looked at the windows, onto which my imagination superimposed the light blue sedan. It was strangely haunting, as if I was being stared at. It was so vivid that I almost turned to ask if Embee could see it. By no means did the car look menacing. Kind of cute and harmless, actually. There was something intriguing about it, but it was hazy, much like some dreams were after waking up. “You were easygoing a few times, but I did sense that something was off. It wasn't just your absent-mindedness and puzzling behavior, but also an uncertainty in your movements,” Embee explained. Wait, I was looking at her? The car vision must've really occupied me. “I presumed you were exhausted and recuperating from your stress.”

“Oh, I'm exhausted alright,” I commented truthfully. I glanced at the window, and my imagination swiftly envisioned the likeable car again. The windshield wipers were moving. How perplexing—and irrelevant. “It's been a long day, and I suppose that shows. Just like almost everything I said or did alluded to how I don't belong in or agree with this strange form, but regardless, I try to work with it.” I would've shrugged lackadaisically.

“I do see that now. As I said, your body language and general demeanor was hinting at something.” She paused with scrutiny in her eyes. “In fact, you look a little uncomfortable, as if your muscles are constantly tense.”

To test her assumption, I raised my hind leg. She was right; resistance impeded my movement. A tendon (I presumed) in my leg autonomously oriented the hoof downwards, which I found a smidgen creepy. “It's discomfort stemming from being something that I'm not,” I provided a short analysis enthusiastically as I dropped my leg. “That's why I haven't sat down yet. Last time felt . . . wrong.” The memory of the sensation was so fresh that an icy pulse traveled down my vertebrae. “I don't know how to explain it.” Primarily due to a notion that talking about dairy-dos could be construed as obscene. Secondly, I felt sickened just thinking of describing the feeling. “I adjusted to it through plain determination, so that my cover wouldn't be blown.” Regret washed over me. “The cover I never should've enacted.” Embee frowned sympathetically. Even so, I was afraid of negative consequences. Small steps, though. Small steps. “Standing is easier, oddly enough when considering that I don't have a direct and acute feel of what's underneath me. Kind of like I'm levitating, but the pressure exerted on my hooves and that frog-thing sends information to nerves inside my legs.” My right ear turned horizontal. “Did I make sense?”

“Yes, you did.” Embee had a kind smile. “Humans have nerve endings on the undersides of their feet, which, if I am not mistaken, is pivotal to their sense of balance.”

“That's very true,” I interjected, uninterested in any further details of the human anatomy. Normally, I would be curious to hear it, especially from a pony's point of view, but as it stood right now, I wasn't in the mood. “Humans also possess a versatile feature, known as hands, which they use to accomplish a variety of tasks with appreciable dexterity.” I ended my sarcastic exposition with a melancholic sigh. “I wonder what I would do if I had such prehensile parts?” I stuck to my act, though wistfulness certainly had infiltrated my tone. “I think I'd rub my itchy back.” Embee looked concerned. “Or do a great deal of normal things I never paid attention to.” For some reason, I recalled an established fanon: Lyra was a quirky pony with a penchant for all things human. However, if she were real, would she have (somehow) reached out to a random human and arranged to swap minds? Or bodies? Whatever. At least that hypothesis would entail mutual consent, a forewarning, and in all likelihood, a guarantee of a quick and easy exchange cancellation. Okay, this was only making me feel disadvantaged, so . . . Totally random and unrelated thought: “Embee? Did the coffee jar have a screw cap?” I asked in a spiritless voice. “I recall you became really annoyed opening it with teeth and hooves.”

“Oh . . .” She looked over her back before I got to vocally equating myself to a screw cap. “We've completely forgotten the coffee.”

“Who cares?” I grouched, even though right now a mugful would grant me much needed normality and tranquility.

“Now don't work yourself up again, hon.” Her compassionate reproach was followed by an inquisitive frown. I quickly rolled out a lukewarm sorry. “Didn't you say your back's itching?”

“Yeah?” I cocked a brow. “It's right there in the middle of my spine,” I was courteous—or perplexed—enough to give her a proper answer. “I've learned to filter out the irritation, so it doesn't feel too bad.” Like sitting with a nail up one's hind fat until the pain has become dulled. “What's it to you? You feel so much for me that you're thinking of giving me a back rub?” I regretted my spontaneous and flippant tease microseconds after my mouth closed, partly because I sounded a touch . . . female dogish.

“I'm thinking the itch is irritating you.” Embee retained her polite demeanor.

“You don't say?” I admitted plainly, clandestinely astonished by her integrity. Maybe my worry of being unkind was unfounded? Also, if I couldn't reach at my back, maybe I could . . . go prone and roll over a few times? That's what I . . . she had done when she was little. And yesteryear. Oh joy . . .

Embee took a few steps toward me, smiling gingerly. “I could take care of that itch, if that's what you need help with?”

“You'd do that?” I laughed incredulously at her proposal, dismissing the wacky impression she was coming on to me. I presumed she was responding to my humor with more humor, so I played along and put on an inviting smile. “Well, your help so far has been beyond immeasurable, but if you don't find it strange to put your hoof on me, then be my guest. I don't mind at all. You'd do me a grand service. Just make a small and quick sweep over my back, and nothing more, okay?”

“Alright, hon.” I had expected her to see right through me, but instead, she closed the gap and raised her hoof. “Just a small, quick sweep.”

‘She's actually going to do it?’ My breath got stuck, and I became so nervous of her hoof touching my equine back that I was afraid I'd produce an effluvium upon contact. I couldn't go back on my word . . . or look at my back. Time stood still, and my smile had frozen. My eyes were aimed over Embee's back, so in my discombobulation my imagination did the necessary modifications to make it look like mine. Sort of mine. The hips stood higher than the back, and there was a tail, too. In my initial forays with this form, I had thought nothing of the tail. No longer, though. It just looked—and felt—out of place. ‘Oh!’

A swipe and quick scrub! Every muscle in my back turned rock solid, and then . . . it was over. The itch was gone. Embee backed a little, still looking tranquil as ever. “You actually did it?” I marveled, eyes wide in shocked disbelief.

“Of course I did,” she said, surprised by my reaction. “You gave the go, and I was convinced you'd be okay.”

The blank stare I held on Embee broke after a few mutual eye blinks. “Hahahaha! I wah-hahawasn't being seheheheerious!” I cried out amidst my titters. “I mehehehean, couldn't you tell?” There was something odd and embarrassing about my titters, and tittering in the first place, but I didn't divert my mind to it.

“Seems like I didn't.” Embee sighed, looking unamused. “Why didn't you say you weren't serious?” Was she annoyed? Regardless, it put me on a glide slope toward earth. “I was sure you honestly asked for assistance.” Her snout scrunched. “And as much as I want you to feel okay, I don't appreciate being tricked.”

“Well . . .” I considered pointing out that what had occurred was just a communications mishap, but my doing so could make me look unconcerned. I thought of myself as a decent person, and I greatly preferred that she did, too. “I wasn't pranking you.” I had also been humbled by what I interpreted as open critique, so I vacillated on whether to apologize or not—but not for long. “Neither was I opposed to your help, Embee. I simply disbelieved you would rub my back while subliminally asking for it without conscious expectation of you actually going ahead with it,” I explained my mindwork, dancing my hoof in the air as if testing a piano.

Embee stared into space, with her lips pursed tight. How embarrassing. For me. “You lost me where . . . you lost me.” Her tone was devoid of feeling, and she didn't put her eyes back on me.

“Yeah, it made a lot more sense in my head,” I said sheepishly, and along came a small titter. Confounded insulating coat, it was containing my embarrassment warmth. Embee cast off her stupefaction with a small but brisk headshake. She looked fairly okay and temperate, but I didn't want to push her buttons. “Anyhow, you didn't do wrong. It was for the best that you rid the, um, my annoying itch, and I'm not ungrateful. Really, I'm not. I would never want to be ungrateful, if I can help it. In any case, I'm sorry for leading you on, and if you wonder, which you might not, but, um, yes, I'm okay,” I said as softly as I could bear to hear. Then, I accidentally brushed my behind with my tail. “As okay as I can be.” Feeling like something had touched me inappropriately, I almost looked back; I limited myself to a peripheral peek without turning my head. Thus, I saw nothing of myself, thank goodness. I had also raised my foreleg, which likely was due to my mind becoming more wired to my current brain. I hated to think of that. “I probably won't ask you to give me another rub.” I tried to put on a casual expression. Emphasis on 'tried'. “I mean I hope I won't.” I couldn't guarantee that some kind of itch wouldn't demand to be touched. It better not manifest on my behind! I was so touchy about it—Oh gosh, wrong wording! “So, uh, anyhow, are we cool now?” I continued impulsively.

Embee gauged me for a moment, then smiled. “Of course we're cool,” she answered calmly.

I felt her calmness wasn't parting adequately genuine benevolence and reconciliation. “Are you sure?”

Still unconvinced, I tilted my head. “Are you really sure?” my inquiry came with a slight squeak akin to Sweetie Belle. At this rate, I would eventually mimick every pony in the cartoon. Every female pony.

Was I being finicky about this? On a lark, I chose to keep my serious face as I spoke my next line quickly: “Really super duper genuinely zero kelvin perma-cool?” That froze Embee's face for a few seconds.

“Okay, okay, you can stop that now,” she said, bursting into a hearty laugh. “I just didn't like your prank.”

As she kept laughing, I found myself in danger of following suit. “Alright, but to be extra sure, you're not displeased with me?” Her laugh toned down, but her mellow smile didn't; my trepidatious smile accompanied my serious question. “You don't view me as inferior and yourself as superior, do you?” I hoped she was the kind who clearly showed if I wasn't on her good side, rather than smile amiably while secretly holding me in contempt.

“Oh, no, no, certainly not,” she objected, momentarily serious. Perhaps I was nearing a point whereafter she would feel genuinely annoyed, and then she'd think less of me. Go me. She was still being nice, however.

“Got it. I was just checking that we're on amiable terms.” I paused. “For real,” I added meekly.

“Don't sweat it, hon. We're on good terms and definitely not unequal, trust me.” Did I just see a glimmer of disquietude in her eyes? “Just don't be so tense, and try to worry less, okay?” she instructed in a kind manner. I glanced at her ears; they were in the downflapped position. I saw that as conveying sincerity and a touch of worry. Her body language was much more reassuring than her words.

“I appreciate that.” Because I'd hate myself forever if I made her turn her back on me. Or made her think I was thinking she was thinking I was thinking she was untrustworthy—my brain locked up briefly. “Ehm, uh . . . I try to worry less, but unfortunately, it's not easy when the path to normalcy is bumpy,” I said sagely. I guess it was sagely. “So I seek humor whenever I feel like I can hold on to it. Hence, my little practical joke. It was poorly thought out, and maybe soared past your detection range. I don't hold that against you, by the way.” I really didn't want to blame her for anything. Not when I could help it. Nonetheless (and perhaps unduly), I felt that I had to watch my figurative step. “So, umm, as for why I was tense . . .” Did she ask that? Oh well, whatever. “Naturally, I thought the back rub would feel really weird, and it did feel a bit weird, but didn't feel too weird.” Did I confuse her again? Her attentive look and gentle smile had withered during my last phrase. “That made sense, right? I mean, it should, but I'm just, um . . .” My mumbles were decipherable only to myself, and my ears were hanging by the sides of my head.

“Not too weird?” she asked. Or inquired. Questioned? Interrogated! No, that was too severe.

I cleared my throat—inadvertently demurely so. “Not as weird as having a fem—oh! This voice, yeah, um—” Acting on an impulse, I spun completely around and walked a short distance. I was totally not being evasive, I was totally unaware that I was being evasive, I totally didn't almost spill the beans on my gender, and I was totally not nervous. Totally. Toyota-lly? “It's sort of . . .” Taking a grand effort to refocus my mind, I turned halfway around to look at Embee with a feeble smile. I had to salvage this situation right now. Revealing my gender without circumspect planning and forethought could be ruinous. “Ahm . . .” I took myself back to the cushion, but stopped short of it. “I'm really sorry, Embee. Hehheh, ah. I'm weary from everything that's happened today. It makes me blabber about irrelevant things without much restraint or cohesion.” That should grant me some time to think.

“No doubt this has been a hard day for you, Vivienne, but if you don't mind me asking, what did you say about your voice?” Embee queried, ostensibly caught on my slip-up. “It's not like yours?” Well, great. The noose was tightening, and I had undoubtedly contributed with my recent behavior. I was just that awesome . . .

First Pony View

by Suomibrony

Turbulence Before Headwind